Angela bit Guildern’s ear lobe then rose and was out the door for an early morning late run. She relished her new life minus Punta del Este and the Excelsior Bar & Grill, while Guildern could not get enough of her. Guildern’s phone began belting out Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up”; the tight-knit affiliation of renegades working out of the Croc used phone ring tone handles, so 50 meters from the Croc, Angela knew that Pasqual was calling, which at this hour meant he could not reach Mordecaise directly and needed Guildern. Angela sprinted back to the Croc phone to her ear asking “Pasqual, are you okay?
“Yes, thanks - you? It’s been a busy 48 hours, and have not been able to reach Mordecaise; there is nothing wrong, just checking channels. How is Guildern’s arm, do you know anything of Mordecaise? Angela opted to say nothing about her move to Montevideo, instead offering Pasqual to help anyway she could, before she handed Guildern’s phone back to him; she looked deep into Guildern’s eyes then said by way of goodbye to Pasqual, “I’ll let him tell you about his arm, Please take good care of yourself;” handing the phone to Guildern, the two shared an unambiguous lover’s gaze glance, before she pranced a boxer’s two-step back out the door to her interrupted run.
It took another 5 minutes for Guildern and Pasqual to update each other; Pasqual rang off unsure if he’d gained intelligence or muddied the waters.
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Angela returned from her run to find Guildern at the front door intently watching as Rojita swung Argentine Bolas over her head like any red-headed gorgon might if she wanted to helicopter back into the heavens using an earthly contraption of Renaissance design; her apparent target was a cowering Rojo behind stacks of wine casks near the stairway to the apartment.
Having none of this shit in her new home, Angela took a broom near the door and calmly began sweeping her way toward the occupied Amazonian; when in a blur, Angela pirouetted low Capoeira style plunging the broom handle neatly upward into the whirling trine, twining it instantly into a maypole of uniquely Uruguayan design. Guildern embraced the startled virago like a Panda might palm a spitting kitten.
“I often wondered what you did for entertainment when I was gone, ‘Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.’ - Oscar Wilde,” was all Angela muttered.
Eying the becalmed Rojita, Angela asked her as gently as she knew how, “Girl what in the fuck is wrong with you? You think ‘cause you sing like an Angel, you can act the fool too? If it was me, I’d fire your ass, but it ain’t my place, and Guildern won’t obey me like Rojo do you. Keep that in mind if you ever get bullshit with me.” Angela was not looking for an answer, and left the three of them to sort out what they could before opening; she still had sand between her toes from running on the beach and no idea what Pasqual had said about Vietnam
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The abogada Guildern sent - Luz de Ley arrived early at the elbow of one of the monolithic escorts who had met Mordecaise at the airport. “Señor Liszt, I’ve spoken with the Commandante, and if you will surrender your passport during the investigation; sign for a 100,000 MXN bond, you are free to go.” Sra. Ley was a native beauty of indeterminate age with a regal bearing; and waited patiently for Mordecaise to respond.
“I’d like to make a phone call before I decide; it may be more practical for me to accept the government’s hospitality a little longer before I commit that sort of Bond. Do you know any of the government’s reasoning for making such an outrageous accusation?.” Sra, Ley was looking at her phone when he asked his question.
“Apparently it was an irregularity with your baggage claim, and customs declaration - your suitcase contained $25,000 USD which you did not declare.”
“I did not declare it because I have no checked luggage; nor anything but Uruguayan Pesos, a little over 500 UYU.” Sra Ley seemed surprised, if there were words to describe her expressions. Mordecaise remembered that Gonzo Veneno had texted him something about tails at Aeropuerto CDMX; “Sra Ley, could you give me a few minutes to check about my connection in Mexico DF. With her affirmative nod, Mordecaise texted Gonzo as briefly as he could to explain his situation and find out if there were any photos that would explain the “frame” he was facing. Minutes later Mordecaise was reading a txt from Gonzo:
“Man am glad to hear frm u - fnd atchd phtos of sme gys boostng rcpt @ counter w/ur signtur + affidvt frm clrk statng sme · hve arprt police rpt if necess. fotos enclsd” Mordecaise brought this back to the counselor looking hopeful, providing context where helpful.
Sra. Ley was nodding into her phone when she took Mordecaise by his elbow guiding him through a labyrinth of hallways until he recognized the door of the Comandante from that morning, the door to his office read - “Comandante Fernando Gonzalez”. The door was answered by one half of the monolith bookends from the aeropuerto; he and Sra. Ley were ushered back into the portly Comandante’s diminutive office. “Sra. Ley has informed me you have documentation that will help clarify this unfortunate introduction to our tranquil community; may I see the exculpatory evidence?” holding out his pinkish paw.
Mordecaise’ mind raced trying to fathom what could be compromised by this exchange, and because nothing had been said about his primary reason for being in Oaxaca, he determined it best to be as cooperative as possible, bringing the phone to Señor Gonzalez, opened to the appropriate screens. After a few moments of scrutiny the Commandante’s pursed lips turned to a warmish smile - “Clearly this could have been a great miscarriage of justice. If you will give me just a few more minutes of your time so that I may confer with my compadres at Aeropuerto MEX, I am certain all of this can be easily resolved. May I ask if you recognize either of the two gentlemen in these photos?” Mordecaise shrugged his shoulders and the Commandante needed no interpretation, but one half of the massive ever present escorts leaned down whispering in Señor Martinez’ ear - who nodded as the immovable mass glided out the room.
After a few tense minutes of murmured telephone exchanges, Pasqual and Sra. Ley were dismissed with a flick of the Comandante’s wrist after he had bowed ceremoniously and proffered Mordecaise his passport with what could be construed as an apology in an alternative universe. On their way out of the Police headquarters Mordecaise recognized one of the two from the photos; the man he saw was visibly shaken, bruised and being led in the same doorway they’d just exited. Turning to his abogada, “One of them must’ve followed me from Mexico DF; I’d like to learn what the Comandante finds out in their “discussions.”
“I’ll see what I can do” is all the preoccupied advocate would commit to. “Where are you staying?” she asked, “Guildern mentioned that you had a contact here in the valley.”
“Let me see if my contact can be reached.” He took out his phone and was checking for messages when Carina Abejas strode up to him from out of the mist of pedestrians one might find in front of any municipal building in any city of the world; she reached up behind his startled neck to pull his bearded face down where she nuzzled her mouth into his long beard and pulled his tongue into her mouth like an unreluctant morsel of exotic pasta at the end of a fine meal.
Sra. Ley was still on her phone but not oblivious to the carnal display of a near stranger and his perfect stranger companion, nor that her focus was split in half. The powerfully compact stranger handled her equally surprised client like any vaquera with livestock; when she surreptitiously withdrew a strong hand from under her native poncho and mingled supple fingers into the tangle of their facial embrace, then touched his lips as though quenching a candle, or cautioning silence all the while looking directly into Sra. Leys’ captivated glance; reflecting on this event later in following weeks, the counselor was never sure if the gesture was an invitation, or territorial declaration.
Mordecaise gathered his dignity and bowed deeply to his advocate; thanking her profusely and backing up in tow by this newly intimate stranger, miming the universal “I’ll call” split fingers to his cheek for the benefit of the otherwise composed professional woman at the door to the police station; climbing into Carina’s ancient vehicle of doubtful mechanical integrity with an obviously confused Satyr’s leer wrapped around his bearded grin.
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Leslei had climbed out of the porcelain bathtub ready to take on the world when “Get up Standup” began playing on her phone; standing naked as she was born to be, she answered as such, “I’m dripping wet from a long soak; I’m happy - keep it that way,” she smiled into the phone while searching for a towel.
“Well good on ya’, what do you know, or have you just been soaking since you arrived.” Pasqual had not forgotten the weekend they’d met at a Rasta Rave in the Mojave Desert at the height of the 1st wave of Covid deaths. Social distancing and practical precautions manifested in that enlightened gathering by way of front to back sex, creative prophylactic masks and much focus on herbal research for heightened immunity through diet and prayer. He and Angela had agreed to a relationship time-out until she discovered her pregnancy the week following that weekend he and Leslei had spent making love to rock and roll music amid the rocks of the Mojave Desert - so near, yet so far.
“Ya’ may want to take notes: Demsford Schmuck took a 10 year lease on the cottage where I am not staying - a fluke; he was making regular pilgrimages to Plum Village about 600 km North by Northwest from Aix; it’s not clear whether his interest was sectarian or aesthetic. There is a large body of his work specific to Aix, as well as sketchbooks full of drawings annotated “Plum Village,” he was no dilettante. I spoke on the phone with the sitting Bhikkhu of Plum Village, Thich Tok Longh trying to determine whether to go now or later. As you know Demsford was comatose when shipped back to Aix, where he subsequently died from an intracerebral hemorrhage. I am waiting on permission from his estate to access the autopsy that was conducted in Aix. By all accounts, there were no suspicious circumstances; it’s access to his medical history that’s a little tangled, especially with Reynaldo’s death in Vietnam 6 months later; perhaps you can help with that?” Pasqual was accustomed to Leslei’s attention to detail but struggling with the disorientation of travel and the density of her report.
Like a tennis game between old friends Pasqual leaped in when the ball landed in his court,“It’s not clear what has happened to Mordecaise - he was jailed on arrival in Oaxaca; i just got a text from him that he’s free and alls well. We’re going to need a way to handshake info - I will not use ‘clouds’, they’re not secure, and this is no longer a routine estate; it’s beginning to look like a snowball gaining mass rolling through an avalanche - social media & email are no way to organize; any one of us could be neutralized in an instant. The two goons that waylaid Mordecaise could’ve been agents of the corporate empire · My sense is that the ‘Al Qaeda’ model would be a more robust rubric, any thoughts?”
Leslei had been thinking along the same lines; the best, she asserted, was ‘hiding in plain sight; the last place they’d look’. Pasqual nodded to himself and suggested to Leslei, “coded transmissions on the fb newsfeed, is good, let’s normalize channels. You contact Angela and work out the details; we should include random key changes, keeping the whole thing as simple as possible. Good work girl - mindfulness may be our only friend · yes?” more by way of closing; they hung up on each other
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Mordecaise was butt naked in front of a fire pit outside the temezcal in which they’d spent the afternoon discussing the death of Domhall Schmuck. After Carina explained her behavior at their introduction in front of the police headquarters, - he was deeply impressed and much calmed by her rational quick wittedness; what better cover than two long lost lovers unexpectedly reunited, however her explanation of Domhall’s last days beleaguered even the hyper-vigilant mind of Herr Liszt; his reacquaintance with the gentle magic of mezcal smoothed the tangles of the day and left him feeling curious and alert.
The lattice of shade from the setting sun through the Guaje grove of Carina’s Artist Colony created a dappled fabric of light and dark that helped Mordecaise frame connections about the disparate parts of this far flung puzzle which began as a phone call less than 2 weeks earlier. His regard for the Schmuck family had transfigured from the venal odor of commerce that normally explained his sideline estate investigations into a deeper tragedy about 3 dead orphans in a tragic world defined by the dead and dying of the past decade - he felt deep gratitude to be alive and standing where he was.
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