Greasing the Piñata (7 page)
Cape heard the
swoosh
of hangers being pushed aside before he felt the gun barrel against the back of his neck. He had walked right into a trap.
“
Manos para arriba
,” came a voice from the closet. Cape swiveled his eyes without moving his head and confirmed that the gun was held by Mustache, his recent acquaintance with the mismatched socks.
“Where’s your friend?” asked Cape. “Or doesn’t he want to be seen with you, now that you’ve come out of the closet?”
“Funny man.” Cyrano stepped out of the bathroom. In his right hand was a taser, a squat black device with two silver prongs on the end.
“You’re persistent,” said Cape.
Cyrano nodded. “Tenacious even.”
Cape forced himself not to stare at the taser, though in the back of his mind he registered the absurd truth that he would have been less uncomfortable had Cyrano been holding a gun.
“Thought we were gonna have to wait awhile longer, after seeing you with that Asian
chickadee
on the beach. What happened, she get a headache once you got back to her room? Maybe she got her period. Or you having problems getting the old soldier to salute?”
“She’s a lesbian.”
“Yeah, right,” snorted Cyrano. He held the taser at eye level and pressed the button, letting the tight blue arc of 10,000 volts emphasize his next point. “Now look, jerkoff, there’s no maid service for the rest of the night, so there won’t be any opportunity to take your clothes off and cry for help. Or do anything else stupid.”
“Guess I’ll have to do something smart.”
Cyrano hit the button again. The taser sounded like pine needles burning. “You won’t do shit, understand? We got permission to carry you out to the car, if it comes to that.”
Cape eyed the taser. “It won’t come to that.”
“Good choice.” Cyrano lowered the taser as Mustache lowered his gun and used it to sucker-punch Cape in the back. A balloon of pain exploded as the heavy metal of the gun collided with Cape’s right kidney, dropping him to his knees. He coughed involuntarily when his hands hit the floor, sending an aftershock of nausea into his gut. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he spat onto the carpet, barely resisting the urge to vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.
Cyrano shook his head, a teacher disappointed in a star pupil, and stepped over to block the door. “That’s for being such a pain in the ass.” Mustache stepped over Cape to reclaim his old spot at the desk.
“You’re welcome,” said Cape, his voice ragged. He opened his eyes and took a few more tentative breaths before standing. Cyrano watched from the door, a mild expression on his face as if Cape had just dropped his keys and bent to pick them up. None of this was personal for him.
Cape took a deep breath and turned his attention to the closet. He was about to grab a shirt when he had a random thought and stepped past the bed to the nightstand, where he grabbed the remote for the TV.
“The fuck you doing?” demanded Cyrano. He stood up straighter but held his position at the door. As long as Cape wasn’t trying to escape, Cyrano wasn’t all that concerned.
Cape held up a hand for patience, then thumbed the remote until he’d navigated the on-screen menu to the adult entertainment channel. An instant later, the excruciatingly banal soft-core porn found on every hotel television around the globe shimmered into focus. Cape turned up the volume before walking past Mustache, opening the window, and flinging the remote across the patio into the swimming pool below. He turned toward Mustache and smiled, moving his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“Hate for you to get bored,” said Cape. “Just wanted you to know there’s no hard feelings.”
Mustache scowled but his eyes darted to the TV, where a woman with impossibly large breasts was moaning as a man dressed like a fireman used a canvas hose to squirt a liquid with the consistency of baby oil onto her from ten feet away.
“For the love of—” Cyrano pushed off the door. He was about to jam his left thumb against the on-off switch built into the base of the television when Mustache raised his gun and pointed it at Cyrano. Without taking his eyes off the fireman and the woman with the silver dollar nipples, he muttered something in Spanish and cocked the gun.
Cyrano held up his hands and retreated to the door. “OK, OK. Jesus.” Then to Cape, “What’s your problem?”
Cape shrugged. “I like making people uncomfortable.”
“It’s unprofessional,” snapped Cyrano, darting a glance toward Mustache. “I’m trying to do a job here.”
“Complain to the union.”
“Get fuckin’ dressed.” Cyrano didn’t bother to flash the taser. “Just cause I don’t want to carry you to the car doesn’t mean I won’t.”
“You got a bad back?”
“I’m counting to thirty.” Cyrano shifted his eyes to Mustache, who had managed to keep his gun up but angle his chair so he had a better view of the television.
Cape returned to the closet and traded his shorts for a pair of slacks, slipped on a pair of loafers. He paused and leaned against the door frame for a minute, as casually as he could. He’d been hit much harder before, but a shot you weren’t ready for hurt like hell. He could almost feel the bruise forming as a dull ache radiated from his internal organs across his side.
He grabbed a light jacket, left his wallet but grabbed some cash. Old habit, he felt naked without cash in his pocket. Maybe he’d survive the night and need a cab home. Maybe they’d pass a fast food joint and ask if he wanted anything. Maybe he’d bribe a helicopter pilot to fly him to Neverland.
“Ready when you are.”
On the television, a guy dressed as a plumber was struggling to control a leaky faucet that had caused all the dish soap to form bubbles that overflowed the sink, ran across the floor, and enveloped a startled housewife who conveniently was wearing a white shirt with no bra.
While Mustache’s eyes were on the screen, Cyrano drew his own gun, but Mustache barely registered it. Either he knew Cyrano would never shoot him or he belonged to an obscure cult that believed the last thing you saw in this life would be the first thing you’d see in the next. They stood there until the bubble scene ended, guns pointed half-heartedly at each other in an obligatory tough guy dance. Even then it took Cyrano a good five minutes to convince his partner they had to leave.
The three men strolled through the lobby like old friends. Cape knew there was no percentage in causing a scene. If they had wanted to do this the hard way, he’d be wrapped in a rug and thrown into a trunk. No matter how many angles he tried to consider, he couldn’t find an advantage to that one. Might as well see what’s behind the curtain.
The car was a black Escalade, an SUV only slightly smaller than Texas that handled like an oil tanker. Cape sat in the back next to Cyrano, who had the taser in his right hand, his gun holstered. Mustache drove.
The route cut through town, past restaurants interspersed with stores selling authentic Mexican souvenirs made in China. Once the yellow lights and faded neon of the restaurants were behind them, Mustache turned right and headed away from downtown Puerto Vallarta into the hills overlooking the bay. The climb was steep, and Cape was surprised at how quickly the trappings of tourism slipped away and the natural vegetation took back the land. The trees grew thick, covered in vines that looked like snakes in the half-light from the moon. As they drove deeper into the hills the road turned back on itself, each curve offering a smaller glimpse of the ocean below.
“Isn’t this where they filmed
Night Of The Iguana
?”
Cyrano didn’t bother to look out the window. “You’re asking the wrong guy.”
“Richard Burton, directed by John Huston,” said Cape. “It’s a classic.”
“Got any sports in it?”
“Like soccer?” asked Cape. “None.”
“I guess soccer’s a sport these days,” said Cyrano grudgingly, “but I was thinkin’ baseball. I only watch baseball movies.”
Cape frowned. “I didn’t realize there were that many.”
“What about that flick with the guy, builds a baseball diamond in a cornfield? You seen that?”
Cape had seen the movie but had no desire to bond. His kidney felt like it had torn loose and was floating around inside his gut.
“Never.”
“Never saw it?” Cyrano turned, and for a moment Cape thought he was going to get tasered. “A fucking classic—guy builds a baseball field on his farm ‘cause he hears this voice.” Cyrano forced his nasal twang down an octave. “
If you build it, they will come.
”
“Then what happens?”
“These great baseball players, they all come to play on the guy’s field…only…
they’re dead
.” Cyrano shook his head over the sadness of it all.
“The guy who built the field dies?”
“No, the players,” said Cyrano impatiently. “They’re all dead, but they come back to play anyway.”
“So they’re zombies,” said Cape, hoping to touch a nerve. “There are zombie baseball players in this movie.”
“They’re not zombies!” sputtered Cyrano. “They’re—”
“So it’s science fiction.” Cape looked out the window, a bored expression on his face.
“It’s
baseball
,” said Cyrano. “And they’re ghosts, OK?” He huffed a minute before adding, “Not fucking zombies.”
“Got any unicorns in it?”
“Up yours.”
“Mm-hm.” Cape closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest.
Mustache drove like a man who knew the way by heart. Half an hour into the journey the car’s tires crunched on a gravel drive. Cape opened his eyes as they stopped at a wrought-iron gate fifteen feet high flanked by two stone columns. The fence ran out of sight on either side, each twenty foot section supported by stone pillars identical to the ones bracing the gate. Two men with submachine guns slung conspicuously over their shoulders stepped forward to glance inside the car.
The house looked like a fortress, two stories high and made entirely of fieldstone. It was set back from the road about thirty yards, the front facing a large circular driveway. The back overlooked the bay and the town far below. Aging willow and oak trees dominated the lawn, their boughs hanging across the fence, the driveway, and the house itself.
Two men stood by the nearest tree, smoking. The one closest to the house restrained two Dobermans as Cape got out of the car. He held them on a single leash, the muscles of his forearm straining. The dogs didn’t bark but growled deep in their throats, a subsonic tremor that reverberated deep in Cape’s chest. Mustache climbed from behind the wheel and walked over to join them, gesturing for the man nearest the tree to give him a smoke. Cape quickly scanned the rest of the yard but didn’t see anyone else before Cyrano jabbed him in the side, making him flinch and stumble toward the front door.
Cape turned to watch the gate close behind them and realized how easy it would be to find this place again. No sharp turns, no unpaved roads or secret entrances. Even with his eyes closed he was able to track the progress of the car.
As he walked stiffly toward the house Cape wondered if he’d made a horrible mistake about his captors. Maybe whomever was waiting inside the house didn’t intend for this trip to have a return ticket. Three men had left the hotel with no signs of a struggle. Cyrano wasn’t even local, so he could disappear if anyone asked questions about a missing guest. So could Mustache, no doubt.
Cape was ten feet from the door when he felt rather than heard the Dobermans’ guttural cry, and despite his efforts to stay cool, his palms began to sweat. The moon grazed the treeline beyond the mansion. Cape imagined the yellow orb as a jaundiced eye tracking his progress as he took a reluctant step forward, away from the gate and any reasonable hope of escape.
Joe Drabyak hated waiting.
He’d stood on the pier for almost an hour, watching the deck hands scurry around the yacht like carpenter ants. How long did it take for a ship to be ship-shape, he wondered. It was the middle of the night. And where was his fucking host?
He had already attempted to board, but a big Mexican with a billy club and radio strapped to his belt politely explained that no one boarded the yacht without the owner’s permission. When Joe asked where the owner might be, the guard pretended not to understand English and began stroking his nightstick like it was a hard-on. Joe retreated a safe distance, lit up a smoke and began waiting.
That was one thing Joe liked about his job in San Francisco, working for Frank Alessi. You could say a lot of nasty things about Frank, and Joe had said one or two himself, but Frank was punctual. He might be a casually abusive sociopath, but he paid well and was always on time, so that made him OK in Joe’s book.
He’d smoked half a pack, killed eight mosquitoes and maimed twelve by the time a gray limousine pulled into the lot adjacent to
Marina Vallarta
. The driver practically jumped out of the car before it settled on its shocks and made a beeline for Joe, a thin smile on his face.
“Señor Drabyak, there has been a mistake.” The guy said it like Joe was the one at fault.
“No shit,” said Joe. “I’ve been waiting over an hour. Where’s your boss?”
The smile went from pleasant to condescending. “On his boat, señor, as promised.”
Joe jerked a thumb toward the yacht. “That’s his boat—I heard all about it. The wood floors, the plush furniture. Sammy Dunlop told me.” He watched the driver’s expression change at the mention of the name, so he added, “Yeah, Sammy and I talk. Just ‘cause we work different sides of the street doesn’t mean we can’t share information.”
In truth Sammy hadn’t shared anything besides the hot air trapped in his lungs. He’d been bragging to Joe, showing off.
Yeah, flew me to Mexico, all expenses paid, took me on his yacht. What, you haven’t been? That’s too bad, buddy…
Asshole.
But now it was Joe’s turn, and this driver—the hired help—was telling him he got the wrong boat. He pointed at the stern. “What’s it say right there, monkey boy? The name of the boat,
The Flying Fish
. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The driver nodded, a study in forced politeness. “This is his boat, you are correct of course, but—”
“What?”
“He has another boat.”
Joe scanned the marina. “Where?”
“Please come with me, señor.” The driver extended his right arm in the direction of the limo. “He is waiting.”
Joe stomped to the car and lit another cigarette as he took a seat in the back, secretly hoping the driver would ask him to put it out. He was disappointed by the time they arrived at their destination.
They’d followed the curve of the marina away from the tourist hotels where the piers were crowded with sailboats and yachts to the commercial piers where fishing trawlers crowded the narrow slips, their hulls painted in garish colors. The limo stopped directly behind a forty-footer, the yellow and blue paint scarred with orange streaks of rust that shifted in the harsh lights set on poles along the wharf as the boat bobbed against the current.
“He is already on board, señor.”
Joe ground his cigarette out in the door handle before stepping out of the car. He squinted at the stern of the aging vessel and thought for a minute it bore the same name as the pristine yacht berthed less than a mile away. Then he shielded his eyes from the overhead lights and squinted through the night to read the faded letters.
The Frying Fish
.
From flying to frying. A minute’s drive along the coast but a world away from the eighty-foot yacht and its crew of twenty. The boxy fishing boat with its cranes and nets looked pathetic. Joe was pretty sure he was being insulted.
But he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.