by Howard Upton
Buddy looked up to see all of the folks staring at him and laughing.
“What the hell are y’all looking at? This is good goddam music,” he growled loudly. “Y’all should learn to appreciate it, you bunch of young punks.”
The onlookers looked away, a couple shaking their heads and still laughing.
“Fuckers,” Buddy muttered to himself. “They don’t know good music when they hear it.”
He shut down his iTunes, glanced around the room and reopened the bulletin board he had looked at earlier. After re-reading the message, he cleared it before closing it down. He snapped the laptop shut and sat at the table for a few minutes before walking over to the snack counter and ordering his favorite Frappuccino. My buddies think this shit is for pussies, but dammit, it just tastes good. He smiled at the pimple faced cashier as he handed her a five dollar bill, and soon was sipping what he imagined heaven must taste like. As he walked out the door he gave the music lovers one last nasty look.
Saltillo, Mexico
July 17, 2013 7:06 A.M.
Rafael lay on his bed sipping coffee he’d made fifteen minutes earlier. He stared into the painted fire cast coffee cup that belonged to the hotel. Steam rolled from the top of the cup in small wisps that made their way to his nose. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma of the strong, black rainforest blend. His reflection stared back at him, his eyes as dark as the coffee he gazed into and as blank as the white walls of his room.
He took another sip, savoring the bold flavor, letting it sit on his tongue for a second before swallowing it. Being this close to the United States, the coffee was considerably better than that found in most of the other states of Mexico. He had experienced coffee like this in Acapulco and his home state of Quintano Roo. Ironically, both of these areas had many Americans frequenting them year round, which explained why the best coffee was in those areas. Money buys blissfulness.
After his phone call with Haden, he changed hotels to one on the other side of town. He had not eaten dinner the night before, but his stomach wasn’t screaming at him for breakfast. His mind only casually reflected on this fact then drifted to his pants draped across the chair pushed against the desk in his room.
Rafael swore he could hear the cartouche’s vibration. He had felt it pulsing in his pocket last night like it was trying to convey some message through the old form of Morse code. Although he would not swear to it, something tickled his mind making him think he could almost understand some of the message. The vibration was almost vocal, almost human, and thrummed in an archaic language he couldn’t put his finger on, but he felt like he simply...understood.
He threw the sheet off his legs and stood staring at himself in the mirror. His arms and legs were noticeably thinner and veiny in appearance. Probably, he thought to himself, due to all the stress he had been under the past few days. He could see a few of his ribs straining against his skin.
Rafael walked to the desk and fished the cartouche out of his pants pocket. He held it between his left index finger and thumb, examining the strange pictographs that were raised against the silver background. The markings were both foreign and familiar to him. He knew nothing of this type of jewelry, and very little of the Mayan culture that had inhabited his homeland in the Yucatan Peninsula, Southern Mexico and Guatemala.
The cartouche fell into his palm like it had a life of its own, and Rafael’s eyes caressed the back of it. Its cold smoothness devoid of interesting markings like the front, but it was all part of everything that made the jewel what it was. His fingers closed around it and he pressed it into his skin. Without hesitation the thrumming began and Rafael’s eyes glazed over like a heroin addict getting his fix.
The thrumming escalated and a series of vibratory sounds etched themselves into words Rafael could hear in his mind: thrum... thrum... hua... thrum...shi. The two words made no sense to him, yet he didn’t question their veracity or meaning. This feeling of spiritual duplicity passed over him like a soothing, warm bath on a baby’s skin. He felt complete, total and without need. And mostly, he felt connected like he had never felt connected to anything before in his miserable life. Something was being revealed to him, but it would be revealed in its own time and not a second before, of this, Rafael was certain and did not question.
The thrumming and vibration stopped and suddenly Rafael was exhausted and confused. Am I losing my mind? I’m hearing things I don’t understand. What is it about this...jewel... that seems to have a hold on me?
Sweat glistened over the entirety of his body as he stood on trembling legs. He replaced the cartouche in his pants pocket with a shaky hand and staggered back to his bed, falling on top of the dusty bedspread. His eyes closed and he found sleep almost immediately.
Mexico City, Mexico
July 17, 2013 7:13 A.M.
Roper walked to the window overlooking the city. The sky was a magnificent blue and the mountains stood proudly as the morning sun shone on them. The heat had not yet begun waving from the red-brown dirt so prevalent in the region. He sipped some freshly squeezed orange juice he bought earlier at the hotel restaurant and thought about his next steps. Finding out the identity of the thief was one part of the equation, tracking him another, and getting to him before he made the drop with Dugan, if he hadn’t already, was the biggest problem he faced.
He hopped on the elevator and rode it to the lobby. The dark marble floors glistened in the morning light, almost to the point of blinding people walking through the area. The business center had four computers, two of which were open. Roper sat in a chair, opened the browser and performed a search for major airports in Mexico. Immediately, a list of over eighteen hundred airports were on his screen, but he quickly eliminated the municipal airports since the international sites were what interested him. He was certain that Dugan would fly to Mexico, rather than risking his asset leaving the country.
Roper quickly ruled out Mexico City, knowing that any good thief worth his weight wouldn’t stick around an area while it was still hot. He didn’t feel like Acapulco or Cancun were viable transfer points simply because security was much tighter in tourist areas where Americans, Europeans and Asians spent tons of money. The next primary international airport was in Monterrey, some 900 kilometers north of Mexico City.
His gut told him this was the drop site, and that his target was probably in or near the metropolitan area of Monterrey. It just made sense. Dugan would be close enough to the border to bug out in a vehicle if something went wrong, and certainly close enough to the Houston airports to be airborne for a short time. Yes, he was convinced this was the area where the target would pass the cartouche to Dugan, but now the hard part: how to track and find his target before he gave the jewel away. Buddy was going to have to provide some additional help, of that he was sure.
He cleared the internet browser and headed back to his room to call him and find out whether or not he had been able to identify their subject. The door closed behind him, and he folded the security latch over the metal bulb mounted to the door to prevent housekeeping or other unwanted guests from barging in.
Roper put the battery in his phone and turned it on; one could never be too cautious with regard to personal security and tracking. He flipped it open and dialed Buddy’s secure satellite phone, listening to the rings that somehow always sounded hollow when dialing internationally.
“Young Buck, how goes everything down yonder?” asked Buddy as soon as he picked up.
“Progress, but I need to know if you’ve ID’d our boy yet. I’m at a standstill until I get a name. This is a big ass country with a lot of Mexicans in it, so I need a little help.”
Buddy chuckled. “Yeah, I reckon Mexico does have a lot of Mexicans in it. Who’d a thought that? I should be hearing back from my contact shortly. Check the board in a couple of hours, okay?”
Roper responded, “Yep. Got something else I need some help with too.”
“Whatcha got, young ‘un? I hired you to do a job and I’m doing a
ll the damned work. You’re probably laid up with some señorita right now anyway,” Buddy joked.
“I wish,” Roper chuckled before continuing. “I need you to search all incoming flight travel records from the U.S. to Monterrey since the tenth. Also, see if any reservations have been made from the States to Monterrey for the next couple of weeks. Eliminate Hispanic names, that should narrow down the search. Just focus on folks with U.S. passports first.”
“Okay, I can do that. Any particular reason I’m hunting for folks flying into an airport that’s such a long distance from Mexico City?” Buddy asked.
“It’s a hunch, but a good one. My gut tells me your friend from the States has chosen Monterrey as the drop point. If you can get this intel for me today, that’ll save us a lot of pain and potential searching later on, if you get my drift,” Roper replied.
“I’m on it. Check that board like I told you, but give me a little longer. I’ll see if I can group all this information to save you some time and travel to find a computer without a bunch of eyes looking over your ass end.”
“Indeed, you are a poet, Buddy. I don’t know how you keep all the girls from hanging on you,” said Roper.
“It ain’t easy,” he replied.
New York City, New York, USA
July 17, 2013 7:21 A.M.
Dugan walked to Columbus Circle then down a flight of stairs to the subway station. It was hot down below, the air still and it smelled of dankness and human sweat. Locals and tourists hustled, bustled and bumped into each other, never uttering an “excuse me,” “pardon me,” or “kiss my ass.” Locals wore rudeness like a badge of honor in the Big Apple, and tourists walked around like they were as equally hardened as the people who spent a lifetime defending turf, pride and family.
He pushed his way through the turnstile using his pre-paid metro card and walked to the blue ACE line that would transport him downtown. Dugan could smell everything that was wrong with the city, as it had gotten hotter and mustier the further he walked. In the distance a subway musician, one who made a living playing and singing music in the train stations, was belting out Stand By Me. He was playing an acoustic guitar and singing the song like it was something he was born doing. His pitch was perfect and in tune. Dugan sometimes wondered how talent like that had never been discovered. Probably a drunken bastard, he thought.
While he stood waiting on the train, a homeless man sauntered up to him and asked for some change.
“Get the hell away from me you nasty son-of-a-bitch,” Dugan told the older man.
“Ain’t no need to be an asshole,” the man responded.
Dugan’s hardened eyes met the homeless man’s and for an instant, the street bum peered inside Dugan; what he saw frightened him. He saw pure evil, hatred and greed. What he didn’t see was a soul, and that’s what scared him the most. He held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.
“Okay man. I don’t want no problem. No problem...don’t want any,” he stammered.
Dugan continued to glower at the old man as he moved quickly away from him. Not lost on Dugan was the fact he now stood alone on the subway platform, others around him could sense the danger and unconsciously had moved away from him.
He heard the train approach and everyone instinctively took a step back from the yellow line, the barrier separating the last twelve inches of the platform and the train. It squealed to a stop on the massive steel rails, and simultaneously the doors opened on the numerous cars. Those whose stop was Columbus Circle or those changing trains to go in another direction, exited. Dugan stepped onto the train and sat down in an empty seat close to the door. The lady seated next to him leaned away unconsciously in an attempt to keep her spirit from being tainted.
The train rolled down the tracks as commuters and tourists got off and others got on at each stop, the train itself continuing its southward pass to what New Yorkers call the “downtown” area of the island. At each stop Dugan remained seated, and at each stop people seemed to shy away from him, not because of his look, but because of his presence.
As the train slowed down at the Canal Street stop, he rose, holding onto a pole for balance. Other passengers looked down at their feet like they had misplaced something atop their shoes, refusing to make eye contact with him. Dugan smirked at his own presumed self-importance.
He exited the train, walked onto the platform, through the turnstile and up the stairs to the sound of sirens and honking horns. Crowds of tourists ambled about in New York’s Chinatown, a city and economy all its own. The streets stank of raw seafood stands, open sewers and garbage.
Dugan stepped onto the crowded sidewalk and turned east. He watched as thousands of people crowded into small stores, restaurants and fish markets. Street vendors offered him everything from fake Rolex watches to designer purses to bootleg DVD’s of movies released in the last week. Ignoring each of them, he pushed through to the next intersection, stopping long enough to allow an oncoming car to pass.
He made his way to Mott Street, crossed over Canal and walked south. A little over a block later he found what he was seeking and walked into the small Chinatown Community Buddhist Temple. Seating was readily available at this time of morning with only two women and one other man sitting separately in the pews. The strong smell of lavender incense permeated the room while the golden Buddha statue looked out over the parishioners, silently preaching a homily of peace and compassion. Dugan paid little notice to the statue of a now dead man whose very life and existence had been deified. He shook his head at the lunacy of man.
A frail Chinese gentleman dressed in the robes of a Mahayana priest walked into the room and faced the statue of the Buddha. Both hands came together in the traditional pose of supplication and thanks as he bowed deeply, his rosary beads swaying as he did so. He silently asked for blessings on his humble temple before turning and walking to Dugan.
“Mr. Dugan, it is nice to see you again. I pray that your health is good and your life complete,” he said respectfully to his guest.
“Thank you, venerable reverend. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice,” Dugan replied uncharacteristically polite.
“What brings you back to our humble temple, Mr. Dugan? The last time you were here you asked many questions of our Chinese culture and history, but nothing of the Buddha and his teachings. Do you wish to explore our cumulative human life, suffering and ultimate death and how we can try to make one another happy in a world filled with so much misery?” the priest asked, seriousness in both tone and posture.
Dugan lowered his voice and tilted his head toward the elderly Chinaman. He had spent a lot of time at the little temple, in this dirty part of the city, befriending the old holy man. After learning that Reverend Loi was the most knowledgeable man in Manhattan on Chinese lore, history, and ancient medicine, he sought him out hoping to glean useful information.
“No, Lao Shi,” Dugan replied using the formal title for teacher, “what I’m interested in learning about are incantations and magic used in your culture and country. I realize this request may seem strange coming from a white American, but my interest is purely academic. I would like to pen an article about the mysteries of China, both ancient and current.”
He hoped his story sounded real and convincing. The inordinate amount of time he had spent researching spells and magic used in ancient China had led him down winding paths of confusion and chaos. America was a couple hundred years old. China, on the other hand, was steeped in thousands of years of history, and a non-Chinese would find it extremely difficult to wade through centuries of documentation to find what he or she needed.
“I’m happy that you’ve taken such an interest in my home country, Mr. Dugan. However, this is a most strange request. When you ask about magic and incantations, I think it is important to understand that much of Chinese medicine is based upon sound mathematical calculations, as well as the use of astrology and the meridians and chakras of the human body. The Chinese believe in the power of the m
ind, the will, nature and the elements. Each of these can be used for healing, but with each of these things can also come destruction or what non-Chinese would refer to as ‘evil.’ Do you understand?”
He thought about the question for a moment before responding. “I think I have an idea of what you’re saying, but perhaps you could elaborate?”
“Some of the ancients believed in healing and destructive powers that moved through the body. This is the concept of chi. All living beings have chi, but only a few know how to harness it and use it. You have heard of the Japanese method of healing called ‘Reiki,’ yes?”
Dugan answered the old man, “Yes, Lao Shi. I’ve heard of Reiki and its practitioners that can magically heal another person’s sickness by holding their hands over the person’s body. Supposedly, the heat generated helps the person receiving the treatment feel better or mysteriously heals them. Personally, I never believed in it.”
“That is fair enough, Mr. Dugan. The practice of Reiki is a new concept developed in Japan in only the twentieth century. However, its founder, Mr. Usui, studied for many years in China. He claims to have climbed a mountain in Japan and, while there he fasted, eventually being given the teachings of Reiki. The Japanese love their drama and mountain legends,” Loi chuckled, “but the reality is, he learned of the physical healing nature of chakra repair in China.”
“Okay,” said Dugan, “but what does this have to do with my question?”
Reverend Loi laughed quietly, “Americans and Europeans only see the surface of anything. You never look beyond the here and now, and that is why you are never happy. You see, Usui shifu learned the healing arts of China. Specifically, he studied the ancient tongue and focus of the masters, which allowed him to use his own spiritual energy to heal. Some would call this ‘magic,’ but to the learned Chinese it is the natural progression of life. It is the giving of oneself to help others heal. Now, do you understand?”
