Chapter 6
It was late Thursday; Guildern grinned to himself anticipating Angela’s return, so he was not prepared when 3 members of the Cuban Rasta band “Venceramos Brigade” reappeared spilling through the doorway climbing on stage and looking around for an audience. “Jefe, ese - que pasa, ¿donde estan las ovejas?” Jaime Quixote hollered to Guildern, though Jaime was not the front man, he coordinated schedules and logistics, so Guildern was not backward in his reply.
“Da’ fuck are you doing? ¿Donde has estado ESE?” Guildern asked, climbing up onto the dais and into Jaime’s face - being an efficient manager and unassuming personality; Guildern’s taut workingman’s physique was not what Jaime expected to be dealing with when he entered the bistro and he 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 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 that we were headlining 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 lips.)
Pasqual had been gone since Saturday; Angela since Sunday; and Mordecaise since Monday - Guildern had never felt so lonely laughing so hard.
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Mordecaise was landing in Mexico City when Pasqual landed in Da Nang: Mexico was the last entry on Domhall’s passport and Buena Vista Oaxaca C/O Carina Abeja was his last known address. It did not explain how Domhall Schmuck’s corpse arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay minus documentation or how Carina Abeja came to be executor of the 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 to Oaxaca. What have you discovered about this mysterious Sra. Abeja?” The visibly fatigued man folded his lanky frame into one of the too small seats of every airport lounge in the world, guiding his friend Gonzo by an 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 without a hint of scandal: each spouse died of natural causes, and no heirs claiming. Domhall was the only intestate decedent.” Mordecaise showed no surprise, listening impassively. “When Domhall disappeared she immediately notified the authorities and was, by all accounts, distraught. I’ve made no effort to contact her at her artist commune in the hills outside of Oaxaca.” Gonzo finished his report waiting while his friend digested this information.
Eventually Mordecaise took out his notepad, making notes and thumbing through pages placing marks at previous references. He looked up at Gonzo with some surprise at 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 any local authority you’ve spoken with?” Gonzo did not answer immediately, though his expression made clear that he’d thought much about the puzzle. Mordecaise 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 boarding for Oaxaca was announced, 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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13:30 Pasqual pulled up in a cab to “Duyên Dáng Homestay on Cua Dai in Hoi An, about the time Sysa Phish was hissing “stupid cunt” imprecations to an indifferent Angela late on what would be her last Thursday night shift at the Excelsior in Punta del Este. The rancor of her manager had become scar tissue rather than foundations for professional development; Angela knew the job was over; any perturbation was not worth the compensation: Angela calculated her exit thankful for Guildern’s open invitation for a home at the “Croc;” With more than her typical attention to detail, she eyed the Digital-something CEO and his consort homesteading table 2 for the past 3 1/2 hours, on their 4th magnum of Dom Perignon, with no more than hors d'oeuvres on their tab to show for it . ..
.. . “Mijchaa” he slurred onto her hip when she passed their table, “deze oystures, son muyie mahlo - nongonna payie fur dem. Poot da’ bille on hour rooom; n’ send dos mas botillias champagnee y’ bettur oystures, tooo room 666. Mebee estupido tu gunna ghet a beeg bonus fur beaan soo damm ‘Purty.
Angela smiled inwardly, “I’ll be happy to arrange that for you; if you want to go now, it will be there when you get to your room. Please sign this for your receipt, handing them a blank sheet. Thank you very much for your patience with our poor service.” She waited until they had stumbled toward the lobby, nodding luxuriantly in their direction. After she’d cleared out her locker, and filled in their order on the blank sheet, she stopped to confer with Sysa Phish; “the guests at table 2 are waiting for 3 liters of ‘Gusano Rojo Mezcal’ and a kilo of Escargot to be sent to their room; I’ve added it to their bill.” Angela handed the authorized order to Sra. Phis, saying sweetly, “Thank you again, Sysa for giving me Friday night off - it means the world to me.”
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Pasqual had not had a drink since Angela stabbed him in the liver 7 years earlier, nor did he understand exactly why he’d ordered a bourbon neat when the flight attendant was providing refreshments somewhere over the Pacific on his flight to Viet Nam. But when he had arrived in Hoi An after a 36 hour journey with two 6 hour layovers and the glass of warm scented water when he arrived, the beer and glass of ice cubes, the kindly proprietress offered him seemed heaven sent. The innkeeper was a chipper lass full of winning ways and an inscrutable grin beneath her twinkling almond eyes framed perfectly by her heart shaped face. Pasqual was seated at a low bamboo table with a taciturn, but not unpleasant man that turned out to be her 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 4 hours while she pumped him enthusiastically about his life abroad and his reasons for being in Hoi An.
As a latino raised in Brownsville Texas, Pasqual was accustomed to being interrogated, but never so kindly; he felt no threat from the proprietress, Nữ Thần Ngon’s questions, rather flattered by the attention of an attractive Vietnamese woman. The brother’s prior silent attention was piqued when Pasqual mentioned Hue; he then queried Pasqual further after it was understood that Pasqual’s journey included archival research concerning two decedents - Pasqual’s uncle, “Missing in Action” since the Tet Offensive of 1968, as well as information about the death of an expat, Reynaldo Schmuck who expired near the Từ Hiếu Pagoda in Hue, a little over 6 months earlier, though the death certificate was issued in Da Nang, he’d been a resident of Hoi An. An hour later feeling more like an alien transported into another realm than a seasoned operative on a mission in a foreign land. He regrettably excused himself and sought the sanctuary of his nearby room, being asleep within minutes of his head falling onto a crisp cotton pillowcase.
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Mordecaise rose from his 1st class seat the moment the aircraft door opened and the passengers began the slow shuffle to exit. He did not check any luggage and had passed through the exits of the terminal in search of a Taxi, when two refrigerator sized hombres materialized on each side of him flashing official badges with a bearing that Mordecaise recognized as authentic functionary. The long executive model police vehicle at the curb waiting with open doors confirmed his guess. He entered the vehicle minus his two escorts who closed the door behind him. He found himself facing a portly fellow who spoke English with a slight German accent, Sr. Liszt, so good to finally meet you. We’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival with questions regarding the disappearance of one Domhall Schmuck. Please accept our hospitality during this investigation pertaining to our National Security.” The rotund face contained pinkish hued jowls and pursed lips giving him the appearance of a hamster chewing when he spoke. When the man finished, he sat back in the ancient leather seat looking for all the world like a senior citizen resigned to waiting for a bus.
“Am I in custody?” Mordecaise asked gazing tiredly in the direction of his captor.
“Si señor, but we prefer to think of it as a professional courtesy,” the fat man responded gazing out the car’s darkened windows.
“If I’m in custody, what is the charge¿ may I ask?”
“Manipulation of the Sovereign Currency of Mexico.” The portly man said simply without a trace of guile, watching Mordecaise’ face intently while he said it.
“Am I allowed a phone call” replied Mordecaise, raising his empty palm, more as command than polite request.
“Cierto.” Mordecaise’ phone materialized on his open palm; rather than return the phone, he placed it in his jacket pocket, where it stayed for the time being.
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Guildern was ecstatic when he learned of Angela’s decision to remain permanently in Montevideo. His joy seemed to resonate from the stone walls that Thursday when she surprised him with her early entrance. “Che and the Venceremos Brigade” had won the toss and played the first of alternating weekends that Guildern had mandated the night before, after the two bands tried to settle their conflict using egos and butter knives. Guildern brandished his machete from behind the counter which ended all 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 the two of them cared; Guildern tenderly danced the “her” of his world around the dance floor. Ever the perceptive professional, the front man Che Quimera conjured Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” from the band when Angela’s luminous eyes moistened during the slow rhythmic dance. Alas the universe wasn’t buying sentiment that night, and just for emphasis, Guildern’s phone began chiming Liszt’s “Mephisto” - Guildern had no choice but to break the spell and connect with the traveling Mordecaise.
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“Amigo, this had better be good,” he answered in a not unfriendly way.
“I’m in jail in Oaxaca, Carina Abeja is not picking up: It’s a bogus charge of mistaken identity based on a doctored photo from from an airport rent-a-cop with too much responsibility and a passion for detective magazines.”
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 had been a judge for the Miss Universe Contest?”
“What’re you a fucking comedian! I’m in jail, without sleep, 10s of 1,000s of kilometers from home, and you want to crack wise? Da’ fuck is the matter with you?” His friend’s complete lack of humor should have alerted Guildern who was just realizing he’d better calm his friend down before someone got hurt.
“I know an Abogada in Oaxaca, Sra Luz de Ley - she will be there within the hour, will you be okay that long?” Guildern knew his friend would be okay when he replied in rapier fashion . ..
“Unless a rabid chupacabra gets me first,” Mordecaise had hung up while Guildern chuckled to himself.
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
jts 03/02/2021
http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com
http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
prohibited from AI sampling in any form
reprinted with permission; all rights reserved
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