Take the Money: Romantic Suspense in Costa Rica (16 page)

“Wanna dance?” Startled, Julie looked up to see a heavy set, sunburned man with graying hair and a belly bulging over a madras shirt and cut-offs.

“No thanks,” she said.  Unfortunately, dressing up for Nellie had only attracted the attention of the usual stray men hell-bent on a wild fling in a foreign country.

“Ah, c’mon, don’t be so stuck up.”  He caught hold of her wrist and pulled her to her feet.

“Stop it!” she shouted above the blare of the jukebox.  The other dancers stopped to stare.

“Hey, cool it.”  Nellie came rushing to the rescue, putting herself between Julie and the man.  “Let me get you some nice strong Costa Rican coffee.”  Her voice was soft, conciliatory.

He stared at Nellie for a moment, his heavy body weaving so much that Julie feared he was going to keel over.  Then his shoulders slumped and he teetered backwards, sinking his large behind into a wooden chair near a balding man with small, thick glasses.  “Sure, okay.” he said.

“Come on,” Nellie took Julie and dragged her by the hand into the kitchen, signaling one of the waitresses to bring out some coffee. 

“Oh, God.” Julie fretted.  “I was trying to keep a low profile and now everyone in this place has seen me.”

“You look great, that’s why,” Nellie told her.  “For once you’re wearing something that shows off your figure.  I’m telling you, if you’d just follow my advice, you’d be beating them off with a stick.”

“Have you talked to your friend, Juan, about my trip to Liberia?”

Nellie frowned.  “No, I haven’t seen him lately. What would he have to tell me?”

Julie said. “There was a storm. We had to land in a little village called Santa Clara, where Juan knew a doctor who runs a clinic. He put me up for the night.”

“Uh Oh.”  Nellie looked at her closely.  “What about this doctor?”

“I helped him out while he delivered a baby to a very young girl.”

“And?”

“I met the man of my dreams, Nellie.  I never knew such a person could even exist.”

“Okay. I can tell by that look on your face that you slept with him.”
   Julie covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I did it.  I’ve never had a one night stand in my life.  But I was so nervous and keyed up, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Being scared makes you horny, didn’t you know that?”

Julie said, “You mean danger is an aphrodisiac?”

Nellie laughed. “Well, if you think that makes it sound better.”

Julie shook her head.  “I’m afraid he’ll think I’m a slut for being so easy.”

“So, you wish you hadn’t done it?”

“No, I can’t say I’m sorry. It was heavenly. If that was the only chance I had to be with him, it was worth it. He’s the finest person I’ve ever met.”
    Nellie pounded the table. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”

“There was something else happened up there,” Julie said. She told Nellie about David following her, and how he had drowned.

Nellie didn’t seem surprised. “Best you forget about it for now,” was all she said.

“I have to go back there and help those people, Nellie.  I’ve bought some clothes and shoes and other supplies for his clinic. I’m renting a car and going back to Santa Clara tomorrow.”

Nellie leaned forward. “You’re spending your hard earned money trying to alleviate the poverty in Central America?  Honey, I don’t think there’s a whole lot you can do about it.  It’s just a fact of life. Anything you can do would be a drop in the bucket.  Let the churches and charities do what they can.  It’s not up to you.”

Julie thought about the home awaiting baby Oscar.  There wasn’t time to wait for the churches to make things better. “It’s something I have to do,” she said firmly. “The only reason I’m telling you is because if anything should happen, if you don’t hear from me in a week, I want you to know my mother’s name and address.  By the way, have the guys from Lewiston ever come back?”

Nellie looked around to make sure no one was listening.  “Not that I know of.  But that doesn’t mean anything.  You’re not smart to wander around by yourself. I’ll be worried the whole time you’re gone. You say you’ll be back in a week. What then?”

Unwanted tears stung Julie’s eyes.  Damn, she was getting maudlin.  She turned her head away, hoping that Nellie wouldn’t see.  What was she going to do for the rest of her life?  Would she always be on the run?

Nellie tilted Julie’s chin, and brought her face so close that both of them were enveloped in the scent of her perfume. “Are you sure you’re going up there to help the natives, or are you wanting to see this doctor again?”

“Maybe a little of both. Do you think I’m making a mistake?”

“I can’t answer that question,” Nellie said. “You have to follow your heart. But if you are determined to drive up there alone, you should have a way to defend yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“ Do you have a gun?”

“ Of course not.  I wouldn’t even know how to use one.”

“It’s easy.  Just pull the trigger.”

“Assuming it’s loaded.”

“The gun I’m thinking about is loaded.”  Nellie looked over her shoulder and went to a small, decorative oxcart next to the door.

“You mean you keep guns?”

“You think I’d try to run a place like this without protection?”  Nellie lifted a potted plant from the top of the cart, removed the lid, and came up with a small pistol.

“Oh my God,” Julie said. “What are you going to do with that thing?”

“I’m going to lend it to you,” Nellie said.  “The safety catch is on.  Just wrap it carefully and put it in the bottom of your purse.”

“I don’t carry purses, you know that.”

“Okay, then.  Put it in your bag.”

“I don’t know about this, it seems a little melodramatic.”

“Please,” Nellie begged.  “I’ll feel better if you have it.  Just be careful you don’t throw your bag around and make the damned thing go off accidentally. Let me show you how to release the catch and fire it, if need be.  It’s better to use two hands.”

Julie took the gun and wrapped it in a T-shirt inside her backpack.  “Don’t worry,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel.  “I’ll be back next week.”

EIGHT

Ever since his son
went down
, Mike Basinki had driven to the Wabash Valley Correctional Center in Carlisle every other Thursday.  Today was no exception. Maggie Carrithers had called last night to tell Mike about a guy named Cody stalking her in parking lots.  He needed to get on that, find out more about this person, but Mickey was expecting him.  The guard at the gate knew Mike so well that he barely glanced at his ID, quickly writing down the license number.

“Seeing Michael Basinki, right?” he asked without checking the visitor list.  He was a sandy-haired, middle-aged man with a kindly manner.  The official greeter.

“You have a good memory,” Mike said.  “And yes, I’m seeing my son.” 

The prison grounds were an anomaly in the state prison system.  In the summer the buildings were surrounded by green grass instead of rocks.  Rows of brightly colored impatiens and marigolds bloomed until the first frost.  Mickey told Mike he considered himself lucky, because his cell window faced a forest of trees.  He could watch the seasons change: the leaves unfolding in spring, coming full green in summer, then turning again to glorious fall colors. Right now, there were only bare branches silhouetted against the bleak winter sky, but sometimes they were sheathed with ice or blanketed with snow, and that was a pretty sight.

Mike walked through another door past chain link fences topped with whorls of barbed wire and checked in at the desk with the friendly guardians of the visitors’ room. They, too needed no reminder of who he was and the person he was there to see.  They patted him down, but barely checked his shoes.  As usual, he carried his plastic baggy containing six dollars worth of quarters for special treats. Out another door, past more barbed wire, and he was there, showing his credentials for the third time.

Mike’s nerves twisted and kinked.  In spite of the implacable faces of the guards, he never knew what kind of shape Mickey would be in.  If there had been a fight, his face might be bruised or his walking labored.  The door finally opened after what seemed a long stretch of time. 

Mickey grinned.  “Hey, Dad.  I’m hungry.”  He looked toward the vending machines.

“Hey, Buddy.  You don’t look like you’re starving.” Mike returned the casual banter, letting go of the tension he’d felt a moment ago.  His son had turned eighteen and grown several inches in the year he’d been there.  Away from the drugs, he’d filled out; his skin was smooth and clear except for the splotches of oversized Irish freckles he’d inherited from his mother.  Mickey’s recently shaved head sprouted a copper buzz.   He wore a tan uniform over a dingy undershirt.

They went directly for a hot sandwich. “So how’s it going?  You pass the GED?” Mike asked.

“Passed with flying colors,” Mickey said.

They sat down with Mickey in his required position facing the guards.  “How’s Mom?”  He always asked about her, never questioning why she didn’t come to visit.

“She’s doing well.  Still worried, you know.  Hoping you’ll start taking some college classes.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Mickey said.  “Taking some correspondence courses from Vincennes University.  I’ll have fifteen credits when I get out of this place, if things go according to plan.”

They talked about safe things for awhile.  His sister.  The possibility that the army might accept him for cannon fodder if he got out on good behavior.  Mike still found it hard getting used to Mickey’s careful prison manners.  No profanity, no looking at the other prisoners.   The first time he’d been beaten up, he’d told Mike a person could get stabbed for using a four-letter word that someone might consider an insult. 

When the small talk had settled down, Mike decided to broach the subject. “Ever hear of a guy with a white buzz--kind of chunky--named Cody?”

Mickey had invested $2.00 in a large piece of cheesecake and concentrated now on cutting it carefully.  He took a bite, worked his jaws slowly, swallowed before he spoke.  “Cody Jeffrey. Yeah. Scuz.  West L. trailer trash. Why you want to know?”

“Just heard some stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“That he might be in some trouble.”

“Probably is.”

“Why do you say that?”  Mike looked out at the guards in white hats walking back and forth in front of the window, not wanting to put on any pressure.

Mickey laid down his plastic fork and spoke through his teeth, “Don’t ask me anything.” 

“Why is that?”

Mickey pressed his fingers against the crumbs on his paper plate and lifted them to his tongue. “People have friends.”

“Friends here?”

“Dad, supposing something happens to him?  People know when you visit me.”

Mike looked over his shoulder.  A black man with a camera sat at a table near the guards. He was a fellow prisoner who had been granted the position of official photographer, earning money by taking pictures of prisoners posed with their families against a cardboard backdrop simulating a mountain stream.  His unwavering eyes focused on the horizon; he could or could not be eavesdropping. “Well,” Mike said.  “We still have seventy-five cents.”

Mickey stood up.  “Think I’ll get some caramels.”

At the end of the two-hour visit, Mike felt emotionally drained.    But leaving early would have sent Mickey back to his cell, taking away precious moments of semi-freedom.

On the drive back home, he thought about Maggie, the frail but spirited little girl from his youth.  St. Margaret’s elementary school was located in a rough neighborhood where academic talent made you an unpopular misfit.  Mike and Maggie had shared that bond, and more than once, he’d had to defend her from playground bullies.  She still aroused that protective feeling in him.  He hoped he could spare her the pain he’d gone through with Mickey, that Julie hadn’t done anything that would mean trouble with the law.

Mickey had inadvertently provided him with a few useful bits of information about Cody.  West L. stood for the second class town across the river.  West Lewiston aka/ Redneck City.  

Mike went back to his office and made a few phone calls.  Within an hour, he’d learned Cody didn’t hang out in West L, but spent a lot of time at the Red Bandanna down by the railroad crossing on the east side of Lewiston.  Mike was at the bar by five o’clock.  Most everyone who worked there recognized him.

“What’ll it be, Sheriff,” the bartender asked, not unkindly.  There was sympathy for a man whose son got in trouble, and he had been known to be fair during his time.

“A glass of Miller’s,” Mike said.  He didn’t plan to stay around for very long.

“Coming up,” the man moved with speed and placed the beer carefully in front of Mike, centering it on a paper coaster.

“Got a question for you,” Mike said, “Do you know a guy name of Cody Jeffrey?”

“Yeah. I know him.” The bartender backed away a few inches.

“I’m looking for him, heard he hangs out here.”  Mike said.

“Ain’t seen him lately.” 

“You know where he lives?”

The bartender busied himself washing bar glasses.  “Don’t know
nothing
.”

Mike downed the beer in a few swallows, enjoying the warmth it spread through his stomach.  He didn’t order another.  The way he felt after a trip to Carlisle, he could have stood a little mood altering, but he didn’t need a drunk driving citation.    He hadn’t taken off his coat, and the place was steaming up with workers from Jadcore and other factories.  Might as well go.  His car, a gray Ford Taurus, was at the end of the parking lot.  He clung to the side of the building to keep from slipping on the ice-covered pavement. 

“Hey, Sheriff,” he heard a gravelly voice behind him, and turned to see the waitress who’d been hovering near the bar: a big woman with a cast in her eye and a cigarette dangling from her lips. She shivered under a tight white T-shirt that exposed red-chapped arms.

“Yes?”  He faced her squarely, not knowing what to expect.

“You looking for Cody?”

“Yeah.  Sure am.  Why?”

She looked around for a moment. No one was entering the parking lot. She moved closer, blowing smoke in his face. “I seen him a couple of days ago, he was with some Puerto Rican guy named Carlos, they was talking about going down to Costa Rica.”

“What for?”

“Says some girl ran off with his money and he aims to get it back.  Another guy was in here that runs the Kensington House now that Kevin Dufrain’s dead.  He told them that’s where she’d gone.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No sir, I haven’t.  Be my bet they caught a plane right after that.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Somewhere down on the river.  Got a meth lab.”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.  He’s in trouble with some of his suppliers.  He needs money fast.”

Mike looked at her carefully.  “Why are you telling me this?”

  The waitress pinched the glowing end of her cigarette and threw it into a pile of dirty snow.  “He’s an asshole,” she said. “Not only that, he don’t ever leave tips. I wouldn’t care if I never seen him again.”

Mike fished a bill from his pocket and held it out.  “Thanks,” he said. “I may be back.”

The waitress shook her head.  “You don’t owe me nothing, just get that bastard.  And you didn’t hear nothing from me, understand?”

“I understand.”  He reached in his pocket and held out his card.  “Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“Don’t want your card, I might drop it by mistake.  I know who you are.”  She turned away and ran back inside.