It was late Thursday; Guildern grinned to himself anticipating Angela’s return, and unprepared when 3 members of the missing Rasta band spilled through the doorway and climbed onto the stage looking around for an audience. “Jefe, ese - que pasa, ¿donde las ovejas?” Jaime Quioxote was not the charismatic front man, Che Chimera - though he coordinated schedules, and logistics so Guildern was not backward about asking him,
“Da’ fuck are you doing? ¿donde has estado ESE?” Guildern asked, climbing on the dais and up into Jaime’s face - being an efficient manager and unassuming personality; Guildern’s taut workingman’s physique was not what Jaime expected when he sauntered into the bistro, and backpedaled quickly to a stool looking up from under downcast eyes.
“Si, maestro. Discúlpeme Señor - la cárcel de Buenos Aires: el Che golpeó a un policía el miércoles por la noche por una multa de estacionamiento, Solo nos liberaron porque se inspector se entero de que éramos headliners en el Crocodile Café de Montevideo. Tu eres famoso, solo lo liberarán cuando confirmes y compones 2 noches por cuatro personas - Por cierto, debe saber que el Che estaba tan agradecido que le dio un gran beso húmedo en los labios sorprendidos del inspector).
(Yes master - in jail in Buenos Aires - Che slugged a cop Wednesday night over a parking ticket. They only released us because the inspector learned we were headliners at the Crocodile Cafe in Montevideo. You are famous - they will only release him when you confirm and comp 2 nights for four people. BTW you should know Che was so grateful that he planted a big wet kiss on the inspector’s surprised lips.)
Pasqual had been gone since Saturday; Angela since Sunday; and Mordecaise sine Monday - Guildern had never felt so lonely laughing so hard.
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Mordecaise was landing in Mexico City when Pasqual was landing in Da Nang: Mexico was the last entry into Domhall’s passport and Buena Vista Oaxaca C/O Corina Abeja was his last known address. This explained nothing about how Domhall Schmuck died in Montevideo, Uruguay or how Corina Abeja came to be executor of his estate. Gonzo Veneno was at the departure gate for Oaxaca when Mordecaise finished with customs. “Don Liszt, it is good to see you again - ¿cinco anos, no?” Mordecaise nodded, glancing toward the departures screen.
“At least far too long. Thank you for meeting me and arranging my flight. What have you discovered about this mysterious Sra. Abeja?” as the tired man poured his long limbs into a too small seat typical of every airport lounge in the world, tugging his friend by the elbow to an adjacent seat.
“Mysterious: but practical and consistent; she has been widowed 3 times in 12 years; each time to a wealthy older foreigner in poor health, with no stink of scandal: each spouse dying of natural causes, no heirs - each leaving everything to the Sra in a will. Domhall Schmuck was the only intestate decedent.” Mordecaise showed no surprise listening impassively. “When Domhall disappeared she immediately notified the authorities and by all accounts distraught. I’ve made no effort to contact her at her artist retreat in the hills outside of Oaxaca.” Gonzo finished his report and waited while his friend digested this information.
Eventually Mordecaise took out his notepad, making notes and thumbing through pages marking previous references. He looked up at Gonzo, seemingly surprised by the presence of an old friend. “Gonzo, that is excellent work. What is your sense about how Domhall Schmuck ended up dead in another country with no record of travel? Does Ms Abeja figure in the mystery according to local authorities?” Gonzo did not answer, but made clear he’d thought much about the puzzle. Mordecaise then asked, “Have you had any communication with Lammele Dama? the executor of the parent’s estate” leaving out that he had.
“There is a sealed codicil is all I’ve learned; Sr. Dama has not responded to numerous inquiries,” again waiting for his friend’s reply which never came; instead Mordecaise rose when the boarding was announced. He embraced Gonzo and kissed his patient friend on both cheeks never looking back as he trudged toward an antsy boarding crowd, taking no notice of the 3 ‘suits’ in line watching him trudge from over their shoulders while Gonzo snapped telephone photos that only Mordecaise would see.
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20:30 Pasqual pulled up in a cab to “Duyên Dáng Homestay on Cua Dai in Hoi An, about the same time Sysa Phish was hissing “stupid cunt” imprecations at an indifferent Angela late on the Thursday night shift of the Excelsior in Punta del Este, Uruguay. The rancor of her manager had become scar tissue rather than any foundation for professional improvement, and Angela knew she was not long for the job, however stable an income it had been, that compensation was not worth the perturbation, so Angela contemplated her exit to Guildern’s open invitation to full employment at the “Croc,” using more than her typical attention to detail while eyeing the Software CEO and his consort squatting at table 2 for the past 3 1/2 hours on their 4th magnum of Dom Perignon, and nothing more than hors d'oeuvres on their open ticket. ..
“Sir, I have arranged the 30 grams of Beluga Caviar to room 314 as you requested with lightly crusted sourdough croissants, if you would initial here, I will see that they are delivered within the hour.” The happy sot did not look at the bill, nor at Angela as she retreated to the kitchen to stir 3 teaspoons of Dulcolax into his order, after which Angela modified the tab to “one 30 gram serving and 1 kilogram tin x 2 of Beluga Caviar.” Angela was adjusting her coat in front of her open locker, her letter of resignation in plain site when Sysa Phish presented Angela her weekly check announcing that her days off had been changed to Tuesday and Thursday, beginning the following week. Angela looked at her superior and remarked “Thank you so much, for all your kindness.” Angela was gone out the back door while Sysa Phish pondered what that might have meant, and why Angela had left her locker open.
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Pasqual had not had a drink since being stabbed in the liver by his wife 7 years earlier after the death of their baby Jesus, nor did he understand exactly why he ordered Bourbon neat when the flight attendant was providing refreshments somewhere over the Pacific on his flight to Viet Nam. But when after he had arrived in Hoi from a 36 hour journey with two 6 hour layovers and no sleep the inn keeper offered him a beer and a glass of ice - he was only too happy to accept. She was a chipper lass full of winning ways and an inscrutable grin beneath her twinkling almond eyes. Pasqual was seated at a low bamboo table with a taciturn but not unpleasant man that turned out to be the elder brother and a leading figure in the community. Bowls of noodles and spring rolls appeared at the low table and Pasqual’s glass was never empty for the next 2 hours while she pumped him enthusiastically about his life and reasons for being in Hoi An.
As a latino man raised in Brownsville Texas, Pasqual was accustomed to being interrogated, but never so kindly; he felt no threat from the cheerful inn keeper, Tieh Ngong’s questions, instead he was flattered by the attention of an attractive Vietnamese woman. The brother’s theretofore silent attention was piqued when Pasqual mentioned Hue; and he then queried Pasqual until he understood Pasqual’s journey was primarily archival research concerning two decedents - Pasqual’s uncle, “Missing in Action” since the Tet Offensive of 1968, and the death of an expat, Reynaldo Schmuck who expired at the Từ Hiếu Pagoda in Hue, a little over 6 months earlier, though the death certificate was issued in Da Nang. An hour later feeling more like a space traveler having been transported into another dimension of the universe, than a seasoned operative on a mission in a foreign land. He regrettably excused himself and sought the sanctuary and solitude of his nearby room - asleep within minutes of entering his room and laying his head on a crisp cotton pillowcase.
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Guildern was ecstatic when he learned of Angela’s decision to remain permanently in Montevideo. His joy seemed to resonate off the stone walls that Friday night at the Croc. “Che and the Venceremos Brigade” had won the toss and played the first of alternating weekends, which Guildern mandated when the two bands tried to settle their conflict using egos and butter knives night before. Guildern brandished his new machete from behind the counter and issued the alternating weekend edict ending further discussion.
“Querida,” Angela peered into Guildern’s darkened eyes when the “Brigade’s” tempo had slowed and the two had taken to what dance floor a repurposed room like the Croc could provide. The band could have been playing “La Cucaracha ” for all they cared, as Guildern tenderly turned the "her" of his world around the dance floor. Ever the perceptive professional performer, Che conjured Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” from the band when Angela’s luminous eyes moistened during that rhythmic embrace. The universe wasn’t buying that sentimental slop, and for emphasis, Guildern’s phone began chiming Franz Liszt’s “Mephisto” - there was nothing to do but break the spell and make connection with the traveling Mordecaise.
“Amigo, this better be good,” he answered in a not unfriendly way.
“I’m in jail in Oaxaca, Carina Abeja is not answering her phone: It’s a bogus charge of mistaken identity based on a photo from from an airport rent-a-cop with too much responsibility and a passion for detective magazines, or it's the competition.”
Guildern didn’t know what to say. “You’re kidding, right?” He was used to peculiar events following his friend like hungry puppies, but this was new. “Have you told the authorities that you’d been a judge on the Miss Universe Pageant?”
“What’re you a fucking comedian! I’m in jail, without sleep, 10,000s of kilometers from home, and you want to crack wise? the fuck is the matter with you?” His friend’s complete lack of humor should have alerted Guildern who realized he’d better calm his friend before someone got hurt.
“I know an abogada in Oaxaca, Sra Luz de Ley - she will be there within the hour; you be okay that long?” Guildern knew Mordecaise would be okay when he replied with rapier alacrity . .. ...
“Unless a Chupacabra with Covid gets me first.” Mordecaise had hung up before hearing Guildern's chuckle.
jts 03/02/2021
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