Greasing the Piñata (26 page)
Night brought a change in the weather.
Clouds scudded across the sky and rain slanted sideways by the time Cape and Sally left the hotel. The man behind the front desk reminded them it was hurricane season.
Wind buffeted their rental car as they drove east toward Bagdad Beach. The windshield wipers seemed to get weaker with every mile. Between the rocking and the lashing of the storm it felt like being at sea.
The house stood out like a third nipple in a topless bar. It was the only permanent structure on a bluff overlooking the ocean. From the road it looked like a bunker, low and immovable. They drove past from both directions, then parked half a mile down the road near a footpath that led to the beach.
They were soaked before their feet touched sand. Whitecaps danced all the way to the horizon as waves crashed onto the shore. The waves got bigger as they moved further up the beach.
“This sucks.”
Cape leaned into the wind. His hair was plastered against his forehead. Sally’s ponytail streamed behind her like a kite.
From this angle it was clearly a castle. The beach narrowed until it disappeared into a rock wall that sloped outward ten degrees and up three stories until it morphed into the foundation of Cordon’s fortress. At the base of the cliff was a small tide pool with jagged rocks around the edges. The sand reappeared a short distance beyond the pool, as if Cordon’s presence had put a chokehold on the beach.
The castle would cast a long shadow on a sunny day. Cape wondered if anyone ever dared explore the tide pool.
Lights were on in every window, and there were a lot of them. Even from three stories down the glass looked heavy, patterned with lead and set deep into the stone walls. The roof was flat with crenellations, stone diamonds on all sides jutting into the sky like spears.
Cape raised the binoculars but couldn’t see a thing. The windows were too high and the rain ran down the lenses faster than he could clean them. Water was dripping into his eyes, down his neck and into his jacket.
“We could come back tomorrow.” He had to raise his voice over the wind.
Sally patted her clothes to check that everything was where it belonged. Rain dripped off her nose in a miniature waterfall.
Cape went through his pockets and started dumping things onto the sand. The binoculars were useless, so was the night vision scope. The receipt from the gift shop wasn’t going to stop a bullet, either. He adjusted his handgun on his hip and switched his pocketknife to his jeans.
“You know they’ll search you.” Sally ran both hands over her ponytail and squeezed. A torrent of water spilled onto the sand.
“I’m counting on it. If they find some things to confiscate, maybe they’ll overlook some other things.”
“In places they’re less inclined to search.”
“Yeah.”
“That reminds me.” Sally held out her hand.
“What?”
“Give me your balls.”
Cape took a step back. “You’re not the first woman to try and take them.”
“Yeah, but I might be the first to give them back.”
“How about I give you one and I keep one.”
“Deal.”
Cape unzipped his fly and rummaged around.
Sally rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. “Having trouble finding it?”
“Shut up.” Cape found what he was looking for and pulled. He winced as the duct tape tore hairs off his thigh. He took the sonic disruptor and placed it in Sally’s upraised palm. “Careful, you don’t know where it’s been.”
Sally turned it over in her hand. “I push this button?”
“Twice—make sure you push it twice.”
Sally tugged on her ears to make sure the filters were still in place. Cape did the same and felt water spill down his wrists.
“Ready to walk back to the car?”
“I’m not coming.”
Cape stopped in mid-stride. Sally was looking at the windows. He followed her line of sight up the broken wall of rock.
“We’re in the middle of a hurricane.”
Sally turned to face him. “I don’t like doors—especially front doors.”
She had a point. An image of the methane refinery flashed into Cape’s brain and he reflexively started counting to himself in Spanish. He held her gaze for a long time, then turned his eyes toward the open ocean. Fifteen-foot swells were crashing onto the beach. The water was gray flecked with white, turning black at the edge of the horizon. The storm was getting worse.
“See you inside.”
Sally nodded but didn’t smile.
“Not if I see you first.”
Cape wiped water from his eyes and knocked on the front door.
The door had a small window cut into it—a little hinged door-within-a-door set at eye level.
The eye that looked out was clearly not happy to see Cape.
“
¿Qué usted desean gringo?
”
Cape didn’t catch the meaning but there was no mistaking the tone. He pressed two photographs through the hatch, which slammed immediately. A second later he heard the voice through the door.
“
¡Chingate!
”
Footsteps. Silence. Cape stood in the rain and counted the seconds. The front yard was a cleared patch of ground, recently raked but soggy, puddles interspersed with mounds of sand.
The door opened. The man who greeted Cape had different eyes from the one that had glared at him.
“Señor Weathers, what a nice surprise.” The man tilted his head foreword in a mock bow. “I am Enrique—I work for Luis Cordon.”
“How’s the benefits package?”
“Won’t you come in?” Enrique looked past him into the storm as he held the door.
Cape walked into a human wall. He looked up and came shy of the face. Tilted his neck back as far as it would go and landed on a face that even its mother would disown.
The giant’s long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, streaked with gray. The face was as craggy as the cliffs outside, the nose lacking cartilage, broad cheeks criss-crossed with hundreds of tiny white scars. Cape wondered how many knife fights you had to lose to get a face like that.
The Incredible Hulk opened his mouth and Cape unconsciously took a step back, bumping into Enrique. The man in front of him had no tongue. A jagged stump flicking back and forth suggested he wasn’t born that way. He smiled with malice in his eyes and revealed teeth big enough to be found inside a horse’s mouth. On the biggest one, right in the front, a golden skull was embedded in the enamel.
“Meet Julio.” The voice in Cape’s ear was meant to be soothing—Enrique was the perfect host. “He cannot say
hola
himself, as you can see.”
Julio gargled at Cape and pushed him against the wall.
Cape spread his arms out from his sides and let Julio paw him from his ankles to his ears. He grabbed Cape’s belt and tugged at his pants but didn’t go anywhere near his ball. He didn’t touch his balls, either.
When he found the gun Julio gagged and spat, shoving Cape into the wall again. The gun looked like a toy in Julio’s hand, which looked big enough to palm a basketball player palming a basketball.
“You were expecting trouble,
señor
?” Enrique’s tone was mild.
“I’m in Mexico.” Cape shrugged. “Anything can happen here.”
“So true.”
Julio found the knife and Cape bounced off the wall like a well-behaved guest.
“Any other surprises?”
“I forgot to bring wine.”
“We have a cellar.” Enrique nodded at Julio, who took up position behind them. “Come this way.”
The hallway was a cross between a museum of natural history and an aquarium. Cape peered into the tanks set into the wall as they moved deeper into the castle. Spiders, scorpions, centipedes as long as his hand.
Brightly colored fish swimming contentedly between stalks of pastel coral were the exception.
They came to one tank lit by ultra-violet light that held a single fish. Razor-sharp teeth jutted from a distended jaw, two milky eyes bracketed a fleshy lure dangling in front of its mouth, brightly lit by its own bioluminescence. Scary enough to put in a Disney film for that mandatory moment of blinding terror that had shaped so many childhoods all over the world.
“Señor Cordon is a collector.” Enrique almost sounded apologetic.
“That’s why I’m here.” Cape extended his right hand, trying to feel if the stone was the real thing or a surface applied to a much thinner wall. “He has something that belongs to me.”
“The photographs you brought.”
“And something else.”
The hallway had begun to feel like a tunnel. It branched off at various intersections but they kept moving forward and down. Cape forced himself to take a deep breath.
“You must get claustrophobic working here.”
“What makes you say that?” Enrique had stopped walking. His eyes shone brightly.
Cape sensed the change in tone. He patted the walls gently. “These—they can feel a little close.”
Enrique breathed deeply through his nose and resumed walking. “We have almost reached the great room.”
The room was great indeed. The hallway-tunnel ran into a dogleg and Cape blinked from a sudden explosion of light. Twin chandeliers that might have once adorned a real castle hung from a heavy oak beam running the length of the room, which must have been forty feet long and thirty wide. To the right two huge windows faced the ocean. They were eight feet across and fifteen high, almost as tall as the ceilings. Cape heard the rain whipping against them but could barely see the streaks of water in the bright room. It was utterly black outside.
Directly across from him was a large rug leading to a desk. Dark wood, impossibly wide, with feet elaborately carved into talons. A second door to the room was in the wall behind the desk and to the left. Cape made a mental note and turned to his left.
A leather couch dominated this side of the room, surrounded by smaller chairs and tables. A globe with detailed markings over the bodies of water sat next to a side table piled high with books. Flanking the couch were two suits of armor with visored helmets, one holding a sword and the other a halberd, a spear with a hooked blade that looked like a can opener from the Middle Ages.
Set into the wall was a fish tank filled with piranha. Sitting on the couch was one of the handsomest men Cape had ever seen.
“Luis Cordon.”
The man smiled as he stood. “Mister Weathers—”
“—call me Cape.”
“
Como usted desea.
” Cordon extended his hand. “I was worried you wouldn’t be joining us.”
Cape didn’t really want to shake but understood the risk in not doing so. Cordon’s hand was strong and smooth, his palms drier than Cape’s.
“Please, take a chair.”
“Maybe later when you’re not looking.”
“Can Enrique get you anything?”
“How about a towel?” Cape ran a hand over his hair. Water spattered the carpet. “Sorry.”
“Anything else? A drink perhaps.”
Cape shook his head. “You saw the photographs I brought?”
“You would like me to get them?”
“Both of them.”
Cordon patted his pockets. “Let me see, where did I—”
“You can keep the pictures.”
Cordon looked up but said nothing, a smile spreading across his handsome features.
“Just get the people in them.”
Cordon arched an eyebrow. “Both of them?”
“Yes, both of them.”
“Very well.” Cordon smiled. “Wait here.”
Sally walked alone on the beach but she had plenty of company.
Lightning flashed across the sky. She couldn’t hear the thunder over the sound of the wind. Rain stung her face.
The best thing about being a half-Japanese, half-American girl raised by the Chinese Triads was that Sally could embrace or reject the best and worst of her rich cultural history.
The Chinese cherished nobility but made political corruption an art form, oppression by the emperors leading to subjugation by the communists. That was why all their stories about personal loss and sacrifice were so beautifully sad. Everyone dies in the end. Chinese had survived without hope for centuries, which is probably why they still cherished it so much.
Americans were unapologetic cowboys, though fewer would admit it, even to themselves. One person could make a difference. Sally loved their optimism and confidence as much as she hated their absolute certainty they were always right, especially when they were wrong. Americans still wanted to buy the world a Coke, even if they insisted on drinking bottled water.
Sometimes Sally thought the Japanese were all crazy, and she could feel their blood coursing through her veins. From the noble perfection of the samurai to the rape of Nanking, everything Japanese was measured by extremes. They could soar to heights that surpassed the imagination and sink to soulless depths from which there was no return. Perfection was a goal, not an ideal that could never be realized. A samurai that fails blames no one—he disembowels himself to regain his honor. There were no half-measures in Japan.
Sally looked at the windows of the castle as she stepped carefully between the rocks of the tide pool and remembered her lessons from school.
In the 16th century a ninja army scaled the walls of Kyoto castle to overthrow the ruling
Shogun
, an assault considered utterly impossible. The victory led to the unification of Japan. The ninjas used grappling hooks wrapped in cloth, scaling the castle walls silently in the middle of the night. No one then believed it could be done, and even today it was considered more legend than fact.
The Japanese are crazy.
Better to blame her heritage than herself.
Sally reached the rock face and felt for a handhold. She thought she saw an opening and thrust her hand into it, then cursed as she jammed her fingers.
The American in her just knew she could do it, though that side of her didn’t have the slightest clue how. The Chinese in her said there was no hope, which made her more determined than ever to try.
She asked herself how her old instructor would teach her to scale this wall. She cursed again, already knowing the answer.
Sally took a step back and untied the scarf from around her neck. Carefully she wrapped it around her eyes until she was completely blind. Then she tied it fast behind her head.
She raised her hands to the wall and felt the shape of the rocks.
Sally started to climb.