A lot of my friends had already had sex and kidded me for not going all the way yet. I wouldn’t give in to their pressure. I was holding out for marriage and the right man. I would let guys feel me up a little, but I was able to stop them when things started to get out of control.
His hand deliberately moved down between my legs and he began to massage the sensuous spot between my legs and I swayed with his touch as the sensation of pleasure grew stronger and stronger.
I couldn’t fight the ache rising inside my body any longer. I tried to control it, but it got away from me and I found myself suddenly jerking back and forth, until the pleasure became unbearable and I pushed his hand away.
After a moment, my eyes tightly closed, my legs locked tightly together, the pounding of blood starting to subside. I turned around and sat up, not worried about my exposed breasts. I kissed him hard on the lips. All my inhibitions left me. He stuck his tongue deep in my mouth.
He took my hand and wrapped it around the hard bulge inside his pants. It was the first time I had ever felt, really felt, a man’s penis.
“Go ahead, squeeze it,” he whispered.
The stiff organ felt moist in my hand, and a few seconds later the throbbing stopped and wet liquid filled my hand. I pulled my sticky hand away and wiped it on my towel.
We both turned as the screen door to the patio opened. I didn’t know how long my mother had been standing in the doorway. Or how much she had seen. I was expecting anger, outrage, but she calmly walked up to Guy and just said, “I’m giving you three seconds to get out of here before I call the police and accuse you of raping my daughter.” He was gone in two.
I felt ashamed of what had just happened, ashamed of what my mother had seen. She had every right to be angry at me, but she wasn’t.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good riddance,” she said after he had left. Instead of getting angry, she was relieved.
“You’re not upset?”
“No. It wasn’t your fault. I knew it was coming. I’m just glad he’s gone. I should have gotten rid of him sooner. I don’t know why I was attracted to him.”
“His body?” I grinned.
“Yeah, I guess so,” she said, smiling.
I listened as she reminded me that women were really the ones who gave the permission when it came to sex. “If a man really loves you, he shouldn’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do,” she emphasized again. I already knew that. I was the one who controlled the necking and kissing with the guys I went out with. I knew what would happen if I gave in to their persuasion, and I wasn’t ready for that.
There was plenty of time for love, marriage, and children later, she told me. Right now the important thing was to finish school, get a college degree, and see the world.
“Men will come and go in your life, and when the right man comes along you may not even know it, but the magic will be there and you won’t be able to live without him,” she said.
I guess my mother hadn’t found the right man yet.
16
The law office of Francisco de Vega Gomez was walking distance from the hotel. Medellín seemed like a normal city with a normal business district as I stepped out of the hotel and went down the street. Coming in to the city from the airport, I had seen a great deal of manufacturing and other commercial buildings. One of the flight attendants told me that the city had so much heavy industry, people called it the “Manchester” of Colombia, named after the British city.
I walked down a pleasant street lined with flowers and populated by people who all appeared normal.
None of it jived with the fact that a body had been laid out for public view yesterday. But Medellín was a big city, and I guess people got killed in big cities everywhere. It just happened more frequently here. And openly.
At the lawyer’s office, the secretary showed no surprise that I had walked in without an appointment. I knew from employing people who were raised in Latin America that they often had a different idea about time than me—they would show up without calling ahead or appear for an appointment two hours late.
Perhaps she would have been more surprised if she knew that yesterday I had been in Seattle—and suspected of murder.
Her boss had a different attitude. He came out of his office and stared at me as if I’d been beamed down by Scotty. He just stood in the reception area and looked at me. I had the impression he was wishing I would disappear as quickly as I had materialized.
I smiled. “I’m real.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I dropped by to get information about the estate I’ve inherited.”
That managed to return him to a state of speechlessness. He stared at me some more, kind of gawking—not unlike the way I’d gaped at the man whose tongue was hanging out his throat.
A moment later we were seated in his office and I was offered bottled water, coffee, or soda pop. At least he had not forgotten his manners.
I shook my head and smiled my thanks.
Senor Vega Gomez was in his sixties, with almost white hair but eyebrows and mustache so black it looked like he colored them with shoe polish. Like the Seattle lawyer, he appeared smugly well fed, a man who had money chase him. I hadn’t looked to see whether he wore tasseled loafers.
He leaned back in his chair behind his desk and shook his head. “Senorita Novak, have you been to Colombia before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Are you a student of Colombia? Someone who has spent years studying the customs, the political and social—”
“No, not at all, none of that. And if you want to know whether I am suicidal, the answer is also no.”
He shook his head some more. “You are a very impetuous young woman. There are people in Bogotá who would not come to Medellín under the present circumstances.” He leaned forward. “I must tell you, there are people in Medellín who wouldn’t live here if it was not demanded by family and economics, including myself.” He lifted his hands in resignation. “But … senorita, you are here. What may I do for you?”
“I came to claim my inheritance. I don’t know Colombian law, but I suspect that’s my right.”
“Of course. There is a will; there is property; you are the heir of Carlos Castillo; it is your right to claim the estate.”
“Can you tell me about it? The estate? And Senor Castillo?”
“Carlos Castillo was a longtime client of our firm, but I regret that I was not well acquainted with him. He was advised by my partner, who has since also passed away.”
“From natural causes?”
“Perdón?”
“Sorry, I saw a body on the side of the road yesterday, a man’s, whose tongue was pulled out of a hole in his throat.”
He cleared his own throat. He looked both embarrassed and grieved. “I regret that you saw such savagery, but please don’t judge my city or my country by the acts of a few evil men. Colombia is a good country, nowhere are people more friendly and hospitable, but as you know, the coca bandidos have brought violence to our country. As to the cause of my partner’s death,” he tapped his chest, “he was ill for many years.”
“And Senor Castillo? Can you tell me how he died? Was it from natural causes?”
“That is my understanding. I heard he had a heart attack, but I wasn’t personally familiar with the state of his health, mentally or physically, prior to his death. As I said, my partner was his personal attorney, not me.”
He sounded like those three monkeys who didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything or say anything. Only he also didn’t know anything.
He frowned at the look of cynicism on my face. “He was a client of my deceased partner. He last visited the office a few months ago when he changed his will. My partner prepared the paperwork. I didn’t see Senor Castillo at that time. My best recollection is that I cast eyes on him several years ago when he was in to see my partner about a business matter. He appeared in good health a
t that time.”
“You say he changed his will?”
“The change made you the sole heir, but I am not at liberty to discuss the contents of his prior will with you.”
“Can you just tell me if I was mentioned in the prior will?”
“Yes, you were.”
So he had disinherited someone to make me sole heir. I really wanted to know who, but it was useless to try to pry the name out of the lawyer. It occurred to me that if someone was disinherited, they might be behind the attempt to purchase the property.
“What exactly have I inherited?”
“Café de Oro.”
The name caught me by surprise.
“That’s the name of his coffee finca, his coffee farm, or as you might call it, his plantation. I have been informed that you had a store with the same name that sold coffee.”
“Yes, it’s a name I’d heard my mother use in the past.” I deliberately mentioned my mother in the hopes that it would strike a chord with him and he’d volunteer what I suspected—that Carlos was my father. But he didn’t pick up the idea and run with it.
“How big is it?”
“In terms of coffee farms, I understand it’s a significant holding, some hundreds of hecates. Most farms are very small, a hecate or two, so that would make it much larger than the sort of holding run by a single cafetero and his family.”
I couldn’t remember exactly what a hecate was but thought it was equivalent to two or three acres.
“How much is it worth?”
“That is not a question I can answer. I know nothing about the coffee trade except that it is subject to ups and downs in the world market, and I don’t know what the production is at the plantation. But just based on the size, I would expect that in a booming coffee market and without significant debt, the inheritance would make you a millionaire.”
“Is there anything else? Money?” I tried to keep the hope and desperation out of my voice.
He shook his head. “Nothing significant. I’ve heard that the plantation has considerable debt and its cash receipts are controlled by the bank that made the loans, but I don’t know the details. I’ll look into the matter at greater length if you desire.”
“Yes, I would appreciate that. How far is the plantation?”
“More than four hours, slow-going by car. It is in the mountains of course. Coffee is grown at about a mile high, the same altitude as Medellín, but once you leave the city and the main highway, the roads are narrow, most often unpaved, no doubt impassable during part of the rainy season.
“The majordomo is Cesar Montez, a young man about your own age. I understand he’s spent his entire life on the plantation. He will be your best source of information. There is also a housekeeper, Juana, who has been there for many decades, I believe.”
“How do I get there?”
He sighed and looked up at the ceiling for a moment, perhaps to get an opinion from heaven concerning my sanity. “You are truly an impetuous young woman. You are an intelligent human being, you know that it is dangerous to come here, more dangerous to leave the city, especially for a foreigner, but I can see that there is no way to reason with you.”
He lifted his hands in resignation. “There’s a train that can get you to within an hour of the plantation. That would be your safest way. I will call and have Cesar meet the train. God willing, he will get you safely to the plantation. When do you plan to go?”
“Is there a train leaving later today?”
“I should have guessed your schedule.”
A phone call confirmed that the last train had already left for the day.
“Then I’ll go tomorrow.”
I stood up and thanked the lawyer and agreed to return in a few days to sign papers that would complete the transfer. I asked, “Do you know a man named Ramon Alavar?”
“No.”
The slightest hesitation revealed that I had caught him by surprise again. And I caught something else … alarm?
The interview had left a million questions dangling, but I could see I had reached my limit with the lawyer. But not being one to go away quietly, I turned back when I reached the door.
“You know that I never met Carlos Castillo?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“Do you know why he left me his property?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard of my mother—Sonja Marie Novak?”
“No.”
“Do you know if he was my father?”
“No.”
I left the office, recalling a joke my lawyer friend in Seattle once told me:
How can you tell when a lawyer’s lying?
When his lips are moving.
Out on the street, my head buzzed. Attorney Vega Gomez could have told me a lot more but wouldn’t. Some of it was because of the sealed lips that attorneys are forced to have. But my instinct told me that there was some skullduggery in the air, too. I didn’t know if the attorney was part of it … or just a citizen of Medellín trying to keep out of the cross fire.
At least one thing was clear: I had little chance of immediately getting my hands on a large amount of cash. I had inherited physical property, not cash. The property would have to be sold to turn it into legal fees and bail money for my Seattle woes.
I had to get out to the plantation and evaluate the situation, see if it could be sold quickly. I also wanted to get out of Medellín as soon as possible. I didn’t want to add to the death rate.
Medellín was in the tropic zone of the planet, but with a temperate climate because it was a mile high. Not only was my clothing intended for Seattle’s much cooler climate, but the clothes made me look like a foreigner.
In a country famous for kidnapping—and killing—Americans, it wasn’t a good idea to leave the impression I was one. Walking back to the hotel from the lawyer’s office, I decided to buy some clothes that would make me look like a native. Or at least less conspicuous.
By mid-afternoon I made up my mind about the trip to the plantation. The lawyer was right about one thing: The safest bet was to go by train and have the majordomo pick me up. Unfortunately, that also meant that the lawyer and the people at the plantation would know my plans. Plus the people at the hotel who made the train reservation for me, the taxi driver who took me to the station, the ticket clerk at the station … in other words, if someone wanted to know the when-and-where about me tomorrow, or the whereabouts of a “rich American,” it would be easy to find out because a long list of people were involved in getting me into a train seat.
Before I reached the hotel, on impulse, I walked into a rental car agency. After assuring them that I had no intention of traveling except to drive around the city to look at churches for a book I was doing, and paying a king’s ransom in insurance, I was able to rent a car, a small subcompact Honda with a standard transmission. Fortunately, I owned a Bug and knew how to use a clutch.
I parked the car at an indoor garage with twenty-four-hour security a block from my hotel.
At the hotel, I conspicuously inquired about the train and had the clerk reserve a seat for the next day. I got a map and went over it with the clerk as if I were interested in the route that the train took when I was actually planning out a car trip.
Very pleased at having fooled all the murderers and kidnappers in the city, I retired to my room and stayed there, relying on room service again rather than showing my norteamericana face in the restaurant.
The telephone rang.
“You should have taken my offer,” the voice on the other end said.
It took only a split second and the hair rising on the back of my neck for me to identify my caller as Scar. Sonofabitch. I didn’t need to leave bread crumbs; these Colombians must have had spy cameras in satellites keeping track of me.
I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady. “I’m still open to offers … but ten thousand dollars isn’t going to do it. I know what the plantation is worth; I’m not going to le
t you steal it.”
“You don’t know what you have gotten yourself into.”
I gripped the phone tighter. Wasn’t that the truth? Every time I turned around, there was some new hurdle to jump. Trying to keep the jitters out of my voice, I said, “Why don’t you tell me what I’ve gotten myself into.”
There was a long pause on the other end, enough to get my nerves vibrating. I gripped the phone even tighter, trying to keep a lid on my fears. It’s just about the price, I told myself. Stay tough; don’t show weakness; don’t let him know you’re scared or anxious.
“I am authorized to offer you three things.” His voice came across as ominous as the scars on his neck that were remnants of his violent past. “Fifty thousand dollars cash. And I will not inform the police in your country that you are in Colombia.”
No one had to tell the Seattle cops where I had fled—I had left a trail a blind man could follow. If Scar, Ramon, and whoever else were able to easily track me, the police certainly wouldn’t be stymied.
“What’s the third thing?” I asked.
Another long pause. Scar was an expert at psychological warfare—the kind that made prisoners scream confessions. He managed to say more with silence than a mugger with a knife. I took a deep breath to calm the tremors in my voice. Steady, girl. He’s just trying to scare you.
And doing a damn fine job at it.
“I want more money, but I’m willing to discuss it. Can you meet me here at the hotel tomorrow morning?”
“We meet now.”
“No, I can’t. I’m sick; I’ve had a bad day, stomach problems, Montezuma’s revenge, turista.” I didn’t know if either expression would be understood by a Colombian, but they were the only expressions I knew for the infliction that sent travelers to the toilet and bed in misery. “I’ll meet you mañana. I have to catch a train tomorrow at eleven. If you come by at ten, we can talk.”
“I’ll be there at nine. In the lobby. Be ready to sign papers.”
He didn’t say “or else,” but the phrase resounded in my ears, anyway.
“Fine, nine. But remember, I know what the plantation is worth. I want more money.” My voice shook with that last bit and I hastily slammed down the phone, hoping he would think it was my stomach problems that were causing the duress and not good old-fashioned fear.
The Devil to Pay Page 10
