The Jaguar ch-5

by T. Jefferson Parker

  Hours later she awakened and threw off the cover and stood. She saw that the breakfast dishes were gone and a light lunch had been left in their place. The chair was back at the table and the plate warmer had been picked up from the floor by the window. She was a heavy sleeper, but she was surprised to have slept through all this. Or maybe not, she thought. You don’t get kidnapped every day. You don’t see your husband beaten bloody by drug traffickers. She looked outside. From the sun she guessed it was closer to evening than morning. She wondered if the breakfast had been drugged but that made little sense. There was a vase of fresh cut tropical flowers on the table.

  She walked the room again and felt the sudden rush of abandonment. She’d never felt abandoned in her life. Not for a day, not for an hour. She had never really even been alone, either. And you have to be alone to be abandoned, she thought, although they were not the same thing. She wanted someone to talk to. And someone to listen to. Maybe if she divided the lunch into two meals and set a place across from her someone would appear and they could lunch. To lunch, she thought. A verb.

  She stood for a moment in front of the Hummingbird. It was a beautiful instrument, large and resonant and aesthetically dazzling. It looked fairly old, as did the case. She reached for it, then stopped herself. She felt like Pandora, or maybe like Eve herself, confronted with a thing of temptation that had been forbidden to her. But why forbidden? Who had forbidden it? Herself? Some distant God? She had no memory of the forbidding. In fact, she thought, it hasn’t been forbidden; it’s been offered.

  She picked it up and sat in the handsome leather chair. The strings were new and out of tune. She tuned it and played softly without singing, letting her fingers chase down the music as her ears heard it. The sound led to the feelings and thoughts, and she fetched the paper and pen from the desk and set them on the table in front of her.

  Hours became minutes as they always did. There was terror, anger, shame, even hope. She tried to slow the rush of emotion enough to capture the last two days with words, not so much capture as synopsize, sketch, represent. Notes into music. Thoughts into rhyme. Later could come the clarity and the accuracy, the shading and wit.

  Later, lost to all this, Erin heard another knock on her door.

  “Go away! Marcharse!”

  “Mr. Armenta will be here in one half hour.” It was the soft high voice of the room-service boy.

  “For what? Why?”

  Silence.

  Think. She put the guitar back in its case and pulled off the three sheets of paper upon which she had written, then put the pad and pen back on the desk. The lyrics she stashed under the bed.

  Think. She found a blue dress and bit off the Bloomingdale’s tag. It was modest and fit loosely around her middle. Then a pair of new sandals. She turned sideways to the mirror to see her profile and she pulled her stomach in again and when she felt the tears starting up she whacked herself on each cheek and this helped.

  From the wardrobe she retrieved the used medical tape and in the bathroom she hiked up the blue dress and used its fading adhesive to fasten the derringer around her unchafed calf. She brushed her hair and pulled it back into a pony tail. She thought for a moment, then changed her mind about the gun and removed it and put it and the tape back where they had been.

  Five minutes later she heard the whir and clunk of the door lock and Armenta pushed into the room. He wore a black open-collared dress shirt instead of the Pacifico T-shirt, and a pair of wrinkled linen pants instead of the shorts. His hair was still a mess and his face still unshaven and jowly and his eyes haunted. His sandals were a burnished orange color, similar to that of a sunburst Gibson ES-335 guitar. His matching belt was tooled with crocodiles. Three phones hung from it: one satellite and two cell phones, she guessed.

  “I will show you my home.”

  “Let me go.”

  He wagged a thick finger at her and shook his head slightly. “You will now see my home.”

  8

  They took the elevator to the basement kitchen. It was large and two black women labored over the stoves and another operated a tortilla maker. It was hot and fragrant. Two young men sat in folding chairs by a far wall, weapons across their knees.

  “A large kitchen,” said Armenta. “Yes, very large.”

  “Why are the staff all black?”

  “I used to live in the Caribbean.”

  They left the kitchen through steel double doors and entered a warren of windowless vaults that soon defeated her sense of direction. The air was cool and smelled of concrete. Armenta led the way, apparently disinterested and walking fast, revealing the large handgun holstered at the small of his back. But Erin was intrigued by the mystery of this place and she lagged behind to see.

  The vaults were large and the ceilings high and all were made of concrete block, unpainted, roughly cemented together. In the first was a bank of four large Honda generators, which groaned along. It was vented to the outside by a network of pipes and grates, and the adjacent vault was filled with fifty-five gallon drums of what Erin figured must be gasoline to run the generators.

  In some of the vaults were large quantities of canned food and bottled water, sacks of flour, rice and beans. Others, she saw, were stacked high with crates and pallets of music CDs and movie DVDs. Thousands of them. She recognized the covers of some-American and Mexican musicians and Hollywood movies and TV shows-and she remembered Bradley telling her that the Mexican drug cartels weren’t selling just drugs anymore, but also pirated entertainment and both stolen and counterfeit designer fashion ware. She wondered if any Erin and the Inmates CDs were in the crates. Not likely, she thought, as they were a good band and known but not famous.

  One large room was filled with Olmec statuary much like she remembered from the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. She had always been impressed by the great brooding heads with their infinite gazes. Another room had Toltec pieces and another was cluttered with Mayan artifacts, many crumbling with age-stone serpents and jaguars and great blackened blocks that must have come from pyramids or temples or one of the big sporting arenas like she’d seen in Chichen Itza. Armenta stopped and spoke softly into one of the cell phones as he waited for her.

  They took the elevator up one floor to the ground-level zoo. It included two tigers, two lions, two leopards, two jaguars, two pumas and two ocelots. Armenta said they were mated pairs. Their separate enclosures spanned outward like the spokes of a half-wheel from the common hub of the Castle’s ground floor, then continued out into the jungle behind the structure in widening angles. The runs were separated by metal spike fences that Armenta said were too high even for the leopards to jump. The viewing area took up approximately the rear half of the ground floor of the Castle, and had a cobblestone floor and a low limestone ceiling that, to Erin, gave it the look and feel of a dungeon.

  Here in the viewing area the cages converged, each of the enclosures ending at a large rust-eaten barred door that might have come from a prison. Monkeys sat on the cobblestones just out of claw range or walked with tails waving as they contemplated and jeered the captives. A giant sloth slept in a leather chair. A group of coatimundis came wobbling in from an opening on one side of the enclosures, crossed in front of Erin and Armenta, and continued out another. Parrots and macaws in reds and greens sat atop the prison doors. Peacocks and hens came and went. In the shade near the courtyard stood a large aviary filled with what looked like pigeons.

  “I brought the cats in so you could see them.”

  Erin studied the animals. They looked healthy. Their coats shone even in the dim light except for the lions, pale and tawny, the color of the hillsides where she lived. All of the animals were calm except the leopards. They paced opposite sides of their cage in opposite directions, six steps from the bars to the raised grates that kept them from their runs, six steps back, again and again as if counterbalanced. The tigers seemed curious about her though the lions did not. She recognized the black jaguar from the third-floor
landing and it beheld her again with its pale green eyes. Eyes like the moon, she thought, eyes like the stone heads that stare forever. A piece of a song she had been hearing came to her now and she added to it: Come to me by moonlight, sugar/Let the moon be your guide/Be a jaguar in the jungle/Be a cat with Olmec eyes. She sensed Armenta looking not at the cats, but at her.

  “I give them to friends. I sell them occasionally. They are splendidly cared for and indulged and yet this changes their natures none. They are not dogs and can never be as dogs. This is what I respect in them.”

  Armenta walked to the last barred door and pushed a red button on the wall. Erin saw the enclosure grates withdraw into their respective concrete floors and the animals, some running and others walking, travel back into their dark slices of jungle.

  Again they took the elevator up, though Armenta pushed one of the lower buttons. It was a good-sized car, paneled with Honduran mahogany, which Erin recognized from the precious bookshelves in her father’s Austin library. She counted six unnumbered control buttons. She and Armenta looked self-consciously straight ahead as strangers in elevators do. She could smell his cologne and the leather of his belt and sandals.

  “How many levels?” she asked.

  “Four or five.”

  “Which?”

  “This is level two.”

  “Why is there no third-floor landing?”

  He shrugged and they walked down a marble-floored hallway and came to another armed man, seated outside a door. Erin recognized him from the van. He rose and opened the door for them and Erin stepped into a large, well lit office. There was a counter with a sink and a coffeemaker and a refrigerator in one corner. The office was carpeted and three of the walls were lined with CD racks. Hundreds and hundreds of recordings, she saw. Some she recognized by their cover art and many she did not. The racks were so high there were wheeled ladders to reach the upper discs.

  “From all over the world,” said Armenta.

  “I thought I had a lot.”

  Armenta led her past a desk with a sleek new computer on it and little else. He held a door open for her and as she stepped in, Erin recognized the wonderful aural hush of a recording studio.

  The control room was large and filled with state-of-the-art equipment-a vintage Trident mixing board, Genelec loudspeakers suspended from the ceiling, a pair of NS-10 near-field speakers and Auratones on the board. She saw the two Studer twenty-four-track tape machines, and the racks with the Neve compressor, a near-holy Pultec EQP equalizer, FX, reverb mainframes dat machines, CD players and tape decks, a dedicated Mac. It was cold as control rooms are. As she moved slowly through it, looking at the expensive equipment, she felt no warm spots in the room, and she thought of her first recording sessions in an Austin garage when she was so young her brothers insisted on being there with her: the heat and the terrible acoustics and the troubled wannabe record producer who swilled warm beers and smoked joints and finally fell asleep on the floor mumbling sweet nothings to the cover of an Emmylou Harris long-play.

  “Forty-eight tracks of analog,” said Erin. “And a Mac to store the digital. You have all the good toys,” she said.

  “I like the warmer sound of the analog.”

  “I always have too.”

  He nodded. “However the digital has no hissing, and duplication is very convenient. I do the recording. I am a good engineer. I play accordion, but not well. I sing poorly.”

  He held open the heavy door and they stepped into the tracking room. The ceilings were high and the rafters exposed and the woodwork and finish were handsome.

  “This is more Honduran mahogany,” said Armenta.

  Here in the tracking room his voice was flat and clear, as if stripped of nonessential vibration. Erin could tell that the baffles and sound-proofing were excellent, though hidden within the gorgeous woodwork. The air here was lively in a shimmery way-a tuned tracking room, she thought. Beautiful. There was a big drum booth, a piano booth in which a Yamaha grand piano held court, a vocal booth caked with foam from ceiling to floor. She turned and looked at Armenta.

  “Los Jaguars de Veracruz have recorded here. And Mara Graco. Do you know Mara Graco?”

  “I love Mara Graco. La Cumbia de Rosas.”

  “And La Casa du tus Suenos.”

  “The House of Your Dreams.”

  “Her voice is almost that of a man. It is smoking and rich and hides something sharpened. She plays the piano very well but this talent is not featured on her recordings. Until here. Here Mara Graco played the Yamaha. It was…extraordinary. I want Flaco Jimenez to come here. So robusto, his accordion. I have seen him perform many times.”

  Erin looked briefly at Armenta. His gray-black hair sprang randomly but his hangdog eyes were intensely focused on her. He seemed flushed by the memory of Mara Graco playing the Yamaha. For a moment his face held a ruddy glow and the hint of a smile. Then these faded and Erin saw the haunted face she had seen before, a man with losses he could not recover and regrets he would not outlive.

  “And the Brazilians?” asked Armenta with a small twinkle in his eyes. “Nora Ney? Marisa Monte?”

  “Hipnotico,” said Erin. “I love the Brazilians. They absorb so much and make it all work. I miss the old sambas.”

  “I very much love the Irish too,” said Armenta. “And when the Chieftains play together with Los Tigres del Norte-”

  “The Irish and the Mexicans together,” said Erin. “Was ‘San Patricio’ a wonder or not? With Ry Cooder!”

  “Did you know that the accordions were brought here by the German and the Polish miners? Because they could travel with them. And the Mexicans fell in love with this sound. That is why much of our music is polka music-German polkas played faster and with happiness! Oh, yes, then you mix into this the passionate Irish. I reproduced two hundred and ten thousands of CDs of ‘San Patricio,’ and sold them easily. The Chieftans are excessively popular in Mexico, as are the Celtic Women. I made forty thousands of DVDs of their American PBS special. And the Spanish musicians who are so diverse and unpredictable, I am trying to bring them a bigger audience in Mexico, much bigger. The Arabic musical influence is so distinctive and unusual in Spain. Absolutely! And the Scottish are among my favorites-from ancient highland bagpipes to the guitar of Mark Knopfler! And he mixes them together in ‘Piper to the End!’ And of course the English, too, they produce greatness. And you Americans. You have Bob Dylan and the Boss and Bonnie Raitt and Taylor Swift. You may wish to know that Erin and the Inmates are beginning to be very popular in this country, especially in the states along the Gulf of Mexico. I sell you very strongly there because many of these states are friends to me. And because Mexicans love women who can sing. So they love you. I sell CDs of American women singers by the many of thousands. Most in Mexico, but many to Central and South America. Not in the United States anymore because of iPods. All of those products you saw in the basement are ready to be shipped. Of course, the downloading of music will ruin my CD business when the iPods become more affordable here. Until then, I will sell to the people what they want.”

  “You shouldn’t rip off the artists you love so much.”

  He eyed her. The lugubrious expression returned immediately. “Business always must be first.”

  “Make it second and you’ll be happier.”

  “I will be happy?”

  She shrugged and looked out at the gorgeous Yamaha shining in the studio lights. “It’s possible that was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Do you know how many people are trying to kill me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Thousands.”

  “Truly?”

  “Very truly. There are soldiers and police and hired assassins and enemies and even mere boys who would kill me without one thought. There are people who would kill me just to have a corrido written about it. Yet this is all a part of business. So, as you see, it must come first or I will die. You must comprehend that your world is not my world.”

  “You
’re right, Senor Armenta, this is not my world. And you’re also right about Flaco Jimenez. He’s one robust accordion player.”

  “Yes. Music. I will tell you about my son someday.”

  “He frightens me.”

  “Not Saturnino. Gustavo. I will tell you about Gustavo. He was the beautiful one.”

  Up on the fourth floor she recognized her hallway and room door. This level spread out logically at right angles, all hallways and guest rooms, like a hotel. Some of the doors were open and Erin saw that the rooms were beautifully furnished and decorated, like hers. Some were closed. They came to seating alcoves with high windows and heavy rancho sofas in leather and cowhide and grand recliners arranged around rustic trunks piled with books and periodicals. Monkeys peered down on them from the curtain rods. Parrots and macaws lined the landing rail and the banister that zigzagged down four floors as Erin looked over. A black man wearing white pants and a white shirt used a step ladder to remove various excretions from the drapery. The bucket on the floor beside him gave up the smell of lavender and Erin saw that a portion of the tile pavers was clean and still wet from the mop.

  “In the daylight there are excellent views from these windows. You can see the ruins and the laguna.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be free to enjoy views.”

  He regarded her with a mild shrug. “No. This would not be practical.”

  The top floor-Erin was fairly sure it was floor five-housed an observatory, a home theater the size of a multiplex, a recital hall, and a game room with billiards, table tennis, Foosball, scores of arcade games from “Cabela’s Big Game Hunter” to “Daytona Challenge” to “Kandahar Killers.” Father Edgar Ciel sat cramped but splendidly upright in the Daytona car, hands clutching the wheel, blazing his way through the competition while the novitiates watched on.