Take the Money: Romantic Suspense in Costa Rica (23 page)

  From the square outside the opera house came the mournful wail of the ocarinas as Nicaraguan merchants splashed through puddles of water, peddling their shabby wares. The clouds parted in the leaden skies, sending a feeble ray of sunlight through the mist.  A clot of emotion rose in Julie’s throat.  Just for a little while, she’d had a glimpse of happiness.  Would she ever feel that way again?

* * *

The airport traffic seemed unusually dense. Several tour buses blocked the front door of the terminal, and swarms of tourists milled around the sidewalk outside.  A red-faced duffer wearing a polo shirt and checked seersucker pants tried pushing his way through the crowd only to be knocked down. A small group of white haired women formed a circle and helped lift him to his feet.

“What going on out here?” Julie asked.

The driver of Nellie’s car shrugged, as puzzled as she by the commotion. “You still want out?” he asked.

“Of course, I have no choice.”  She thrust several bills in his hand, and jumped out of the car, holding her backpack across her belly for safety. It looked peculiar, but she couldn’t take a chance on losing the money.

“What is it?” she asked a woman with deeply wrinkled folds of leathery skin hanging from her sharp cheekbones. 

“Oh it’s terrible,” the woman cried.  “There’s an American Airlines strike.  We’re stranded.”

Julie knew that all of these people would soon be clawing and bribing their way onto other overbooked airlines. Queues were forming at the ticket counters.  She tried to sneak ahead in one of the lines only to be met with physical resistance.  A spindly lady with a straw hat poked her with an umbrella, and several of the waiting passengers hissed while blocking her path.  “My mother is being held hostage,” she wanted to scream.  But what was her mother’s life worth when their precious travel plans had been interrupted?

“How long have you been waiting?” she asked a young American boy with a shaved head, tank top, and sandals who seemed to find the whole frantic scene amusing.

“Couple of hours.  I’m hoping they’ll get us to Miami and then put us up there for the night for a free day of extra vacation, maybe.”

Oh God, to be so young and carefree.  The last thing Julie wanted was a free night in Florida. She spotted an airline official with an air of authority striding through the crowd, looking straight ahead.  Impulsively, she stepped forward and tugged his arm.  “This is an emergency,” she said in Spanish.  “I have to get home, my mother is dying.”

He looked at her with sad tired eyes.  She felt nervous about lying, but in a way it was the truth.   “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I’ll do the best I can for you.  But there are hundreds--” he paused to wipe his forehead.

Julie reached in her bag, pulled a bill from the top of the pack, and pressed it into his hand.  The man cocked his head to one side and glanced down.  Julie braced herself for the worst.  Of course, he would be totally insulted.  Now she’d never get home; he’d probably fix it so she was the last one to leave.

But when he looked up, his fleshy lips were spread into a sly smile.  “Follow me,” he said, leading her to one of the waiting areas. “Do you mind a few stops along the way?”

“How many stops?”

“Probably four.”

“Four?”

“Sorry, but it’s the best I can do.  It’s a Guatemalan airline.  Just short stops in Nicaragua, San Salvador, and Guatemala City.  You connect with Delta in Miami, then on to Indianapolis.”

“Fine.  If it’s the best you can do, I’ll take it.  But won’t I need a ticket?”

“Yes.  It will cost $1,200 American dollars. Cash.”

She felt a surge of outrage that quickly dissipated.  He was ripping her off, but she had to get back.  “All right,” she agreed,” and when does the plane leave?”

“Half an hour.  I’ll be back in fifteen minutes with your ticket.”

Julie sat down and closed her eyes, trying to clamp down on the rush of worry filling her brain.  What were they doing with her mother?  Was she suffering?

She felt a hand on her knee and was hit by the strong odor of whiskey. Startled, she sat upright and saw a middle aged man with a thinning wreath of sandy hair, pockmarked face, and several days’ beard.

“Can I sit on your lap, honey?” He pointed to his backside. “Keep me from getting it shot.”  His upper right arm under a tank top sported a large serpent tattoo--a hideous creature with fangs and gimlet eyes.

Julie moved back from his boozy breath.  “What makes you think you’ll be shot?”

He uncapped a silver flask and took a short pull. “Ever been through Nicaragua, babe?  They got soldiers waiting at the airport with anti-aircraft.  If I’m on your beautiful lap, you’ll take the flak, not me.”  He gave her a long slow wink that formed deep creases in his sunburned face.

Oh God, all she needed was this drunk following her around.  Why would they let an inebriated person on the plane--especially one who was drinking so blatantly?  The flight attendant gave them a curious glance, and yet, when it was time to board, she gave them a bored look, took their tickets, and allowed him to stagger down the jet way.  The drunk sat down beside Julie and the plane took off within minutes. 

As they swooped down to land in Nicaragua and Julie saw rows of army helicopters lined up, seemingly poised for combat, she began to wonder if the man was really as drunk as he seemed.  Maybe he had a legitimate worry. The captain’s voice came over the intercom: “We will stop just a few minutes in Nicaragua.  Do not move from your seats.  Do not attempt to go into the terminal.”

Julie peeked outside, half expecting to see gun toting militia, but all she saw was a small airport and--true to the Captain’s promise-- they were soon nosing upward into the clouds.  The roads and streets seemed deserted.  “What is it?” she asked the man. “Where is all the traffic?”

“No traffic.  No cars.  It’s a poor country.” He lifted the flask to his lips. “Not a good vacation spot, babe.”

They were allowed to disembark for an hour layover when they reached San Salvador.  There was no jet way, so the passengers stepped onto moveable stairs, then walked across the airfield into the terminal.  Armed guards wandered the airport and guarded the exits.  The soldier’s tawny faces were unsmiling and immobile; their dark eyes darting back and forth suspiciously.

It was frustrating to know that Enrique was in this country, but there was no way she could go up into the mountains and find him.  In a spurt of wild, irrational optimism, she scanned the crowds hoping that by some chance his face would appear.  There were travelers from many nations, but it was easy to spot the affluent Americans who raced toward the duty free shops to stock up on perfume and whiskey.  How much did they really save, and was it worth the risk of the stuff breaking and spilling out all over the other things in their suitcase? 

“Hey, let’s go out that door and get some fresh air.”  Julie’s woolgathering was interrupted by the drunk who materialized at her side.

“I don’t think so,” she said.  “Those security guards are pretty determined not to let us out any door except the one we came in.”

“Well, I want out for a minute.  It stinks in here,” he said, his voice so loud that heads turned.  “Damn natives don’t wear deodorant.”  He pulled her toward the top of an escalator leading to an outside exit.

A small, compactly built soldier pointed a rifle at them, his eyes glittering with scorn.  “Stop!” he commanded in a harsh, unfriendly voice.  “You can’t go that way.”

“Whaddaya mean?” The drunk pushed past him and started down the escalator. Out of the corner of her eye, Julie saw another guard appear, then the sound of gunshot rang out.  The drunk stumbled and clutched his arm, sinking to his knees as he glided down to the bottom. A small circle of red oozed from the center of the serpent tattoo.

The guard gripped Julie’s arm.  “Come with me.”

Julie decided she wouldn’t.  Without answering, she jerked free and took off running.

“Stop!” the guard yelled, but he wasn’t shooting and he wasn’t coming after her.

The faces in the crowd were a blur; Julie was dimly aware of bodies parting to let her through as she forced her legs to pump harder.  She ran to the exit, out onto the runway where her plane stood waiting for takeoff, and raced up the stairs where two flight attendants and the captain stood waiting.

“They’ve shot one of the passengers!” Julie felt her lungs were about to pop from running so hard and fast. “You have to do something,” she gasped.

The crews’ facial expressions did not change.  A small smirk trembled on the captain’s lips, but he quickly looked away.  The two flight attendants--olive-skinned, with black hair and long dark red fingernails--gave her a glassy stare and didn’t answer.

“Please sit down,” the captain told her.  “We’re about ready for takeoff.”

“Take off?”  Julie was stunned at their indifference. “You can’t leave that man back there.  He’s bleeding.”  She wilted against the serving area in the small kitchen area.

“Water?”  One of the attendants briskly whipped out a frosty bottle and handed it to her.

“Yes, water.”  Julie’s throat was hoarse.  It was obvious she hadn’t made herself clear.  They didn’t really understand what had happened.  She took a long drink, letting the water trickle down her throat, and held the bottle against her throbbing forehead.

“Listen to me,” she said slowly in Spanish.  “The man that was next to me on the plane was shot by one of the security guards.”

“Why was that?”

“Just a mistake.  He wanted to go out into the city and he was drunk and I think they misunderstood.”

“The man was foolish,” the attendant said abruptly.  The other passengers had returned and the captain closed the door.

“What are you doing?” Julie put down her bottle and walked toward the cockpit.

The attendant moved to guard the door “Please, miss,” she said.  “You must return to your seat immediately.”

“You  mean you’re just leaving him there?”

The attendant shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do. We have no authority.”

“But what will happen to him?  Will they take him to jail, or what?”

“That’s not our problem,” the attendant said. “Just be glad they let you go.”  The plane had begun to taxi down the runway and the engines roared as they lifted up into the sky.

Julie stumbled to her seat and looked out the window until the buildings on the ground faded into dots and dissolved behind a cloud.  She couldn’t worry about saving a stupid drunk.  She had to save her mom.

They stopped briefly in Guatemala City, but no one got off the plane.  She looked out at the turquoise and orange buildings, and felt that old tug at her heart whenever she entered a new country. Would she ever get over her restlessness?  When would the search for something to fill her up ever end? Then she thought of Enrique and the prospect of exploring another city suddenly lost its appeal.  She was tired of aimless wandering.

When they approached Miami and Julie saw the glittering high-rises that curved around the beach, it seemed as if they were coming out of a time machine or from a distant planet.  The airport swarmed with well-dressed efficient people. The restrooms--with their numerous stalls, copious toilet paper and towels and sparkling marble sinks--seemed opulent.

Re-entry into the US entailed a reverse culture shock.  Women’s hair looked clean and smelled of shampoo and hair spray.  No one wore dirty clothes. The healthy young families looked as if they inhabited cookie-cutter houses in the suburbs where they had rec. rooms and fireplaces and soft carpeting and beds with thick mattresses and warm comforters.  What would they do if they had to live like Oscar and Rosita?

THIRTEEN

The news was over.  Cody lifted his heavy frame off the sagging sofa and went to the refrigerator for another beer, careful not to turn his back. Outside, tires crunched in the snow.  Heart racing, Maggie peeped outside.  Reflected in the dim light from the trailer, she could make out the emblem of the Lewiston police on a dark car pulling to a stop in front of the trailer. Someone had come to her rescue.  She looked down, hoping Cody wouldn’t hear them.  But when he snapped his head to the right, she braced herself for a showdown.

“Looks like we got company.” The air bristled with excitement as he extracted another can of beer from the refrigerator and carried it outside to the waiting car. Surely, Maggie said to herself, the police couldn’t be fooled by such a modest offering.

She heard voices: low, urgent. and then Cody’s guttural laugh. She shivered. What lies was he telling to get them to leave?  Wouldn’t they want to come inside for a look?   The door opened again, but Cody was alone, hurrying to get another beer. There must be two men in the waiting car.  He went back outside and returned in seconds, his face red with cold, nose dripping. The motor revved up, and the car drove away. 

Cody rubbed his hands together with a loud swish and locked his thumb in his belt.  “Looks like we gotta lay low,” he said.

“Lay low?  I don’t understand.”  Maggie felt hope draining away as the sound of the motor faded.

“Your husband’s gone and called the police,” Cody said.

“ The police are your buddies?”

“Yup.”  Cody guzzled half his beer, letting it drip down the sides of his face, then picked up the rope. 

“Those policemen knew I was here?”  Maggie was trembling with rage and disappointment. 

“Your hubby shouldda’ known better.  Now I’m going to have to tie you back up.  Can’t take no chances on you trying to get away.”

* * *

The Mulberry Bush was quiet tonight.  Kenny had walked here after work, shivering in the thin sweater that one of the cooks at the hospital had brought him from home.  He didn’t own a coat and usually it didn’t matter, but tonight it was below freezing.  His hands--red and raw from working in the dish room--were so chapped that he thought he might need to get some gloves this winter. Icy air blew against his face, freezing the mucus dripping from his nose.  He stepped inside, grateful for sudden warmth and the familiar smells of beer and hot grease.  Happy hour had just started.

The place was always full of cops since the new mayor had decided to open a police substation right across the tracks, supposedly to protect the people in the neighborhood from all the drug dealers.  That was a laugh, as Kenny knew that many of them were cashing in on the fact that Lewiston was the meth capitol of Indiana.

Monday was a glum day for Kenny and the other regulars who hung out at the Bush.  Most everybody got paid on Friday, and by Monday they were broke.  Kenny looked at the clock over the bar.  Five o’clock.  He hoped Mike would make it in tonight.  This was the day his old buddy usually stopped by to buy him a drink and see what was going on.  He felt in his pocket, hoping he had enough change to buy a couple beers.

He sat down in the corner behind a table full of cops. They’d just come in, full of self-importance with their badges and black uniforms and guns at their sides. The air around them was blue with cigarette smoke, and they had snatched chairs from other tables to form a large, intimidating circle. One of them ordered a round, but no one told them they couldn’t smoke. The waiter brought them six frosty mugs, filled with golden brew and just the right amount of foam. With elaborate courtesy, he set the beer down carefully and said, “that will be twelve dollars, please.”

“I’m buying!” the cop right behind Kenny bellowed.  Huh, big spender for a Monday.

The waiter picked up the bill and stood back, holding it against the light.  “Excuse me, but how come you’re giving me a hundred?  This ain’t payday.”

“Are you saying my money’s no good?”  The cop’s voice took on a menacing tone.

“No, I ain’t saying that.  It’s just that it’ll clean me out of change.  A little early in the day for such a big bill, especially on a Monday.”

“Fine.  I guess this beer’s on the house, then,”

“No, no, I’ll change it.” The waiter grudgingly went to the cash register and sorted through his drawer for enough bills.

As the waiter walked away, one of the cops said, “How come, Joey?  How come you’re so flush?  Lottery ticket pay off?”

“Nah.  Cody paid off. Not as much as usual, but he’ll make it up later.”

“Cody?  What’s up?  He doing another deal?”

“I ain’t sure.  There’s something weird going on.  Got some woman tied up in his trailer.”

“Oh Jesus.  He should know better.” 

“I know.”  The big cop took a swig of beer and banged the mug on the table.  “The lady’s husband called the dispatch a little while ago.  He said he knew for sure Cody had her. Lucky I was there when the call came in.”

“Christ. He’d better be careful. He’ll be in deep doo doo if he gets caught. What’s it all about?”

“This here woman’s daughter was with that Kevin DuFrain got killed after Christmas. Cody says she took money that was owed to him and ran off to Puerto Rico. Says he’s just keeping the mother until the girl gets back.”

“This don’t sound like the kind of thing we usually get mixed up in.  I mean, it’s one thing to look the other way on his drug deals and meth labs--but kidnapping--I don’t know.”  The other policeman, small and with a baby face, seemed worried.

“Look,” the big one looked behind his shoulder to see if anyone was listening.  His eyes rested on Kenny for a second before going on. “No use killing the goose that lays the golden egg as my mother used to say.  “Cody’s usually good for a thousand a month when things go OK.  If he gets busted, we can kiss that goodbye.”

Kenny lowered his head and licked the cracks on his knuckles. They didn’t even care if he heard what they were saying because they thought he was a retard. He was used to people thinking that about him.  Wouldn’t they be surprised if they knew he and Cody had gone to the Alternative School together?  That’s what they called the special high school for dummies and delinquents. Kenny had been the former and Cody the latter.  He knew Cody all right-- remembered every time he’d imitated the way Kenny stuttered.  Pushed his face into the drinking fountain just for laughs.

The cops finished their beers and left.  Kenny rooted around in his pocket and ordered a beer.  The change in his pocket had been sparse.  If Mike didn’t show, he would have to go home and eat the food he’d smuggled out of the dish room and hidden under his sweater--some sandwiches that had come back downstairs on patient trays.  A lot of the patients didn’t eat their food and it was supposed to be thrown away after that.  It was against the rules for the workers to eat it, but he was alone a lot, so he helped himself to whatever he wanted.  The boss had caught him a couple times; told him it was dirty and he’d catch a disease from the patients, but he did it anyway, and he was never sick.

At five thirty Mike still hadn’t shown up.  Kenny was getting hungry.  He decided the two ham sandwiches he’d brought from the hospital would have to be his dinner, after all, and reluctantly, he got up to leave for his rooming house a block away.  He was just standing up when the door opened and Mike Basinki walked in.             

“Hey, buddy. Been waiting for me?” Mike stood at his table, snow dripping from his thatch of dark hair.  He was one of the few people who knew that Kenny wasn’t really retarded.

Kenny sank down into his chair, his spirits soaring.  Mike would probably buy a whole pitcher of beer, enough to give him a good buzz on before he went to bed tonight.  “Wondered if you was coming in” he said. “Thought you might forget it was wash day.”

It was a shared memory they always joked about.  At first, there had only been a wringer washer, and their mothers had spent all day doing laundry in the basement of their building, cutting up Fels Naphtha Soap into the hot water. Later, Mike’s parents bought an automatic washer and dryer, and let Kenny’s mom use it for free. Mike’s mom had done other things, too.  Given them bread and peanut butter to get them through the week when the old man was out of work.  Mike had been looking out for Kenny for a long time.

“Ah, yes.  Gotta have my bean soup and cornbread on washday.” Mike laughed, signaling for a waiter who quickly brought the coveted pitcher of frothy beer and two glasses.  Bean soup and cornbread was the Monday night special at the Bush.  It tasted the same as Mike’s mom had fixed, letting the pot of ham hocks and beans simmer all day. 

The door burst open and several more policemen walked in.  “Hey, Sheriff,” they called when they saw Mike.  They always called him Sheriff, even though he hadn’t been one for a long time. One of them, a big shouldered man with a square jaw and hard eyes stopped briefly and gave Mike’s hair a tousle.  “How’s the detective business,” he jeered, “Digging up any dirt?”

Mike’s ears turned red the way they did when he was getting mad.  The cop was always making fun of Mike, teasing him about being a private investigator. Kenny clenched his fists under the table but said nothing. “Not much,” Mike responded, calmly pouring a beer for him and Kenny.  Seeing he wasn’t getting a rise, the cop moved to join his buddies at a table across the room.

Kenny said: “Them guys don’t like you much, how come?”

“I know too much about them,” Mike said.  “I make them uncomfortable.”

“I know something about ‘em, too, something they wouldn’t like you to know.”

“Really?  What would that be?”

Kenny looked over his shoulder to make sure no one could hear and propped his hand on his cheek like he wasn’t saying anything important.  “Them cops that just left.  They was talking about some woman Cody’s got tied up in his trailer.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed and the knob on his neck moved up and down as he swallowed hard. “What do you mean, got some woman tied up?”

“Something about she’s got a daughter in Puerto Rico who’s supposed to owe him money.”

Mike frowned.  “Are you sure it was Puerto Rico?”

Kenny nodded his head.  He knew what he had heard.

Mike’s eyes went from the ceiling to the floor.  A cockroach crawled by and he stuck out his foot to stamp on it.   He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, pouring another glassful of beer for himself. 

Kenny wondered if he’d said something to upset Mike, because he was moving his head back and forth ever so slightly as if something was building up inside him.  Finally, he asked: “How long ago did you hear this?” in a voice so low Kenny could hardly hear what he was saying over all the loud talk and laughter, plus the TV blaring over the bar.

“I dunno.  Right after work.” 

Mike dug in his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills.  “Tell you what,” he told Kenny, “I just remembered something.  There was a guy I was supposed to meet.”

“You mean you’re leaving already?  Before you’ve had your dinner?”  This was bad news, because it meant this would be the last of the beer.

Mike nodded.  “Don’t worry, I’ll leave enough for you to have a bowl of beans, old buddy.”

Kenny was relieved.  There would be more beer.  Mike would never know what he did with the extra money, and anyway, there were those sandwiches from the hospital if he got hungry later. 

* * *

Mike sat in his car for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do.  He hadn’t heard from Maggie since he’d told her what he knew about her daughter.  The cops had talked about a girl in Puerto Rico. But couldn’t they have misunderstood, and that it was actually Costa Rica? He told himself that Kenny probably hadn’t heard right.   He got nervous and excited easily, just the way he did when he was a kid and his Dad had beat him up for wetting the bed.  His poor mother, with five kids to raise and a drunken abusive husband.  The kids going to school in ragged clothes, half starved. Then the teachers at the public school decided Kenny was mentally retarded.

Mike’s mind wandered back to those early days for a few minutes, but he was brought back to reality by the loud roar of a train, the beam from its engine flooding his car with light.  What was he waiting for?  He’d simply call Maggie and find out what had happened.  Then he’d go back inside and have his ham and beans.  He picked up his cell phone and dialed her home phone number.

Jed Carrithers answered after one ring.

“May I speak with Maggie?” Mike tried to keep his voice natural, unconcerned.

“She isn’t here,” was the terse reply.

“Can you tell me where I might reach her?”    Mike was sure, now, that something wasn’t right.

“Not now.  May I ask who’s calling?” 

“This is Mike Basinki.  I don’t know if she’s mentioned me to you or not.”

“Of course, the detective.”

“Mr. Carrithers, I don’t want to get you upset or anything, but do you know where Maggie is right now?”

Jed inhaled and exhaled.  There was a pause.

Mike tried again.  “I really need to talk with her.”

Jed sounded angry.   “Why?  What is it?  What’s so urgent?”

“Just something I overheard that I think she needs to know.”