Murder Key

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “I don’t know much about him,” said Emilio. “He lives in Tlapa and is a kind of recruiter for local labor. Everybody knows that if you want to go to America, you see Sergio Arguilles.”

  I swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Don’t the police care that he’s running an illegal smuggling ring?”

  Emilio shrugged. “He may be on the government payroll, for all I know. If the flow of money from the illegals in the States dried up, there’d probably be a revolution here. A large part of the economy is based on the remesas, the remittances sent through InterMex from the workers in the States to their families here. It amounts to billions of dollars every year, second only to oil as foreign exchange. Every town of any size in Mexico has an InterMex exchange center where the money comes in.”

  Jock said, “So, Arguilles is probably not a bad guy.”

  “I doubt it,” said Emilio. “He’s probably just a businessman.”

  “How do we arrange a meeting?” I asked.

  “No arrangement necessary,” said Emilio. “We just go to his restaurant. That’s where he does his business. If you want to go to the States, you visit him there.”

  * * * * *

  We drove back down the mountain into the center of Tlapa and parked the VW a few yards from a restaurant that spilled its tables onto the town square. I was wearing a light windbreaker over a white golf shirt and a pair of jeans, Reeboks completing my wardrobe. Jock wore a navy blazer over a light blue cotton button down shirt, khaki pants and hiking boots. The jackets hid the weapons holstered at our waists. Emilio was unarmed.

  Emilio knew Arguilles by sight, and as we neared the restaurant, he pointed him out. Arguilles was sitting at an outside table, alone, resting in the sun, a cup of black coffee in front of him. He was wearing a baseball hat emblazoned with the logo of the Houston Astros, a red shirt that passed for fashionable in these parts, and jeans. Large sunglasses covered half his face, and I couldn’t see his eyes. His skin was dark, the color of the Aztecs from whom he had descended. He was as still as a statue and he looked as old as the mountains.

  Jock grinned. “You think he’s still alive?” he asked.

  “Don’t let the old gent fool you,” said Emilio. “He’s still sharp as a stiletto.”

  We approached Arguilles’ table. Emilio spoke to him in the local language, pointing at us. The old man replied in almost accentless English, “Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”

  He gestured to the chairs surrounding his table. “What can I do for you? Do you need to a guide to take you to America?”

  He laughed, a strange rumbling sound emanating from deep in his chest, ending in a coughing fit. He pulled a large handkerchief from a pocket on his shirt, spit into it, glared at the result, re-folded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. He sat back in his chair, his hands clasped, resting on his chest.

  “I will order us a coffee,” said Arguilles, gesturing to a waiter loitering near the door.

  When the coffee came, Emilio took a sip, raised his cup to Arguilles in a gesture of gratitude and asked, “Do you know a man named Pepe Zaragoza?”

  “Of course, Senor Sanchez,” replied Arguilles, speaking in his oddly formal English. “I helped him travel to America many years ago. He has a green card now and can come and go as he pleases. He comes here to visit his family every two years, and he always comes by to have a coffee with me.”

  “Senor,” said Emilio, “I’m sorry to tell you that Pepe is in a hospital in Sarasota, Florida, in a coma. The authorities think he murdered two men from Mexico, and if he survives, he will be charged.”

  “How did this come to pass?” asked Arguilles, his voice low, concern for a friend echoing from his words.

  I told him the story of how I found the men and that someone was now trying to kill me. “We’re backtracking, Senor Arguilles,” I said “We’re trying to find out who wants me dead and why. I hope you can help us.”

  Arguilles said, “I am sorry for Pepe’s troubles, and for yours, my new friend. I have known Pepe all his life, and I do not believe he would have murdered anyone.”

  The old man smiled. “I also don’t know of anyone who would want you dead, Senor Royal,” he said.

  I was not reassured. “Can you tell me how you get your people into the States?” I asked.

  “I do not really know,” said Arguilles. “I send them on a bus to Veracruz, and my partners take over from there. I assume they go by sea to Florida, but that may not be true.”

  “That appears to be a pretty loose arrangement,” Jock said.

  “It is,” said Arguilles. “I am only the local contact. I spent many years in Houston, and the people here know I can get them to America. I get paid a small amount for everyone I send to Veracruz, but I really do it more as a public service.”

  “How does that work?” I asked.

  Emilio spoke up. “Senor Arguilles, we wouldn’t be so blunt with our questions if it weren’t so important. The man who Pepe works for doesn’t think he did this, and he has hired a lawyer to help him. If we can find out who’s trying to kill Matt, we may be able to help Pepe, too.”

  “I understand,” said Arguilles. “I will tell you what I know, and then I must go to Pepe’s mother and try to explain this to her. I will tell her that some good men from Florida are trying to help Pepe.”

  He explained that his “clients,” as he called them, were sent by chartered bus across Mexico to the port city of Veracruz in the state of Veracruz-Llave, southeast of Mexico City. They were met by his partner, a man named Julio Mendez, who would then have them escorted into the U.S.

  Arguilles told us that we could find his partner by leaving word in a café near the waterfront in Veracruz, but he knew nothing more than that. He’d never been to Veracruz and the only contacts he’d ever had with Mendez were by phone. After Arguilles sent a busload of people to Veracruz, he’d receive his payment at the InterMex office in Tlapa.

  We finished our coffee, shook hands all around, and took our leave. We drove back up the mountain to Emilio’s rented house. The sun was setting behind the rugged hills, painting the world in a golden glow. The temperature would drop as the sun disappeared, and the night would require no air conditioner for sleep.

  We decided that we’d have to drive to Veracruz. Emilio was finished in the Tlapa area, and he’d use the satellite phone to tell his boss he was going to drive Jock and me. He’d turn the car into the consulate there and catch a flight back to Washington.

  We had dinner in a small cantina in the village. There was Mexican beer to drink and one item on the menu, a chicken based stew spiced with peppers. The beer was cold and the food was delicious.

  37

  Murder Key

  FOURTEEN

  We were up at daybreak, and after a breakfast of pastries and coffee, I stashed our luggage and a duffel bag with four assault rifles and ammunition in the trunk in the front of the bug. Emilio pointed the VW east. Jock was in the passenger seat and I was crammed in the back. We’d alternate during the day, but neither of us wanted to drive the mountain roads to Veracruz. Emilio was used to them.

  We came down the mountain into Tlapa and then started climbing again. The little engine strained a bit on the steep incline, but it never faltered.

  After crossing into the valley of the Rio Santo Domingo the road began to climb again. It was one lane for many miles, with switchbacks taking us up and down mountains. Sometimes we were on a ridge with sheer drop-offs on either side of the road. There were no guard rails, and clouds appeared below us, blanketing the high valleys. Emilio told us that the locals were called “cloud people.” It was easy to see why. For most of the year, the inhabitants of these mountains would look down to see the clouds.

  The drive took us through small villages peopled by Indians. Many of the women wore huipils, the long woven red dresses indigenous to the area. Each village had a small church, some dating back to the sixteenth century, and an open-air market where food and dry goods were bought and
sold. These were hardscrabble places, where the men plowed the fields and grew vegetables to eke out a poor living.

  Occasionally, a paved two lane road would appear. We’d make good time for a while, but then just as suddenly, find ourselves back on the one-lane roads, moving at less than twenty-five miles per hour.

  We passed the town of Haujaupan de Leon and the roads got better. They were still narrow and curvy, but not as treacherous. By noon, we were in Tehuacan, and stopped for lunch in a small café.

  When we’d finished our meal and used the restroom, we turned onto a four-lane toll road that spanned the eighty miles from Tehuacan to Veracruz. We made it before two o’clock.

  * * * * *

  Jock rented a room in a small hotel, using one of his bogus passports. Emilio and I would sneak in later and sleep on the floor, if necessary. We didn’t want anyone to know we were in Veracruz.

  We met at a little cantina near the hotel. It was early afternoon, and the place was cooled only by circulating ceiling fans. The smell of old cigarette smoke pervaded the air. There was a bar down one side of the room and three tables scattered across a wooden floor whose boards were warped from years of spilled beer. We took a table, and Emilio ordered a beer for each of us.

  Emilio said, “I called the café Arguilles told us about and told the owner I’d like to meet with Senor Mendez. He’ll be there at four this afternoon. I was told he’s a big man with tattoos on his arms. He’ll be sitting at an outdoor table.”

  Jock shook his head. “I want to be covered on this meeting.”

  “I know that area,” said Emilio. “I can get in place on a roof across the street from the café. If push comes to shove, I should have a clear field of fire.”

  “Okay,” said Jock. “Matt and I’ll take our pistols. That should give us enough firepower if we need it.”

  Emilio nodded. “I’ve also got back-up from the local DEA office,” he said. “They’ve got a detachment here working with the Mexican police. They’ll be in the area watching for trouble.”

  We finished our beers, and Jock drove through town to the waterfront. We parked in front of a small office building, where Emilio knew he could get access to the roof. He was wearing a long coat with his rifle tucked under it. I’d voiced concern that he would be conspicuous on a hot day with a long coat, but Emilio assured me that Mexicans were tolerant of those they considered a bit odd.

  Jock and I walked around the block to the café. It was a small place with tables on the sidewalk. It sat across the street from the back of the building into which Emilio had disappeared. We were both wearing light windbreakers over golf shirts, our nines holstered under the jackets.

  Julio Mendez was about forty and built like a pro linebacker. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt over jeans. His forearms, rested on the table like ham hocks, tattoos etched into his hide. He had dark hair, worn in a buzz cut that made him at first glance appear to be bald. He was the only person sitting at a sidewalk table.

  “Senor Mendez,” I said, “may we join you?”

  “Of course,” he said in heavily accented English. “Please, sit down.”

  Jock and I sat. “My name is Matt Royal,” I said, “and this is my friend John Smith.”

  Jock nodded, saying nothing.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” asked Mendez.

  “I’m from Sarasota, Florida,” I said, “and somebody is trying to kill me.”

  “Why is this any concern of mine?”

  “Because, I think it’s related to some other murders on Longboat Key. The police think a man named Pepe Zaragoza is the murderer. He’s from Tlapa. We think the two dead men are illegals from Tlapa. Your partner Sergio Arguilles thought you might have some idea about why the men from Tlapa were killed. That may help me figure out who’s trying to kill me.”

  Mendez rose from the table. “I must make a phone call, and then I will tell you what I know.” He left us.

  “I don’t like this,” said Jock, offering a big smile to anyone who might be watching. “Get your nine out and hold it under the table.”

  I did, resting the pistol on my lap.

  In a few moments, Mendez returned. “An associate of mine will join us,” he said. “I think he can tell you what you want to know.”

  I began to relax a little, but kept the pistol ready. We talked briefly about the beauty of the city of Veracruz, and Mendez told us he had once visited Sarasota and liked it.

  Suddenly, I felt another presence near the table. I looked up into the weasel eyes of the shooter from Tiny’s. He quickly sat in the chair opposite me, leaving Jock directly opposite Mendez.

  The shooter grinned. “So, Mr. Royal, we meet again.” He rested his right arm on the table. It was swathed from finger tips to elbow in a plaster cast. “I can shoot with my left hand, and it is holding a gun under the table pointed at your balls.”

  “Is this really necessary?” asked Jock, sounding as calm as if he were discussing the weather.

  “Jefe,” the shooter said, “should I kill them?”

  “Not yet,” said Mendez. “We do not want to bloody up my favorite table.” He laughed, snorting at his feeble joke.

  Suddenly, a red dot appeared on Mendez’s chest. Jock looked at the shooter, “See that pretty dot on your Jefe’s chest? Know what that is?”

  “The sun?” growled the shooter, but without any juice behind it.

  “Nope” said Jock, “That’s a laser dot from a sniper scope attached to an M-14 srifle. If you even twitch you can kiss el jefe’s ass goodbye. He’ll be dead before he hears the shot.”

  “That is bullshit,” said the shooter.

  “No, Diaz!” Mendez shouted in English. “I know about this scope. Do not twitch, for God’s sake.”

  Jock turned to the shooter, a cold smile splitting his face. “I think what we have here is a Mexican standoff. Bring your weapon up, just one finger in the trigger guard and put it on the table.”

  The shooter didn’t move. “Jefe?” he said, his voice soft.

  “Do as he says,” Mendez said. “Now!”

  Diaz began raising his left arm from under the table, bringing his gun to the table top.

  “Kill them,” shouted Mendez in Spanish as he kicked his chair over backward. Even I understood that much of the language, and was beginning to react when I heard the crack of Emilio’s rifle.

  If you’ve ever heard a rifle bullet whiz close by your head, you’re not likely to forget it. I knew immediately what was happening when the slug from Emilio’s rifle caught Mendez in the throat as he was going over backward.

  At the same instant Jock reached across the table and clamped down on the shooter’s arm, effectively welding it to the table top. I pulled my pistol from my lap and aimed it at the shooter’s face. “Be cool,” Jock said, “and you might not die today.”

  A black SUV pulled to the curb, and the rear door on our side opened. Jock was pulling the shooter by the arm toward the vehicle. “Come on, Matt,” he said. “They’re friendlies.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I grabbed Diaz by his other arm, and we hustled him into the back of the SUV. The driver showered down on the gas pedal, and burning rubber got us the hell out of there.

  The passenger in the front turned and handed Jock a pair of handcuffs. “Put these on him.”

  It took me a minute to realize that the passenger was Rufus Harris, the DEA agent we had met in the U.S. Attorney’s office in Orlando. He grinned at me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.”

  I laughed at the lame joke, relief at seeing a friendly face coursing through my brain. “Geez, Harris, what’s going on?”

  “I was in town looking into the Mexican end of a drug smuggling ring. Emilio’s agency contacted us for help.”

  Harris turned to Jock, “You’re not really just a civilian, are you Jock?” he said.

  “Not really,” said Jock,
who had finished cuffing the shooter.

  “What now?” I asked.

  Harris reached into a gym bag on his lap. “We’re going to a safe house. Put this bag over shit-for-brains’ head,” he said.

  He handed me a large pillow case. Diaz was quiet, resigned, as I covered his head.

  The big SUV rumbled over the cobblestone streets and turned onto a paved thoroughfare, picking up speed. We headed out of town, going west away from the waterfront. The driver was making good time, but staying within the speed limit.

  I said, “Where are we going, Rufus?”

  “The Mexican police are going to be out in force very soon,” said Harris. “We’ve got to get out of town and ditch this truck.”

  I thought he was right. The local cops would probably not take kindly to one of their citizens being shot through the throat on a quiet street in the middle of the afternoon.

  37

  Murder Key

  FIFTEEN

  The house was little more than a hut, one of many gracing the side of a public dump on the outskirts of Veracruz. It seemed to have been constructed of plywood and covered over with tar paper. The door, oddly enough, was made of some kind of metal, steel perhaps.

  As we entered, I noticed that the plywood was covering concrete block walls. Somebody had gone to considerable lengths to make this place look like all the other shacks surrounding the dump. But it wasn’t. There was running water and electricity. The steel door was bolted into the blocks. The windows had shutters that were also of steel, and could be closed to turn the hut into a veritable fortress.

  “What is this place?” I asked, as we entered.

  “It’s a DEA safe house,” said Harris. “It’s humble, but it’s home. We ran sewer and electricity underground, so it looks just like all the other shacks around here.”

  Jock had pushed our guest of honor into a straight back chair resting against one wall of the room. He pulled a rope out of the gym bag Harris had provided and tied Diaz to the chair.