Planet Willie (16 page)

19

Don’t let
anybody tell you that pesos bring happiness. It gives me great deal of pain to
tell Twiggy that we’ve lost her partner. I find her back in the hotel in the
fitness room, where the concierge has said she’ll be. She’s spinning on a
stationary bicycle at about twelve revolutions per second, sweat pouring off
her body, like if she spins fast enough she might transport off into another
dimension once and for all. I recall what she said about starvation and God back
in the steam room in Vail, Colorado, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s only in
these extreme states that she can feel anything at all, although news of
Kafka’s kidnapping is met with absolutely no feeling that I can see. Twiggy may
well be crazy.

“The
Farsinellis. Are. Here,” she says between breaths.

“Then what are
you doing riding a bike indoors?”

“Here,” she
says. “In the hotel.”

So Bella Farsinelli
finally got her five stars, I think.

“Also.
Fernanda,” she says.

“In this
hotel?” I say. “Fernanda Shore?” But she’s spinning so fast now, she appears to
have pedaled right off into a trance.

“You follow
Lulu,” I say, beginning to lose faith in Albania altogether, along with most of
Eastern Europe. “I’ll take care of the others.” Then I go over to the front desk
and ask what room Miss Shore’s in. They can’t give out that kind of
information, they tell me. I tell them it’s an emergency and slip a stack of
pesos across the counter. The fella standing there just slips it right back
with a frown, which is one of the problems with staying in a five-star hotel.
Sometimes the reception’s not as receptive to the pesos as they can be in
lesser-starred affairs.

So I just take
a little tour of the premises, hoping to spot some familiar faces. I do the Coyote
Bar and Grill, I do the Luna Lounge. Then I head out poolside, where they’re playing
volleyball now in the water – waterball I guess it’s called – and the lounge
chairs are full of half-naked tourists drinking cocktails decorated with enough
paper umbrellas to shade a nation of gerbils. Strolling around the pool, I
acknowledge a few bikinis with a friendly nod, and then over by the hot tub
area I spot her. She’s bikinied too and makes as fine an impression as she did
in a sundress. She may not be the type of woman you’d put on the cover of a
magazine, but you sure as hell wouldn’t mind taking her off for a picnic
somewhere and maybe playing a little beach blanket bingo. She’s got on big
sunglasses and is sipping a dark drink.

“Miss Shore, I presume,” I say, blocking out her sun.

She raises her
sunglasses to show some dark-rimmed eyes. “Why am I not surprised to see you?”

“Because you’ve
been seeing me every night in your dreams?” I say.

“Maybe that’s
it,” she says, as I take a seat beside her. “Mint julep?” she asks, waving a
waiter over to refresh her own.

“I’m on a
diet,” I say. “Better hold the mint and the julep.”
was
expecting sharp edges, a e. er ear,  offically  anxiously looking out across
the gallery and smiling absent-mindedly when as

“Another drink
for you, Miss Shore?” the waiter asks.

“That’s right,
Pablo,” she says, and Pablo carries off her glass for what is clearly not the
first time.

“What are you
doing down here?” I say, sensing that this may not be the best moment to discuss
the future of her soul. It’s my job, I know,  but until you’ve attempted to
talk salvation to a blonde in a bikini, cast not the first stone and whatnot.

“Drinking,” she purrs, further gone than the last time I saw her, if that’s possible, not
that I can’t work with far gone. “Trying to get picked up.”

“I don’t know
that Ricardo Queso hangs around swimming pools,” I say, but the sunglasses are
too dark to make out any kind of reaction. Kafka’s been kidnapped, Twiggy’s in
a trance, now Fernanda’s comatose. Thankfully there’s still The Kid, sitting
snug atop my head. “I trust you had a pleasant flight with the Farsinellis?”

“No. Bella’s a real bitch. How did you know about them anyway? Nevermind – let me guess –
you’re a private investigator.”

“Right you
are, Fernanda. Right you are. And quite a bit more besides, but we’ll get to
that in time.”

“I bet. The
Professor said you mentioned me. Thanks so much. He was only too pleased to have
Shore’s daughter come along. Do you think it’s the real Madonna, or are we all
just crazy?”

“We’re most
definitely all crazy, and from the looks of her, your sister Lulu may be the
craziest.”

“You’ve seen
her,” she says calmly. “Now
there’s
a bitch. Self-righteous as hell.
Even growing up she could do no wrong. Daddy bought the whole routine. I went
to see her this afternoon. The nuns didn’t even
know
Lulu had a sister.
They said they didn’t know where I could find her.”

“You think
she’s behind this?” I say, taking two drinks from Pablo and handing the
greenery to Fernanda.

“Of course she
is,” she says, taking a long sip. A little piece of mint gets stuck to a front
tooth, which despite the attitude just makes her all the more charming. “She
knew I would jump when Queso called asking about a painting,” she says. “She
knew I would try to sell daddy’s Madonna. My sister always knew how to play me
like a drum. I’ve fallen for her traps ever since we were kids. I always make
the mistake. I guess I’m just bad.”

“Better bad
than good like that,” I say. “As the great Mister Cash put it,
She’s so
heavenly minded she’s no earthly good
. There’s hope for you yet, Miss
Shore. Just trust me on that. But how did she get hooked up with Queso? That’s
what I can’t figure out.”

“I can’t
either,” she says.

“Then tell me
about the Farsinellis,” I say. “When are they set to meet Queso?”

“I wouldn’t
know,” she says, doing her best to work up the corners of her mouth into a
mysterious smile. “I’m just down here for the sun and the chimichangas.”

“Then I’d heartily
recommend the Luna Lounge,” I say. “They do them in both beef and chicken. I’m
partial to the chicken. And don’t tell me you still think you can make any
money off that Madonna.”

“I can’t screw
this up any more, can I?” she says. “I’m so down I can only go up.”

“Liberating,
isn’t it?” I say. “Hell of a lot better than being so up you can only go down,
and I do speak from some experience. Also, I wanted to mention that two Albanian
friends of mine handed out a couple dozen of those fakes between here and Denver. So even if you do get your pretty little hands on the original, you’re going to
have a hard time selling it.”

“Why don’t you
just leave me alone,” she says, closing herself around her drink and shutting
me out for good, so I leave her there to experiment with how far down she can
go. If she can get down far enough, I figure I’ll catch her when she’s coming
up. So I locate Pablo and pay the tab, and then like it or not, I’m not
finished with the Shore family for the day.

Evening mass
has started at the church of Santa Pulcheria by the time I arrive. The priest
is up front in his robe, listening to the smooth sounds his own voice makes in
Spanish. There’s not much of a crowd to speak of, which considering we’re in Acapulco
is no big surprise, but a couple dozen orphans are squirming on the pews on the
left side of the aisle, and on the right the nuns of Santa Pulcheria sit like
it’s posture, not cleanliness, that’s next to godliness. I make my way up the
side aisle and slide in behind some nuns. Lulu’s down at the far end of the
pew, a bit apart from the others but sitting straighter. Given the
circumstances, I can’t say I blame her. She’ll be needing all the godly points
she can score. We do a few songs, we drop to our knees for a few prayers, and
like it or not, when you consider the surroundings, I’d be remiss not to send
up a report to headquarters.

“Dear Lord,
it’s Willie. Just wanted to let everybody up there know I’m in Acapulco, in
case you didn’t already know. Been working the case with ol’ Ralph, who’s, uh,
actually turned out to be a really great addition to the team. Please express
that sentiment to Saint Chief Mahoney if you would. Ralph and I have split up
for the moment to work different angles, which we figure’d be more efficient,
but we’re getting to the bottom of this, and you know what they say about the
bottom: from there it’s only up, and that means back to you and the clouds. Had
a quick question about nuns, Lord: are their souls already guaranteed by the
costume, or could I also potentially save a nun’s soul and bring back a big win
for the department? No need to answer now, because of course I know you officially
can’t. Just maybe send a sign if it’s your will? Thanks. Also, second question:
have you ever done any cliff diving? Wouldn’t be surprised if you had.
Absolutely breathtaking, Lord. Sort of like what I once thought angel life
might be, if you know what I mean, not that I’m complaining about the lack of twists
and flips and all that. Heck, old dudes like us would probably throw out our
backs, wouldn’t we? Ha ha. Assuming we had backs up there, but uh, thankfully
we don’t. In any case, Lord, all’s well in Acapulco. Your sun’s still working
as it should, I’ll tell you that. So well that if you ever create another world,
I’d consider addressing sunburn from the outset. Or maybe skin could evolve to
protect itself, and please excuse me if that’s out of line. I’m not entirely
recalling our revised policy on evolution at the moment. Heck, I’m just
brainstorming here, so I’ll let you go. See you soon, Lord, and I’ll be sure to
keep the eyes peeled for signs. Okay, then. Amen.”

After opening
our eyes, we stand for another song, and I take the opportunity to scoot along
the aisle until I’m behind Lulu and her questionable soul. Then the priest
pulls out his bible, and we all sit for the lesson. The nuns pull out their
prayer books too, Lulu hunching down real devotedly over hers. Her blond hair’s
strayed loose from her wimple again and picks up the candlelight from the altar
such that it almost glows. I could reach out and touch it, and a fella can’t
help but thinking that just as Fernanda wasn’t made for the art business, Lulu
wasn’t made to be a nun. People make it so hard on themselves. There’s so much
chaos out there, and people react by trying to be something, to stand for
something, and while under the right circumstances I guess I find that
admirable, too often you just end up building your own prison.

Anyway, as I
sit there meditating on Lulu’s stray hair, I become aware of a minor commotion
among the orphans across the aisle, so I look over and see Cipriano and El
Gordo sitting not more than twenty feet away. They’ve spotted me and want to
make contact. I tip my hat, which seems to quiet them down a bit, and then it
occurs to me that the Lord doesn’t like a hat-wearing man in his house, so I’m
pleased to take this as a quick sign and go ahead and tip The Kid all the way
off, making it as comfy as I can in my lap. In the meantime the priest’s started
up some responsive reading. He’ll say something in Spanish, then the rest of us
are supposed to say something back, following along in our prayer books. That’s
when I notice that although Lulu’s still hunched over her book, she not quite
as responsive as the rest. Not saying much of anything, to tell you the truth,
so I slide over on the pew a bit to see if I can glimpse what’s occupying her.
Lean forward a tad like I’m intending to get in some extra praying down on that
knee bench. Edge forward just enough to discover that although she may have a
prayer book open in her lap, inside that prayer book is another little open
book that I’m pretty certain is not distributed by the Catholic church. She
turns a page to a chart.
Starting Hands
, the chart says, and below that
is a column of starting poker hands with percentages next to them. A pair of
aces, a hundred percent, pair of threes, twenty percent, and so on. What I
experience in that moment may be something like the joy imparted by the Holy Spirit.
I mean never has church been so much fun. Makes you think Kafka could benefit
from attending a little more regularly.

Then the
priest is busting into another little hymn, and at this point mister I am happy
to sing. Singing from the gut, so to speak, which has admittedly done some
expanding with all the Mexican food I’ve been eating. Not that I’m complaining
when I hear that full bass sound. Reminds me a bit of Mister Luciano Pavarotti,
the famous Italian opera tenor, and you can’t tell me Mister Pavarotti ever
turned down a burrito special.

Lulu takes a
moment to realize we’ve moved on from the prayer book, but then she’s up too. Kyrie
Eleison, the song goes, although I’m making up my own words, singing of
diamonds and pure hearts and raising Lulu a Madonna. That gets the wayward
nun’s attention real quick, and then what she’s doing is more like hyperventilating
than hymns. When the service ends, she slips off down the aisle quick, but I’m
as quick as she is and trap her near the entrance, where candles are lighted
before an altar of painted angels. Lulu spins away from my hands, fluttering
around like she’s trying to grow wings and fly right up into that painting, but
sister, that’s not the way it works. Yes sir, the Lord and I are on the same
wavelength for once, and I’m getting signs all over the place.

“You’re no
angel, Lulu,” I say.

“Stop
torturing me,” she says, turning to face me with tears in her eyes.

“That’s not my
intention,” I say, already regretting taking the hard line. “I just want the
painting back.”

“I don’t know where
it is,” she gasps. “I just told Queso about it. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Except
borrowing gambling money at twenty five percent interest,” I say, making a speculative
little bet of my own.

“Poker is a skill,” she says. “It’s not a game of chance.”