Finnegan's Week (33 page)

Then they found themselves in a small open patio with a fountain in the center and a pepper tree in a tile planter off to one side. Double wooden doors with huge iron pulls separated them from the festive music inside.

Fin opened the door and Nell took a peek. A white-haired proprietor in a dark blue suit and a pale blue necktie said, “Welcome to Sombras. How many een your party?”

Nell turned to Fin, who said, “If they're not here, we've lost them anyway. Might as well go on in.”

Nell said to the proprietor, “Did a large man in a black leather jacket just come in with a small Mexican gentleman?”

“Yes,” the proprietor said. “They are een the back at Señor Soltero's table. Shall I take you there?”

“No, he's just a person I used to know,” Nell said. “We'd prefer a table in the front.”

“Very well,” the proprietor said. “Follow me, please.”

The restaurant seated about eighty people. There was a second fountain inside, constructed of multicolored Mexican tiles. All the tables were solid walnut, as were the chairs, high-backed with tasseled yellow seat cushions. The tables were covered with yellow tablecloths except for those where patrons were just having cocktails. Each table was lit by a huge candle inside an onion-shaped, emerald-colored glass bowl. Three guitar players strolled among the tables singing old favorites.

But the restaurant was not a quiet place to dine in that the bare floor was made of twelve-inch squares of tile with a patina and color of old saddle leather. The wiring inside the low ceiling was concealed by thin reeds lashed together, and lanterns dangled throughout, low enough to make tall men duck their heads.

The patrons, both Mexican and American, were not ordinary tourists, and all were very presentable, with the exception of Shelby Pate, who may as well have been wearing light bulbs.

The investigators spotted the truckers with three other men in a tiny alcove toward the rear of the room.

“We're okay here in front,” Bobbie said. “It's too dark for them to make us.”

Fin excused himself after saying to Nell, “Order me whatever you're having, and a Mexican beer.”

After he had gone to the rest room, Nell ordered three of the house special plates, consisting of a chile relleno, a tamale and a chicken taco.

The waitress was a stunning girl, perhaps eighteen years old, wearing an off-the-shoulder, lace-topped cotton blouse and a red full skirt. Her red shoes were fastened with ankle straps, suggesting that she probably doubled as a dancer.

“That order's safe enough for everyone,” Nell said.

“Don't worry about me,” Bobbie said. “I haven't had much Mexican food, but what I've had I really like. I'm experimental in everything.”

“You
must
be,” Nell said.

“Whaddaya mean by that?”

“Fin,” Nell said.

“Look, this is only the second time I've been with him!” Bobbie said.

“Me too,” said Nell.

“Really? I don't believe it.”

“Now whadda
you
mean by that?”

“It's easy to see you got feelings for him, big-time.”

“What?”

“One woman to another,” Bobbie said. “It's easy to see.”

“Me? Fin?”

“I don't blame you,” Bobbie said. “He's cute, and he's
so
nice. A real gentleman, in a way. I can see how you might feel. But honest, we're just friends, is all.”

Nell wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn't come out. This child was in-furiating! Calmly, she said, “Bobbie, I don't know what to say about that except that I would rather spend my life arranging flowers and pouring tea in a geisha house than be hooked up with that neurotic cop!”

“I know,” Bobbie said, sympathetically, “but we can't really follow our heads, can we? Not when our hearts're pulling us in another direction. Toing-and-froing, right? I know how it is, Nell.”

Nell didn't get a chance to respond in that Fin returned to the table just as the waitress brought the beer and margaritas. They were hand-shaken margaritas, not gringo slush.

“
Salud
, as they say in these parts,” Fin said, raising his beer bottle to each woman, with a lingering look at Bobbie.

The strolling guitar players came closer to their table, singing “Guadalajara.” When Bobbie turned to look at the musicians, Nell whispered to Fin, “Did you tell her about your very low sperm count?”

“Nell!” Fin said, shooting a quick glance at Bobbie, but she wasn't paying attention to them.

“And that you give blood regularly?”

“Nell, what's wrong with you?” Fin whispered. “She's a sweet kid!”

“They
all
are,” Nell said. “Sweet. When they're
kids
.”

Fin whispered, “Do you have some sort of …
problem
with her?”

Nell smiled, but only with her mouth, and said, “Not at all. It's very predictable.”

“What is?”

“Life is,” she said.

“My whole life's been a failed effort to please women!” Fin blurted to a strolling guitar player, who didn't understand a word. “Is this a smoke-free zone or can I just set fire to myself?”

They'd already had two drinks, yet nothing had been said about the money they were owed. Before they'd entered, Abel had tried to warn the ox not to be pushy by telling him that Mexicans were patient, and that Soltero had chosen an elegant restaurant, so he might be playing the gentleman. And that Soltero would talk about money only when he was good and ready.

But after his second double tequila, Shelby wanted action. He only had one more bindle of meth and was needing it. He slipped it out of his boot and put it in the pocket of his Grateful Dead T-shirt, then watched the guitar players and twitched.

One of Soltero's companions was the man who'd approached them in the Bongo Room. The other was short but very burly, with a mustache so long he could've used it for a chin strap. He had a deep scar on the side of his neck, and a piece of his left earlobe was missing. From time to time, Shelby glared at this scarred mustachioed Mexican, but the man kept his eyes on Soltero or on his drink.

Soltero wore a double-breasted suit of gray silk and a charcoal shirt buttoned at the throat, with no necktie. In fact, Abel thought he dressed a lot like their boss, Jules Temple, but he was several years older. Soltero's ponytail was pulled back more severely than Shelby's, and was gray-flecked.

Soltero asked dozens of questions, both in Spanish and English, about the business climate in San Diego, and the politics of the presidential election, and if Abel would be interested in hauling other loads from San Diego to Tijuana and sometimes in the other direction. His English was only slightly accented, and his hands gestured gracefully.

Just when Shelby thought Soltero was going to talk about money, he said, “And now it is time to eat.”

He had preordered two kilos of carnitas—marinated pork roasted on a spit. The waiter brought another large plate that held homemade flour tortillas wrapped inside a red tasseled napkin, a bowl heaped with cilantro and onion, and yet another brimming with guacamole. Finally, a bowl of homemade salsa arrived.

“I believe our American guest will not be disappointed,” Soltero said, smiling at Shelby. “The salsa is made special for me.”

The food looked, smelled, and tasted delicious. Abel bolted it down, but when Shelby was on a methamphetamine rampage like this, he didn't want to wreck his edge. Shelby picked at his food, but drank two more tequilas. Then he got up and lurched toward the rest room to snort the last of his meth.

Fin said to the women, “Oh oh, Pate's heading for the John. The men's room's about as wide as a Cuban cigar, and he's listing to starboard. It'll be like docking the U.S.S.
Ranger
in a car wash. Listen for a collision.”

Bobbie said, “My twenty-fifteen eyesight tells me that if that guy with the slick suit and the ponytail doesn't like you, instant emigration is in order. What're we gonna do if they all leave together?”

Nell looked at Fin and said, “You're of the hunter-gatherer gender. Whadda we do?”

“I think we try to get their license number and call the Mexican state judicial police on Monday. That's all.”

“For what?” Nell asked.

“To ask if they'll search his house for shoes,” Fin said.

“Fat chance,” said Nell. “He probably has a brother or a nephew or a cousin
running
the state police. Or else he owns a few of them.”

“No matter what happens, I've really enjoyed this day,” Bobbie said. “It's the most fun I've ever had as a detective.” When she said it she put her hand on Fin's forearm, as was her habit by now.

“I've had a great time too,” Fin said softly. “You're as good a partner as I've ever had. You're a smart little detective.”

Nell mumbled, “Me, I'm so dumb I better run home and memorize the encyclopedia. Well, maybe just A through G tonight.”

When Nell turned toward the singers, Bobbie whispered to Fin, “She has an
attitude
.”

Fin whispered back, “It's her
age
. They're all about as easy to understand as black holes in the galaxy, light-years away.”

When Shelby got back from the rest room, he was barely able to sit in his chair. He'd done the last of the meth and was turbocharged and getting paranoid. He kept looking from one to the other. The little Mexican glanced at him with amused detachment. The burly one with the Zapata mustache continued to watch Soltero as though Abel and Shelby weren't even there. He'd nursed a beer for an hour, but had eaten more than his share of carnitas.

Abel peeked at his watch more than once, but Soltero was in no hurry at all. The tequila and salsa heated them up and Soltero unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt.

Shelby's body temperature had shot up like a Patriot missile, but he didn't seem to notice the flow of sweat. He was too busy fiddling with the fork, folding and unfolding the napkin, looking from one man to the other, checking inside his boot for meth that wasn't there anymore. If there'd been a television in the place, he'd have taken it apart and put it back together by now.

When the coffee was served, Shelby ordered what would be his final tequila of the evening. Abel had given up counting, but was certain that the ox's tequila intake could only be measured by the liter. Moreover, Shelby was blinking so hard you could almost hear it. That was when the mariachis appeared.

There were seven of them in black waistcoats, black trousers, red string ties: two trumpets, two violins, two guitars and one bass guitar. They did not play the traditional mariachi tunes that American tourists loved. Instead, they began by playing an old Mexican piece.

The music had a haunting quality; Fin thought so at once. So did Bobbie. They put down their coffee cups and listened. The restaurant din quieted and the crowd became subdued.

Bobbie said, “There's a sadness about that.”

Nell said, “I've heard it before. It's about death, I think. No, wait. It's about a lost soul.”

Soltero smiled at Shelby Pate, who had suddenly become enraptured by the music. All the mariachis were facing the far side of the room where there was a dark alcove near the kitchen. They played and seemed to be looking for something in the darkness. And then from that black alcove came the answering sound of a muted trumpet. And a small boy, attired in the same costume as the men, stepped into a little blue spotlight.

The proprietor came to the table when Nell signaled, and he said, “Yes, señora, you have a question?”

“What's the name of this piece?” she asked. “I can't remember.”

“Ah!” he said. “Ees beautiful, no? Ees called ‘Niño Perdido.'”

Soltero leaned over the table when Shelby Pate asked, “Why's that kid all alone over there in the dark?”

Soltero whispered, “The music is called ‘The Lost Child.' You see, the boy is trying to answer the other trumpet voice that calls for him.”

As the music played, the little trumpeter moved slowly through the darkness, toward the other trumpet's call, followed by the blue spotlight. The Lost Child
wanted
to be found, but could not find his way. The muted sound of his trumpet would sometimes grow faint as he moved in the wrong direction, away from the searchers.

Suddenly, Shelby Pate shouted, “Gud-damnit! Why don't somebody jist go
git
him? He wants to come home! He wants his momma!”

Heads jerked toward Shelby Pate. Diners were stunned. Even the burly man with the Zapata mustache turned to gape.

Abel said, “Eet ees only music, Buey!”

But Shelby Pate stood up and knocked the heavy walnut chair crashing to the tile floor. Everyone in the restaurant turned toward him. Some diners stood to see what was happening, but it was so dark now they could only see a towering shadow figure inside the alcove.

“He's movin away!” Shelby cried. “They gotta
git
him! They gotta show him the way home to his momma!”

The proprietor ran toward the disturbance, but the mariachis kept playing. The lead trumpet kept calling for The Lost Child, but The Lost Child was wandering, and his trumpet grew more muted.

The proprietor stepped into the alcove and said, “Señor Soltero!
Por favor
!” Then he put his hand on Shelby's arm and said, “Please, sir, you are frightening everyone!”

But Shelby looked at him with eyes full of terror and grief, and said, “He came home for the Day of the Dead! Don't you git it?”

The burly man with the Zapata mustache got a nod from Soltero, and for the first time that evening he spoke in English.

He said to Shelby, “Joo dreenk too much,
amigo
! Le's go out to the fresh air!”

Shelby shoved him so hard he took the platter of carnitas with him crashing onto the floor.