Greasing the Piñata

by Tim Maleeny

  The noise was disorienting, funneled toward the open space in front of the door. There was a generator near the center of the room with a circular motor spinning like clockwork, clanging every time it completed a rotation. Humming came from every direction at once. And directly in front of Cape there was an insistent beeping, a manic high-pitched chirping that sounded like an alarm clock in a cheap hotel. He hadn’t heard that sound before he opened the door.

  Cape stood slowly as he tried to see what was making the noise.

  A three-legged stool sat twenty feet away from the door, set against the wall next to a small desk. On top of the stool was a lumpy bundle of plastic, tape, red putty, and wires, one of which led from the stool to the wall, over the desk and along the door frame, where it was attached to a magnetic trigger that Cape had broken when he opened the door.

  On top of the bundle was a red LED screen flashing in time with the beeps. Then the beeping stopped—and so did Cape’s heart—until it was replaced by a shrill whine. Cape tried to get his feet to move but they wouldn’t, and suddenly the countdown started.

  The lights had been nonsense during the beeping, all the LED lights illuminated at once. But now they resolved into numbers.

  Someone had a sense of humor. Instead of numbers, letters appeared, and instead of counting down, the timer was counting upward.

  Uno Dos Tres

  Cape tried to remember his high school Spanish and wondered how high he could count before he died.

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Sally heard the explosion from four buildings away.

  She skidded to a stop on the catwalk and gripped the railing. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. When she reached five she heard a second explosion. Closer.

  The explosion was igniting the methane in the pipes, working its way through the buildings.

  One second. Two seconds. Three—

  She felt the next explosion before she heard it.

  Sally whipped around to watch the intake vent at the far end of the building, the countdown still going in her head. Six buildings, counting the refinery. Three to go, less than five seconds apart and getting closer.

  Sally looked toward the front door and the window where she entered. She would never make it. A dull roar was building in the pipes, the sound of gas expanding, getting hotter and looking for a place to burn.

  One second. Two—

  The walls shook as if hit by a hurricane. The catwalk jumped. Pigs squealed and trampled over one another trying to find a way out. Two explosions to go, and then the air would turn to fire.

  Sally jumped onto the railing.

  The pigs were in a frenzy. Butting heads, biting. Sally saw blood mixed with manure and mud on the floor. It was a mosh pit from Hell.

  She almost lost her balance when the next explosion hit, the blast wave shoving superheated air through the walls. The roaring in the pipes had become a scream. The lights flickered and went out.

  Sally closed her eyes and reversed her footing, so she was facing the catwalk and the wall. The pigs were behind and below her, churning the mud, their backs shifting like waves.

  One—two—

  Sally spread her arms and tilted her head back as her heels slipped off the railing and she fell backward into space.

  Chapter Sixty-six

  “Shit.”

  The sound of his own voice shocked Cape out of his stupor before the timer reached Cinco.

  He crashed through the door and leapt for the drainage ditch. He landed hard, twisting his ankle, just as the walls of the refinery building turned into shrapnel.

  Blue flame erupted into a mushroom cloud that turned yellow and then orange as it expanded into the night sky. The metal door screamed past like a discus thrown by an angry giant. Cape wrapped his arms around his head as flaming bits of metal, stone, and plastic fell like meteors.

  He felt something hit his leg, a napalm hailstone, and his pants started to burn. Cape rolled in the mud and tried to scramble backward but it was raining fire all around him. The second explosion took off the roof of the adjacent shed. The walls disintegrated into splinters that flew like darts.

  Cape wondered where Sally could be, hoping she was still in the first building. Then the next shed erupted in a fireball and he realized that she wouldn’t be safe in any of them.

  A shard of two-by-four plunged into the earth only three inches from Cape’s ear. Another one narrowly missed his foot. By the time a third penetrated the ground between his legs, he felt like Dracula being hunted by angry villagers. He got his legs under him and pushed backward. Only a dead man could help him now.

  He reached the first corpse and pulled the body on top of his own, careful not to leave any extremities exposed. Cape was slightly taller than the guard so he bent his knees and angled his legs.

  The next building blew up. Cape held his breath and hoped it was over.

  It wasn’t. The next shed exploded and Cape saw pigs fly. A two hundred pound sow landed only a few yards away, bursting on impact in a shower of entrails. A three hundred pounder followed, a porcine asteroid big enough to kill the dinosaurs.

  A pig’s head complete landed with its snout only inches from Cape’s nose. A pair of smoldering pig’s feet bounced off his sneakers. He heard squealing and the thunder of cloven hooves. The last shed went ba-boom, the gas explosion followed immediately by the sound of the building cracking apart like an egg.

  Cape counted to three and threw the corpse to the side, scrambled up the side of the ditch and started running toward the building where he’d last seen Sally.

  He ran headlong into a stampede and had to dive back into the ditch to avoid being trampled to death. Thousands upon thousands of terrified pigs were running in every direction. Some were horribly maimed but most were surprisingly unhurt. A few were smoking along their backs where their wispy hair had caught fire and burned itself out.

  Cape ran along the ditch until it began to fill up with panicked pigs climbing over one another. He put his head down and shoulder forward, assuming a linebacker pose as he tried to redirect the scared animals. He rolled out of the ditch and tried to hold his ground as the herd parted around him, too terrified to be aggressive. He dug his heels into the mud, straining to see into the darkness, desperate to keep moving forward.

  In minutes that seemed like hours, but eventually the pigs had fled to all points of the compass, scattering across the broad valley as fast as their stubby legs could carry them. Cape’s legs gave out and he collapsed into the mud.

  He managed to get his hands under his chest and crawled for several yards before stopping and sitting back on his knees, panting heavily. He felt blood running down his face and snot pouring from his nose. His hands were bleeding, half the nails gone.

  He stood up and almost fainted, then stumbled forward. Ten yards. Another ten. Shapes started to emerge in the darkness, his finally eyes adjusting to the moonlight after flame had lit up the sky forever.

  A lone figure stood twenty feet in front of him. Sword drawn and covered in blood, her clothes shredded. Her hair matted and torn. Mud and manure smeared across her face and hands.

  Cape had never seen her look so beautiful.

  Sally smiled and slid her sword into its scabbard.

  “Can we go home now?”

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Cape looked in the bathroom mirror and wished he hadn’t.

  He wondered how he managed to drive to the hotel. A gash over his eye explained why he had trouble seeing clearly through the windshield. Splinters stuck out of his nose, cheeks, and ears in all directions and stung whether he smiled or frowned. He looked like a porcupine.

  His skin burned, so many nerve endings had been overloaded. He knew he was in shock and should be in a hospital, but he and Sally had agreed that was a bad idea. Showing up at the emergency room smelling like smoked ham the same night a pig farm was destroyed might attract the wrong kind of attention.

  It hurt when he moved in a million d
ifferent ways. It hurt when he breathed. He couldn’t smell anything besides overcooked ribs. His ears were ringing. It was almost like being at a Tony Roma’s on a Friday night.

  Cape turned on the shower and let it run until steam clouded the mirror. He had seen enough. A sign mounted on the wall asked him to use only as many towels as he needed. Judging from what he’d seen in the mirror, Cape suspected he was going to need them all.

  He stifled a scream when the water hit him and grabbed for the handicap bar. There wasn’t one. He went down hard, landing on his tail bone. He decided to shower sitting down.

  He must have passed out, because when he awoke the water was ice cold. His skin was turning blue so the hot water must have run out a while ago. It occurred to him that he might have a concussion.

  He turned off the water and gingerly stood up, grabbed a towel off the rack and patted his face dry. He looked at the towel, which now had red and pink blotches all over it. This was going to take a while.

  He needed caffeine. Cape tried to remember what the doctor had told him the last time he got a concussion, but that was the problem with head injuries, you tended to forget things. Don’t go to sleep. That was it. Caffeine must be the right answer.

  He remembered there was a soda machine in the lobby.

  Cape made it to the bed where his suitcase lay open. The first aid kit he always carried seemed laughably small given the task, but after twenty minutes he had enough band-aids deployed to look like a mascot at a sticker convention.

  He managed to pull on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the Orbit Drive-In Theatre, then sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of Converse. Trying to pull on socks might have killed him, so he let the Chuck Taylors protect his bare feet.

  Cape took a deep breath and walked over to the desk where he’d left his wallet and hotel key. He felt like he’d been run over by a bulldozer but at least he was clean. Now he needed a drink, anything that wasn’t Mexican tap water.

  The lobby was empty, the front desk deserted. Not unexpected given the hour.

  Less expected was the man sitting alone at the lobby bar. Two shot glasses were placed deliberately in front of him next to a bottle of tequila.

  “Ah, you are awake amigo. I was hoping you could join me for a drink.” Inspector Oscar Garcia smiled and nudged the stool next to him with his foot.

  For some reason he wouldn’t understand until much later, Cape wasn’t terribly surprised to see his old friend.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Sally stripped naked and ran the bath.

  She took her clothes and wrapped them in the plastic laundry bag from the closet, then stuffed the bag into the garbage can. She could still smell only blood but knew that was probably because she hadn’t yet bathed.

  She also knew it could be her own sense-memory. At other times, under different circumstances, the smell of death and copper taste of blood had been a comfort to her. But not now.

  Sally padded across the bedroom and opened a side pocket in her suitcase, from which she extracted a bag of dried tea leaves. She shook the bag searching for the ones she wanted among the many-colored leaves. Green, black, rust, red. She found a large leaf almost as big as a maple but gray with dark green veins running out from the stem. She folded it into a ball, popped it into her mouth and chewed slowly. It tasted horrible, bitter and moldy, but it was a natural analgesic that promoted healing.

  She wished the tub were bigger and pulled the plug, deciding to take a shower first. It took a long time. When she was finished she looked at herself in the mirror, taking for granted the perfect contours and hardened muscles but making mental notes about every new scar or injury. Sally had been trained as a girl to always make the health of her body her top priority. She was a weapon that had to be honed every day so it was always ready for battle.

  When she had cleaned the filth from her body she cleaned the tub, then ran the bath. By bending at the waist she was able to run her legs up the wall and submerge her head underwater.

  She closed her eyes and wondered what she would see when she started to drown.

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  “You tracked me here.” Cape sat down heavily on the bar stool. “You’ve been keeping tabs.”

  “You leave quite a trail behind you.”

  Cape looked around for a glass but they were all behind the bar, save for the two shot glasses. He reached across the bar, grabbed the bar gun and found the button for Coke. Then he pressed the button and sprayed it into his mouth. His eyes cleared as sugar jacked up his blood sugar and caffeine dilated his blood vessels. Garcia held his gaze the entire time.

  When he was finished, Cape wiped the bar gun on a napkin and replaced it. “Uncouth, I know, even for an American. But the thought of getting a glass is beyond me right now.”

  Garcia nodded sympathetically. “You have had a rough week.”

  “I don’t know how much you know, but you don’t know the half of it.”

  “You smell like bacon.”

  “I just had breakfast.”

  Garcia smiled and poured two glasses of tequila. The liquid was as clear as water. Cape glanced at the bottle.

  “What are we drinking tonight?”

  “It is almost morning.” Garcia twisted the bottle so Cape could clearly read the label. “Don Julio Blanco—one hundred percent pure agave.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Of course.” Garcia raised his glass. “When the bar is open.”

  They clinked glasses and Cape took a sip. His nostrils cleared and for the first time in hours he smelled something other than pig. He blinked as his eyes started to water.

  “Gracias.” Cape took another sip.

  Garcia nodded and set his own glass down. “I wanted to apologize.”

  Cape shifted on his stool. “For what?”

  “I had to inform the media about Danny and his father, the Senator, before I could warn you.” Garcia sighed. “And before you could warn your client.”

  “Not your fault. I saw that you called.”

  “Twice—you were busy?”

  “I went sailing.”

  “A charming sport.”

  “In my car.”

  “You lead an exciting life.”

  “I didn’t a week ago.” Cape reached for the bar gun. The caffeine-alcohol-sugar therapy seemed to be working. “My life was nice and boring before I came to Mexico.”

  “Anything can happen here.”

  “I believe you now.”

  “And what brings you to Monterrey?” Garcia refilled Cape’s glass.

  “I understand there’s a lot to see.”

  “It is true. Mexico’s third largest city—shopping, world class museums. The discos. And the mountains, of course. Hiking is very popular. Have you been to the mountains yet?”

  “A valley,” said Cape. “I made it to one of the valleys.”

  “Monterrey is also a city of industry. Banking. Technology. Agriculture.”

  “Agriculture.” Cape took a slow sip of tequila, breathing in as it burned its way along his esophagus. “Farming.”

  “Sí, there is a very large pig farm just outside the city. Perhaps you saw it on a map.”

  “I don’t think it’s on the map anymore.”

  Garcia chuckled and refilled his own glass. He studied his companion but didn’t say anything.

  “Oscar, who did you say you work for?”

  “I am an inspector with the Mexico State Police.”

  “That wasn’t the question, Oscar.”

  “I thought I gave you a business card.” Garcia raised his glass to the light and admired the clarity of the liquid. “There are other branches of law enforcement, of course. The AFI—federales—our version of your FBI.”

  “Do you work for them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Cape arched an eyebrow. “Sometimes.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for, Señor Cape?”

  “No.” Cape turned on his stool so t
heir knees were almost touching. “Are you going to help me?”

  “I already have.” Garcia rubbed a hand across his mouth.

  “How?”

  “I bought you a drink on two occasions.”

  “Oscar—”

  “—and tried to give you some advice. You’re not terribly good at taking advice, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Neither am I.” Garcia tapped his fingers on the bar. “Perhaps that is why we get along.”

  “You knew about the farm.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you must know who owns it.”

  “Luis Cordon—everyone in Mexico knows who owns that property.”

  “Even the government?”

  “Especially the Mexican government.”

  “But does the government know about the money laundering—the bogus carbon offsets?”

  “Offsets?” Garcia frowned. “You mean credits.”

  Cape shook his head. “Not sure what they’re called here.” He explained the scam that Linda and Sloth had discovered in as much detail as he could remember. When he was finished Garcia clapped his hands together.

  “You have done much homework, my friend. But there is more to Cordon’s empire—much more.”

  “More.” Cape felt lightheaded. He reached for the bar gun.

  “You have heard of the Kyoto Protocols?”

  “Sure.” Cape nodded. “Big treaty between countries around the world to try and stop global warming.”

  “Which the United States voted against.”

  “Don’t blame me—I’m just an American taxpayer—we don’t get to vote on anything our government does.”

  “You are too defensive.” Garcia patted Cape’s arm. “Most developed countries did sign the treaty, so now they have to limit their greenhouse emissions, unless…” He let his voice trail off.

  “Unless?”

  “Unless they buy something that lets them keep polluting.”

  “Carbon credits?”

  Garcia filled both their glasses. Cape didn’t remember emptying his.