A large crowd partly occupied the house and oozed out over the patio to the very edges of the pool. Brightly dressed women, mostly young like Katy, and casually dressed men, mostly old like the Judge, chatted with animation and verve, drinks in hand, while young Mexican girls in stiff starched whites passed plates of munchies and bussed drinks.
Alan plowed into the middle of the crowd, seeming to know many, with Katy and Barbara in tow, leaving the Judge a straggler behind, blocked as the crowd opened to accommodate Alan and two beautiful women, then closed again before the Judge could follow.
The Judge glimpsed Katy, turning back on tip-toes, looking for him in their wake, catching his eye, sticking her tongue way out, bringing her white teeth down softly on top, a universal sign of biting her tongue. The evening was deteriorating rapidly.
And the Judge was hot again. Dumped from the air-conditioned car, stuck on the crowded terrace, hemmed in on all sides. The heat lay like a blanket, though it was now ten p.m., the sun gone for some time. The Judge tried to maneuver closer to the open sliding doors to the house where a swath of cool air seemed to pour from hidden air conditioners of no doubt gigantic proportions. He could hear the faint hum, and feel a slight vibration through the terrace stone as compressors churned to perform the herculean task of cooling the house with all its doors open. But the packed crowd made it impossible to get near the doors.
There’d been mosquitos buzzing around them as they alighted from the car, sensing the chance for soft American flesh into which to sink their proboscises.
But there were no insects on the patio. Only the faint scent of DDT, rising like a cloud from the ground and foliage, wafting through the moist night air, coloring slightly the taste of assorted puff-pastry hors d’oeuvres passed around the patio on large silver platters. The Judge wondered whether he’d be sick.
He turned to his left, adopting a flanking tactic to elbow his way to the cool air, and ran smack into Chief Inspector Garcia, standing with a younger man, chatting in Spanish. The Judge stuck out his hand instinctively, muttering, “Hello.”
Garcia took it to shake reluctantly, not particularly happy to see the Judge. But the Judge’s path was tightly blocked moving forward, and now back. He was trapped, and he knew no one else. Alan and the girls were nowhere in sight, consumed by the mass of humanity. Likely now ensconced in the house sitting next to the air conditioner vent.
Lucky bastards.
The younger man with Garcia turned to size up the Judge, glancing expectantly at the Chief Inspector for an introduction.
Garcia introduced the Judge to Señor Martínez, giving his title with a flourish, apparently as was the custom. “Señor Martínez is the Chief of Police for all of Cabo San Lucas.” Garcia’s boss.
Martínez was young, likely mid-thirties, tall, thin, with an aquiline nose and pale white skin that emphasized dark arrogant eyes now regarding the Judge with faint amusement.
“Nice to meet you, Judge. I’ve heard about you. An amateur detective of sorts from Los Angeles as I understand. Often getting in the way of legitimate police investigations and procedures, sometimes tainting or destroying evidence, making it more difficult for authorities to do their work. Are you going to… how do you Americans say it… ‘gum up the works’ down here too?”
It was the final straw. The heat, the mass of humanity, too much chili verde on his fried eggs at lunch, the wafting fumes of DDT, and damn Barbara showing up, the harbinger of domestic strife to come when Katy got him alone in the hotel room and vented. It was all just too much.
“You are the one who Garcia talked to yesterday on his cell after the first death of María Cervantes?” asked the Judge.
“Yes.”
“You’re the one who suggested a replay of where everyone was at the moment of María’s death?”
“Well yes.”
“So, you’re actually responsible in part for Ana’s death. Sort of a two-for-one murder for the perpetrator?”
Martínez’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.
“We don’t know it was murder, señor. We have two deaths, but nothing to suggest foul play. They likely each chose suicide for personal reasons. Almost a suicide pact. It was no one else’s fault.” Martínez was turning pink now, controlling his temper with difficulty.
“No one except the person who laced their face with pepper spray, blinding them, disorienting them. Then forced them each off the roof, over its edge, with a sharp blade, slashing at their hands and forearms.”
“You are all they say in your country, señor. Trouble! This is not California. We handle investigations and people differently here. I think you’re not so welcome in our town. You should consider departing back to California before something untoward happens.”
Martínez turned on his heel, straight, proud, his mouth grim, clearly offended by the blunt gringo. Garcia turned away as well in unison with his boss.
Fine, thought the Judge. Now I have absolutely no one here to talk to.
CHAPTER 22
The Judge felt a bump, and then a tug at his elbow. He turned to see Barbara standing almost wedged against him in the crowd. Somehow, despite her enhanced figure she’d managed to shimmy her way out of the house and through the patio crowd to the Judge’s side, leaving Alan and Katy behind.
The dancing brown eyes gave the Judge a mischievous look, twinkling. The soft smile was all Barbara. God, she could turn on the charm when she wanted.
“How are you, Judge? You’re looking pretty good for yourself. What’s it been, eight months?
She was spot on. Practically to the day.
“You’re looking good yourself, Barbara. How goes the quest for a new husband? Any candidates?”
“Oh, well. You know how it goes, Judge. Lots of competition in West L.A. So many men seem only to care how few years a girl has on her. They don’t give credit for experience, maturity, and natural talent in the bedroom honed to a fine skill.” Barbara rolled her eyes for emphasis. “I understand you have a new son.”
“Yes. Little Ralphie. Cute little guy. Eight months old.”
“Not into kids myself, Judge. They ruin your figure for starters. Make your boobs saggy, your stomach flabby and checkered with stretch marks, your feet larger, ruining your shoe collection, and steal calcium out of your bones, setting you up for osteophytosis when you’re old. The first year you’re a wreck, with no life and no sleep. For the next twenty you’re full of anxiety about them, meanwhile shoveling out money for food, clothes, soccer lessons, medical, college, and listening to them talk back more and more with each growth spurt. Finally, they go off to shack up with someone, never quite right for them, never quite good enough, and you see them twice a year on holidays. What’s the point?”
“It’s life, Barbara. It’s living. It’s sharing all the experiences with them along the way.”
“Not the experiences I’m looking for Judge. But how about you? How’s your sex life?”
“Barbara!”
“Has Katy recovered from all those pregnancy hormones, healed up, and gotten her sex drive back? I could always ‘pinch-hit’ for her, you know.”
“We’ve had this discussion before, Barbara. I don’t need any pinch-hitting.”
“Sorry to hear that, Judge. We were great together. Remember that orange grove we pulled into off the Four-oh-five one night? Or me in that beautiful kimono, and nothing else, at noon, in the middle of the gardens at the Tokyo Hilton? We’ve had some great times.”
He had to smile. Barbara’s lively brown eyes searched his, finding what she wanted there, memories of a past that tied them together forever. Barbara had been a wild ride… all the way. They’d shared the most intimate parts of their bodies, joined, panting, gasping, heaving together like some single organism, higher and higher, cresting together and sliding down the back side of ecstasy. La petite mort the French called it.
Not surprisingly, they looked at each other differently, shared a common bond, indulged themselves in memories
of past revelries. Yes. Once lovers, forever different between a man and a woman. Some part of her was in him still, and some part of him was in her for sure.
He smiled at Barbara at that thought, then felt other eyes boring into the side of his head. He glanced to the left to find Katy on tiptoes, staring at him across the crowded patio, watching his repartee with Barbara. He blanked his face quickly, too quickly. Caught!
“We’ve both moved on, Barbara. Fond memories are great to hold and reminisce about occasionally, but I’m firmly committed to my new life.”
Barbara pouted, but quickly slid into her public happy face as the Judge felt a shift in the atmosphere around them. Suddenly there Katy was, tucking her arm territorially through his so there was no mistake to whom he belonged. Showing all her teeth to Barbara in a smile that was more grimace then friendly. He’d no doubt pay further for engaging in this little tête-à-tête.
Alan Clark magically appeared at the Judge’s other arm, like the Cheshire cat in Alice, all smiles and excitement. Tugging the Judge starboard, toward a small knot of men in expensive looking suits, enjoying cigars and softly talking while they studied the view across the infinity pool to sea.
They seemed to know Alan, parting and making room as Alan dragged the Judge over and thrust him into the middle, excitedly making introductions. The Judge found himself presented to Ricardo Díaz, the Lieutenant Governor of the State of Baja California Sur. The Lieutenant Governor was older than the Judge, shorter, wizened, like a dried fruit, paper-thin skin laid over a network of fine blue veins. Tired, worldly eyes examined the Judge with interest.
“So nice to meet you. Can I call you ‘Judge’? It seems everyone does, except for those few detractors who use mean little names.”
The Governor’s English was flawless, right out of Stanford.
“It’s tough to please everyone, sir. But it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
They smiled at each other and shook hands, two public faces hiding a variety of emotions. The Judge sensed he was well-known and not particularly well-liked by this Lieutenant Governor. The tension in the way the man had stood up and back when the Judge arrived, his hands clasped grimly behind the back now the shaking was done, the hooded look in the man’s eyes… all these suggested caution and suspicion.
“Thank you for the invitation to this fine party, señor,” said the Judge.
“Por nada. We are always happy to socialize with our American cousins.”
There was an awkward silence and then Alan pulled him away, claiming it was time for margaritas.
The evening wore on, as cocktail party evenings do, everyone getting a little sloshed, a little more passionate in their opinions, and a little muddier in their thinking. The Judge settled himself on a balcony rail to watch from the side for a while, balancing his hors d’oeuvres plate with one hand on one knee and holding his drink in the other, wishing he had a third hand so he could actually eat.
Networking parties were all much the same. There were the aggressive networkers, fliting around like moths from cluster to cluster of guests, introducing themselves, collecting cards, flitting off again, determined to meet everybody. Sometimes they were paired up as wingmen working together. Sometimes they were apart but in sync, one going clockwise, the other counterclockwise, touting their skills and those of their partner in quick sharp stabs to those who would listen.
There were the more passive networkers, pitching their tent in one corner or another, often in calculated spots to see the most traffic. Perhaps at the end of the bar, or by the security-covered entrance where people arrived, or the Judge’s favorite, the kitchen door where the hors d’oeuvres came out, always a popular place to hang if the food was good. Setting up like snake oil salesmen, waiting to snare passersby who might be sold their product or service, or know someone who could be.
And there was the bureaucracy, all eyes and ears, dreadfully aware of their relative rank and the pecking order, swanning around and through the lower castes, nibbling at the heels of higher ups, trying to be noticed and curry favor.
Katy was engaged in animated conversation with the wife of someone who’d been introduced as the wife of the supervisor of the small U.S. State Department office in Cabo, and was comparing notes on new babies. Now that she was an accomplished member of the motherhood club, she could talk for hours about their new offspring with other new mothers, rehashing each nuance of development over the last six months.
Alan Clark reappeared at his elbow again all Cheshire smile, in his element and enjoying it. “Hi, Judge. I’ve snagged an invite for tomorrow afternoon to tour ASAM’s airplane parts plant. Want to join me?”
The Judge considered. He might like to go for many reasons, not the least of which was two older women who’d sailed off their rooftop while he’d helplessly watched. But would Katy approve such a side venture? He was doubtful. He was already in trouble over Barbara; did he want to pile more coals on the fire? Finally, he said, “I’d like that, Alan. Can Katy come too? I’m sure she’ll be interested in airplane parts.”
Alan looked doubtful she’d have an interest, but responded, “Sure.” Then he squeezed himself out into the ebb and flow of bodies, spying someone else he thought he might know.
The Judge settled back on his balcony, feeling no need to meet anyone else, giving up on reaching the interior of the house and its blasting air conditioner. Alan returned later, having exhausted all possible contacts to meet, and himself in the process. The Judge waved Katy over. Alan dived back into the crowd to rescue Barbara, cornered by two older gentlemen flirting and trying to get her number, dragging her toward the front gate and motioning for them to follow. It was time to go.
But Barbara disengaged and swung a little unsteadily back to the house, using a side door that had escaped the Judge’s attention. The Judge and Katy reached Alan at the gate where he waited for them.
“Are we ready to go?” asked Alan.
“We are,” answered the Judge.
“Where’s the other person in our group?” piped in Katy, apparently unwilling to use Barbara’s name.
“Barbara’s in the bathroom. Should be out shortly. I’ll have the driver bring our SUV.”
“Okay,” said the Judge, planning to quickly get Katy into the back of the SUV and hopefully limit further social contact with Barbara. But it wasn’t to be. Barbara arrived into the midst of their little group just as the SUV pulled up. And she was drunk. She walked with a distinct wobble ahead of the Judge toward the SUV’s open door. When she tripped and started to fall, the Judge reacted quickly, stepping up behind her, wrapping his arms around her torso to stop the fall, hands settling naturally across each breast.
“Oh, Judgee,” she slurred. “You haven’t held me there for so long. It feels so good.” Straightening, then leaning back against him, her tush naturally pressing against his loins at the front, sending sensations of fire down his legs and up his belly.
Suddenly small determined hands shoved between them, pushing Barbara forward and away, one hand going to her head, forcing it down, the other firmly on her back, propelling her into the open rear door of the SUV, as though a cop making an arrest.
“Stay away from my husband!” hissed Katy.
Barbara’s head was spinning, unstable. Katy’s push was too hard, sending Barbara to her hands and knees sprawling across the forward passenger seat of the SUV, ratcheting her tight sheath dress up around her waist, displaying bikini cut panties and a lot of flesh, her long legs still sticking out of the car.
It was too much. Barbara started dry retching across the back seat.
Katy stood back, appalled.
The Judge produced his handkerchief, reaching in, cuddling Barbara’s head with one hand, holding her across her breasts again with the other, sustaining her while she dry-heaved for 30 seconds. It seemed an eternity.
Then he gently wiped her face with the handkerchief, helped her up to a sitting position on the seat behind the driver, and rolled down the automat
ic window for her. She hung there, one arm and most of her head hanging out into the hot night air, white-faced, trying to calm her breathing.
“Sorry, Judgee,” she muttered, trying to regain control of her body, people clustering around at the curb outside now, staring at the drunk American woman, wondering who she was.
The Judge got back out of the SUV to stand by Katy, who was silently fuming.
Alan rushed around them and climbed in next to Barbara, putting his arm around her, trying to comfort her.
“Tanks, Ally Baby,” she muttered. “Car’s steep off the ground.”
Katy and the Judge got in and squeezed their way to their back seats, the Judge sitting behind Barbara at Katy’s insistence. The Judge glimpsed something silver, a flask, in Barbara’s hand. He caught the scent of Tanqueray mingled with Pure Grace Nude Rose by Philosophy, Barbara’s signature fragrance. The gin lent a certain medicinal element to the perfume’s floral woody smell.
They roared off down the twisting lane leading off the hill, surrounded on each side by the dark foliage and here and there a smattering of soft lights in gardens and windows.
“Judgee, you still back there?” Barbara called over her shoulder from the center seats.
“I’m here Barbara.” Noncommittal.
“Kay. Wanted to be sure you weren’t left. Is your child-bride there too?”
“I’m here,” said Katy. “I’m not a child bride. You’re drunk. You’d best put your head back, close your mouth, and sleep it off.” Katy’s voice was cool.
“Barbara just had a good time,” said Alan. “She’s a bit exuberant.”
“Fuckin’ A, Ally. Have you ever done it in a SUV?”
Alan blinked. “Err… no Barbs.”
“Let’s. Right now.”
“We have company behind us Barbs, and no modesty panel behind the driver. They’re watching and listening to us.”
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