030221 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 6

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

∞

290121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 5

Leslei was landing in Paris waiting for her flight to Marseilles when Pasqual boarded his flight for Viet Nam. She was curiously refreshed though she’d had 3 glasses of wine and had been flying against the Earth’s rotation; not so giddy to ignore the 3 conspicuous “suits” making every effort to not know each other. Filed away under: questions for Mordecaise. Until their international channel could be synced, it was unlikely she would be receiving much information from Pasqual, nor was it a good idea until the “muddy water” cleared. There was little left but to savor the gentle rhythm of the french language, and to acclimate back into the oenophile culture she remembered so fondly from her days as an art student, and so conjured a Merlot for company while she waited to board.

Her acute vision was an invaluable asset for her work as an operative in the nebulous and increasingly lucrative field of estate recovery; from her perch at the airport bar, she was able to easily discern the 3 suits picking through the news stand glancing to where she was seated rather than the boarding gate. She’d forgotten the fun of field work - the cat and mouse exchange of who’s doing who, and the role of the unexpected. He wore well traveled draw string muslim pants, an overloud Hawaiian print shirt, sandals and dark glasses inside the terminal - reading a book rather than scrolling a handset and took no notice of his surroundings. Leslei was not comfortable when it became clear it was she whom he eventually took notice; even behind dark glasses she felt his scrutiny.

If not her hackles, certainly the fur on her forearm rose when he sat down in the aisle seat to her window seat. Nor was his obvious, nearly rude attention discouraged by her pointedly aloof replies, all that had happened since the appearance of “Mr. Shades” was losing track of the 3 suits. Finally her hackles did rise as she exited her cab heading for the lobby at the airport hotel after their flight when he fell in step, oblivious to her unwelcome, he seemed cheerful and courteous to the clerk inquiring about the food at the hotel restaurant; turning to Leslie he asked “would you care to join me for a bite to eat?”

In a voice that could curdle butter, Leslie smiled and replied, “I’d rather have a boil lanced.” 

Alone in her room with the travel and turmoil of the past 20 hours catching up, she puzzled over the strong antagonism she felt toward the stranger in the dark glasses. She knew nothing about him except his forthright visual curiosity, and after a very few minutes of increasing emotional confusion, she lay back into the pillows and was in a deep sleep when the lights shut themselves off, not waking until the automatic drapes began to open with the morning sun. By the time she’d showered and was waiting for the shuttle to the car rental, she’d nearly forgotten her peculiar experience from the night before.

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Pasqual did not remember the mind numbing boredom of airport terminals, but after 6 hours into his 10 hour layover in Seoul South Korea, it was no longer a memory, the boredom was driving ceaseless steps back and forth across the length of the international airport. It seemed an eternity to him that he would not be in Da Nang, until 10:00 the following day, with no idea how long from there to Hoi An - the last permanent address for Reynaldo Schmuck though he died at the Từ Hiếu pagoda in Hue.

Pasqual’s tote began to chatter from his phone’s vibration, surprising him that it wasn’t off. “Hello,” he answered not looking at the number.

“Buenos Dias young traveler.” Mordecaise had a unique phone voice like that of a trusted news announcer. “We had no time before your flight; we need to get on the same page” Pasqual had retrieved his sketch pad where he had started notes for the journey, Mordecaise continued his soliloquy “Interesting information has come to light about the Schmuck Estate, Information from the probate files of the Executor of the parent’s estate, Lammele Dama; it became public at the death of Domhall Schmuck, the eldest and apparently last of the line, are you getting all this?” 

Mordecaise had worked long enough with Pasqual to leap right in when necessary, and enjoy the niceties of social convention when possible. “I want you to take precautions during this trip, hyper-vigilance if you will; not just with the case data, but the unknowns of your journey. How are you, where are you, what do you need from me?” Pasqual appreciated his employer’s concern, more so when it was least expected.

“M’good - Seoul, here for four more hours. Da Nang by 10 tomorrow; can’t say about Hoi An or Hue” checking his list, before answering further - “a contact within the civil-authority, politburo, and National Bank would help if shit goes south · more simple the better, like you taught me. What about the Renoir, are you tracking with DHL?” 

“The painting is traveling slowly and surely; I have calls in for contacts in VN, waiting on replies. There is an open traveler’s insurance account with ‘Sojourner Fidelity’ under your name, and the Embassy in Hanoi has your estimated itinerary filed; contact the undersecretary Phuc Yeu for anything: we’d gone to school together at Berkeley, just make no cracks about her name - it won’t play well. I am serious about the Hyper-Vigilance, the delicacy of this file has increased by an order of magnitude is all I can say until we are on a more secure channel, got a call, gotta go.”

Pasqual stood staring past his phone into the cavernous terminal with 3 hours and 50 minutes left before take off. Leslei’s txt msg only read “Watch your back,” alone again, searching for any face searching for him.

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The “Croc” was always too empty for Guildern after Angela left for Punta del Este; he was relieved when Mordecaise sat down. “Have you spoken with Pasqual about what you shared with me? Will ya’ have some asado with your wine?” Guildern asked scrutinizing what he could about his friend’s bearded expression.

“Yes, and thank you; that would be good. No, he hasn't got the full story. He needs to get his ‘sea legs,’ travel is a job in itself.”

Guildern returned from placing the order and brought a 3/4 pitcher of Tinto Rojo from the cask of good stuff. Pouring liberally into Mordecaise never-quite-empty goblet, Guildern tried to be helpful. “He will be in greater danger the longer he doesn’t understand it’s: billions not millions you’re playing with.” A flash of fury lit Mordecaise eyes if one knew what to look for, then it was gone. “Even as a trained accountant, I cannot conceive the amounts represented by the strange codicil of the Schmuck estate; now that it’s public record, there'll be blood in the water.” Mordecaise nodded with a “d’ya think?” expression.

“Alerting the lad before we know more would only blunt his native instincts, and possibly telegraph unnecessarily our knowledge; right now it’s routine, let it stay that way for as long as possible.”

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When Leslei arrived in Aix, she drove straight to Demsford’s cottage near Bibemus Quarry. She learned from the landlady that the stone enclosure had been converted from a stable by she and her husband just before he died a year before Demsford took out a twenty year lease. Her ruddy face betrayed a faraway place as she recounted the kindness of a stranger. Leslei also learned that Demsford had not actually died in Aix-en-Provence, but at the Plum Village monastery of the late Thich Nhat Hanh. Demsford’s body had been shipped to Aix by the executor of his estate, Lammele Dama as a courtesy to the Buddhist community. His body was eventually cremated and scattered over Mont Sainte-Victoire. 

On a whim Leslei inquired whether the cottage was available; the landlady chirped happily, “Oui”! pulling Leslei along a shaded path to a massive stone archway, large enough to contain french doors and a diamond shaped stained glass faithfully replicating one of Paul Cezanne’s paintings of the Bibemus Quarry.

Leslei had just put away her purse having counted out 3 month’s rent, when a Sherwood Green Aston Martin ground to a halt splaying gravel and spitting out an ascot-throated cartoon character, monocle and all. “I say, I’m here for the advertised ‘Rustic Cottage’,” pulling his Gucci suitcase from the trunk, placing it into the confused arms of Madame Ouvrière who spoke no word of English.

“Sir,” Leslei advised gently, “that property is no longer available;” holding the keys up to his furrowed gaze for inspection.

“I beg to differ, young Miss,” no longer looking at Leslei, but speaking directly to Madame Ouvière having no idea still that she understood nothing of English. “You see, I just concluded a call with my solicitor in London to secure this property for a month commencing today,” addressing the mystified Madame Ouvière, who was shaking her head while clutching his suitcase to her chest as though it was a towel and she’d just been interrupted coming out of the shower. His aristocratic aplomb was beginning to flake and his privilege was turning to bluster. Facing Leslei while extending a belligerent upturned wrist, pinky pointing into her face as though he’d expected the house keys to materialize in his palm.

“Yes of course, I see how you might imagine that to be true, but if you don’t get your hand out of my face, you’ll be retrieving a bloody stump · is that clear enough?” She said this quietly with venomous menace; the flustered gentry pulled his pinkish paw close for inspection, maybe looking for a wound, but certainly feeling the pain of humiliation. “Perhaps if you contact your solicitor, he or she might be able to find you another accommodation¿ Had you been a tad less pretentious, you could have enlisted Ms Ouvière’s help for local knowledge.” Leslei said this glancing at the stranger’s suitcase toppled in the grass where Madame had dropped it as though it was plague infested when the stranger stuck his hand in Leslei’s face.

“That is your reply?” Having recovered his dignity, poise following like a spoiled child. “Clearly you have no idea who I am, or the enemy you have just made. I am The Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon; Monsieur Archdai Tryump at your service. You will be hearing from my solicitor.” Pulling up his suitcase like a boss, tossing it into his vintage vehicle with complete disdain for quality, value or propriety, he gunned his engine and was happily gone like a hangnail.

She heard “The Pretenders” chain gang playing on her phone and knew that Pasqual had left a text message.

    "thru customs da nang - china reported 314 cases covid at vietnamese border · wish me luck"

     

jts 29/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

all rights reserved

260121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 4

   Angela woke up as the horse carts began to clatter below their window; Guildern’s pillow was still warm when she pulled it close to wake up against. “Good morning little darlin’” wiping off his sturdy frame, Angela got her first look at the stab wound from Friday night, and asked Guildern to wiggle his fingers. “It’s okay,” clinching his fist as much for effect as curiosity. “The First Aid kit is downstairs; let’s wrap it up here,” stepping out the doorway down the stairs naked. After 6 years, he could still surprise her. “Shall I put coffee on?” came his voice from the bottom of the stairs,”or would you like some more sleep?”

   “Good idea,” she called from the door before pulling up her running shorts and sports bra. Angela was a timeless 40 and wore her skin well - having worked in bars and restaurants for most of her adult life, she had never been enticed by the habits of bistros preferring instead the endorphin fix of a good workout. Prancing down the stairs she pirouetted into Guidern’s outstretched coffee-cupped arms. “Aren’t you sweet,” relieving him of one and pecking him on the cheek, before seating herself to lace up her moccasins. Pasqual had shown her the wisdom of running barefoot, of the many things she’d learned from her first love. With the sound of a key in the door lock Guildern sprinted up the stairs.

   “Morning M’lady,” Mordecaise chirped merrily, “entertaining naked men again in the empty bistro, I see. Arghh yuh be a bawdy one - doubt my blinded-by-love mate knows the better · poor dumb ox;” he chirped planting a peck in her forehead. He laid an unfolded note on the table in front of her. She could tell from the writing it was Paqual’s.

Boss, Aside from the mayhem on Friday, things are pretty well in hand - 

The Renoir has shipped. Based on our conversation last night; I accept

your offer to investigate Reynaldo’s death and have booked a flight

to DaNang for tomorrow evening late. Pasqual

Angela wasn’t prepared for this news, and gingerly stepped toward the door, waving over her shoulder just as Guildern reached the table. The two men watched the door close, then looked at each other in the manner that only old men can.

Staff began to arrive for the busy Sunday and the two men retreated to the back table. Guildern normally inquired very little into Mordecaise’ varied business interests, so he was surprised when Mordecaise asked, “Is Angela going to be okay with this?” Guildern was unsure what he was asking, so he waited while Mordecaise stared into his goblet of Tinto Rojo. “I’ve never seen anything like this before: 3 dead brothers within a year of each other; a large estate with no one claiming, or at least no one talking about it; feels like something’s hinky.” Guildern watched his friend folding and refolding Pasqual’s note.

The front door burst open and the painted lady dragged her young friend inside the darkened room by his earlobe. “Puta guay, m’gonna feed you your cajones cuando tengo un puto cuchillo,” fairly spitting this into his trembling face. Knowing only that music loosened their pursestrings and the cuban rasta band remained MIA, Guildern rose slowly like one might facing a rabid dog, rabid, but very gifted dog.

“Sra, disculpe. Puedo Ayudar?” pulling a chair out while moving heavy objects to the nearest table Guildern guided the fraught woman and her nearly inert charge into seats at the nearest table. “Háblame,” he cajoled kindly into the direction of a materialized glass of water, lifting it to her fearsome, but calming face, Guildern was all ears: except a dropped conversation 3 tables away, Angela’s curious goodbye; who would be entertaining tonight; why was Pasqual on his way to Vietnam? . .. 

The painted lady relaxed visibly and pointed to the red-faced recently released man-child: “fucking puta hit on some extrana in running clothes after pleading for a ‘raise.’ What would you do¿? besides cutting of his pinche verga? Clearly she didn’t expect a reply, instead peering with daggers into the face of her chastened poodle. Guildern had heard nothing from the Cubans and enticed the painted lady’s surprise act; “I’ll pay you for two days - 3 sets if you stay through to 5 am.” She was placid in her reply; simply standing.

“Yes, c’est bon.” Picking up a leather strap at the nape of her, alert, cautious companion and leading him from the table toward their quarters of last night’s surprise opening. Guildern, stood and bowed, pinching his fingers together in the universal “filthy lucre” gesture, then the more recognizable, however ambiguous peace sign with splayed finger; meaning in this case, times 2. The painted lady nodded, with her perceptibly truculent, however compliant poodle in tow. 

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Leslei was in her seat on the runway when the text message arrived while taxiing. “will apprise M of ur dest; deprtng now for VN: kpn tch” While no longer the crap shoot flying had become during the 1st pandemic, the thrill of travel, however inexpensive was gone and only the interminable hours of waiting and lack of sleep remained to the former “charm of distance”.

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Pasqual was finishing his packing, stuffing his travel tote with preprinted boarding passes and his passport when the bell called from the downstairs’ gate. “Who is it?” though he was looking directly into Angela’s eyes staring at the camera in the entryway on his phone. 

She looked right into the camera, “funny,” she mouthed, making no sound - “just open the fucking door, fool.” He still enjoyed her front, though she’d never hear it from him, he pressed the buzzer, and she pushed through the gate. Her expression as he opened the door, even after all these years was as indecipherable to Pasqual as the mind of a baby. She didn’t wait for an invitation pushing past him into a room she’d never been in. “Viet fucking Nam¿ Are you stupid?

They stood in the middle of the room unable to look at the other - unable to look away. “What’s wrong with Vietnam?” he posed, knowing her reply would have no effect on his itinerary - curious the same; he had great respect for Angela’s nimble intelligence. “1/3 of China perished in 2027; have you looked on a map recently¿” She was not listening, rather expressing her feelings physically; arms folded, a foot facing forward reducing her profile to him into a single long line peering from the pinnacle of her glance into the obelisk of Pasqual’s still soul. 

“What do you want¿” as he turned back to tracking the movable parts of his world into his new home. She knew, nothing she would say could change his “pigheaded” mind, so she spoke from the heart.

“I want you to be safe,” then turned to the door that hadn’t quite shut; she pulled it to her like a lover, and blew Pasqual a kiss gazing at him as though through time. 

Pasqual had completely closed down like a burglar when the light switch gets thrown. He began to breathe again when the door lock clicked shut. It took him 10 minutes to find his passport and the to do list:

1) cat food

2) fish to manager - pay rent 3 months

3) pay electricity - 3 months

4) vaccination record 

5) scooter lock l

6) birth certificate

He knew if he did not sleep the journey would be more dangerous, so he shed his clothes drank the last of his turmeric and marijuana tea laid himself onto his pallet and breathed into a deep, deep sleep.

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When Angela returned for the early evening shift, Guildern was at the back table  uncharacteristically still with his face to the wall - Mordecaise leaning into his open ear. It was a full Sunday night, and Angela did not have a minute until the end of ‘Rojita & Rojo’s’ 2nd set; they were crowd tamers; Angela was upstairs packing her things for the ride back to Punta del Este when Guildern touched her startled shoulder. “Hell of a weekend, eh? Are you going to be okay?” Angela felt his gentle caress, appreciating him all the more. Since Friday, he’d been stabbed; lost his headliners; supported his friend with generous attention and was able to open himself to her abrupt ways.

“I am, and grateful; more grateful than I know how to say.” She turned and nestled into his arms like into a warm bath at the end of long run. “I’m not ready to leave, and not ready to stay.” Can you come and spend the night in Punta del Este - give your arm a rest; the sea is a healing body.” The invitation was not quite open, urgent in a way; she looked at her phone and waited, not looking at Guildern, just waiting. He rose and touched her shoulder with a finger raised .  .. Mordecaise looked up and listened to his friend, nodding at intervals. Minutes later as the 3rd set began, Guildern came down the stairs with satchel stopping next to Angela and glancing around the room; she rose, and they left.

Angela listened intently during the train ride to Guildern’s recounting of a story that explained Pasqual’s journey but did little to soothe her anxiety: they could not get through the door quickly enough to satisfy their need for naked communication - words had no meaning in the terrain they wandered through for hours. When Guildern finally woke, Angela had left a note on the table with an empty cup pointing to either the coffee pot or the beach beyond. She was finishing her barefoot run just as he peeled his shorts off and waded into the gentle waves for a saline soak before the long ride back to the “Croc”.

Guildern’s neatly arranged world was fraying warp by woof once again and he knew there was fuckall that could be done, but remain alert and open: hopefully positioned to aid and assist friends as they marched toward destinies, which by circumstance defied explanation but remained pregnant with meaning - meaning minus understanding · a lot like the first 30 years of the 21st Century. 

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                        I

jts 26/01/2021

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

∞

210121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 3

   Mordecaise savored this information like it was a tender morsel just off the grill smiling past the curious expression of his important asset - Pasqual Ortega. “3 brothers dead within a year of each other,” Mordecaise repeated into the cacophony of the “Croc.” It was that cheerful hour before the “sauce” had yet begun to corrode natural kindness in the hearts and mouths of its quaffing patrons. Pasqual could feel his mentor’s interest, though there was no physical indication that he’d heard a word, other than a quiet murmuring in the general direction of Pasqual. His phone began to vibrate on the table doing a shuffle toward the ashtray full of marijuana butts from the afternoon. “Hello, Leslea - thank you. Yeah it’s weird enough; can you talk¿ are you encrypted?” Knowing this precaution only slowed the “state’s surveillance, it did serve to dust the digital trail of amuture interlopers.

   “I’m as quiet as I’ve means to be; never seen anything like this - 3 siblings dead within a year of each other; with the two brother’s estates intestate, then cascading to Domhall who is also apparently intestate, with ‘no known heirs’. Their estimated combined assets are over $12.9 million; I can almost hear the wolves howling in the background. What have you learned?”

   Pasqual did not respond to her question, rather asking one instead, “Have you ordered death certificates for Reynaldo and Demsford?” She grunted affirmative. “Do you have a cause of death?” he asked not waiting for an answer.

   Leslei was accustomed to Pasqual’s brusqueness, though he was particularly curt in this call. “I have calls into the local authorities; for Demsford who died in Aix en Provence, my French will suffice, but for Reynaldo who died in Hoi An Vietnam Google Translate will really require email communication to be effective, or an operative fluent in Vietnamese; I’ll let you know when I get that information.”

   “See if the local police can help, they may have translators. Text me when you hear anything. Gotta go” Pasqual turned off his phone and looked back toward Mordecaise who’d been listening while jotting notes in his old school note pad. “Leslea got as far as she could; the bad news is they are both considered foreign decedents, so the estate filings will be at a snail’s pace; Demsford’s estate would have been going to Reynaldo - then to Domhall, who apparently was intestate; the good news is the three are foreign decedents, etc., etc.”

   Pasqual waited for Mordecaise’ attention, rather than to interrupt . . . without looking up Mordecaise asked, “Were you able to arrange insurance and a bonded carrier for the Renoir in NYC?” After 6 years working together, Pasqual was accustomed to Mordecaise’ eidetic memory and tried to be prepared for questions before they were asked.

   “Shipping with DHL/Special Handling Unit; additional indemnity with Prudential, Waiting for from/to and customs declarations from you; the forms are in the ‘outgoing’ file in your locker.” Mordecaise’ flip phone’ ring tone “Mephisto’s Waltz” signaled the rare occasion of an incoming call.

   Mordecaise had already unfolded his lanky frame into long strides toward the front door against a rising client tide that had been swelling for the evening crescendo that was the “Croc’s” bread and butter; telephone nestled with attention into the crook of his towering figure, elbows akimbo dodging noggins unaware. Angela was aware as the painted redhead and her swain from the Excelsior in Punta Este dressed in matching crocodile skin boleros and knee high crocodile skin boots began to elbow their way toward the stage as indelicately as Mordecaise had gently exited. Angela turned to the voice in her ear, “The Cuban Rasta band canceled 45 minutes ago - These two are ‘Roja and Rojito’, please try and help them set up, it’s all we got for the night.” Guildern was receding toward the alcove with a handful of bills before Angela could reply while watching the restive crowd watching the red duet perch on the dais in their curiously appropriate attire.

   The Red Dame nodded as Angela approached giving no indication that she remembered Angela from their exchange the day before at the Excelsior, though the pretty lad was still leering at Angela as he obsequiously attended to the slightest gesture from the painted lady. “Is there anything I can get you?” Angela inquired shifting stools and tables to fit with the slight instrumentals and equipment the couple had already commandeered. “Absinthe if you have it, Ouzo if you don’t - or just Bourbon neat if that’s the best you can do. He’ll drink water”, nodding to her paramour and his seemingly tattooed salacious smirk. The crowd like a grove of old growth trees had digested the gossip from the night before and began to twitch like a shiver of sharks with blood in the water. 

What happened next will remain etched in what was left of Angela’s presumptions about the world and her ability to ‘know everything’: after the death of her child, the loss of her homeland, and her 1st love. Three chords into the opening set, the painted woman broke into a haunting spot on rendition of Lila Downs’ cover of Cuco Sánchez’ “La Cama de Piedra.” Angela stood rooted unable to turn away from the haunting sound of a mute room filled with the ache of a song; before the sound faded “La Cumbia del Mole” began to fill every empty space of that transfixed room, and thrummed with the congas of the more-than pretty lad. Guildern was as struck dumb as any block of rock that comprised the essence of very that very old, and aging room, but continued to prepare deposits from the till.

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   As an elder woman born to the late 20th century, Leslea Corkturn was accustomed to being cutoff and so unfazed she focused her substantial attention back to the task at hand, focusing on the facts she possessed: 3 dead brothers worth millions; a colleague dodging direct inquiry; deaths under questionable circumstances associated with estates leading nowhere. She signed on to her VPN account and booked a ticket for Paris the next day, and texted Pasqual advising him of same, requesting additional instructions. “Landing at CDG, then MRS - will call when rested.” She commenced packing, while adding notes to her phone, bluetoothing them to her laptop which auto-loaded to her neon green thumbwheel and then deleted all previous threads; leaving a single lighter-sized record of her transactions + selected audio & visual recordings.

She was able to live out of a single carryon wheeled valise and kept a separate traveling wardrobe in the ready, so was packed and prepared for sleep within minutes of hanging up the phone. Leslea had studied fine art in her youth and was looking forward to seeing Aix-en-Provence again having spent a year in the city living at the International Student Dormitory working toward a PhD in Fine Art during her 30’s; this proved helpful in booking a room on short notice. Part of the Demsford Schmuck estate that Leslea was able to uncover was a small cottage, near the Bibemus Quarry. It was as good a place as any to begin an investigation into the death of the first of the Schmuck brothers - she hoped.

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   “Yeah?” Mordecaise answered, listening closely while trying to decipher the incoming number from the 1,000s in his memory bank. “Monsieur, Lizt c'est Pierre à Marseille avec les informations que vous avez demandées,” hearing no reply, Pierre continued; “le défunt a succombé aux blessures d'un accident de moto il y a un peu plus d'un an. Les autorités ont localisé deux frères; un à Hoi An, au Vietnam; l'autre à Montevideo, en Uruguay, dont aucun n'a répondu à de vastes demandes de renseignements. La valeur estimée de la succession du défunt est de près de 3 millions USD.” Though they’d never met Pierre appreciated the fair-trade wage scale which Mordecaise adhered to religiously, and so waited some moments before he inquired, “¿avez-vous d'autres instructions?” 

   Not wishing to alert his able operative, Mordecaise spoke casually; non, c'est très utile; Je vous rappellerai si vous pouvez faire autre chose - une question d'assurance de routine. ¿Comment vont la femme et les enfants; Celeste est-elle complètement rétablie? signaling the demands of business, Mordecaise - responded buoyantly, “Bon, Bon - mais .  ..” Pierre acknowledged their mutual demands, by hollering into the phone with a warm au revoir as the connection broke. 

Laying down his phone, Mordecaise looked to Pasqual and asked, “Can Leslea travel¿ she is French fluent, oui? Pasqual was thinking about the 2nd brother Reynaldo realizing the city he died in was close to where his uncle Ernesto died during the Tet offensive of ’68 in Viet Nam. It was as close to revery as Pasqual got; he loved his uncle and felt again the dull ache when told of Tio Ernesto’s death.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    I

jts 21/01/2021

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

∞