Holy Guacamole! (18 page)

“You know how he always manages to be out of town when the opera performances come up? He swore to me that he’d be here for the Friday night
Macbeth
, and sure enough Friday morning he had business in Cincinnati he just couldn’t postpone. Or was it Chicago? Anyway, you don’t want to get mixed up with Professor Tigranian. It was all I could do to keep Ray Lee from suin’ the university, and God knows he loves the place dearly an’ gives them tons of money. I have to nag him forever to get our yearly contributions to the opera and the symphony. Oops, my masseuse is knockin’ at the door. Keep in touch, honey.”

She was off the line before I could say thank you, and Maria-Reposa was getting ready to leave. Maybe I’d have time for a nap, after all. I didn’t have another obligation until one-thirty, and if we were going to see the dean, surely Dr. Tigranian would mind his manners, so I could sleep easy.

How to Catch Salvador Barrientos

S
o Barrientos had
moved up the drug ladder and was maybe mixed up in the smuggling of illegal immigrants. Boris had said the connection to Vladik was gambling debts, but that didn’t sound right. Drugs and smuggling should be enough to keep a mid-level guy like Barrientos busy, unless it was a personal gambling debt. But the smuggling could sure connect the two. I needed more information. After considering my sources, I called a longtime connection in the DEA, Hector Parko, a guy who could go undercover and pass for anyone. Word was that he’d been assigned to a desk for a few months after getting hurt on the job in Colombia.

Hector was glad to hear from me. Once I told him I was doing pretty well with my illness, he wanted me to come out of retirement and join the DEA. “You an’ me, babe—not a drug-dealing scumbag in the world the two of us working together couldn’t put the screws to. We could pass for a nice middle-aged, dope-head couple, or dealers with a soul for romance. Or—”

“Hector, sexy as you are, I’m not into the idea of being the object of your lust. Anyway, we’d never know when my knee would start in and leave me limping.”

“Plenty of crips among the folks I’m after. You’d fit right in.”

I made a rude noise in his ear because, even when it’s so, I don’t appreciate being called a crip.

“Okay, babe, if you don’t want to come back to work, what do you want from Hector?”

“Information. What else?” I retorted. “You keeping your eye on Salvador Barrientos? Palomino. I hear he’s doing real good for himself.”

“Temporary. Only temporary,” Hector assured me. “That pendejo couldn’t keep from fuckin’ up if his mother’s life depended on it.”

“You ever hear he was taking bets?”

“Nah. He likes to gamble, but he’s always on the wrong side of it. Puttin’ his money down, not taking other people’s bets.”

“Smuggling? People?”

“That I’ve heard. Yeah. He may be runnin’ some coyotes. If he is, and it’s not a deal his cartel put him into, he’s gonna get his ass kicked from here to Guatemala.
La dopa
—that’s his main thing. I wish the bastard would come across the river. I’d put him out of business.”

“Any dead-or-alive money out on him?” I asked.

“Oh, so that’s your interest.” Hector laughed. “There’s twenty-five thousand. Not big bucks, but if you bring him back to me, babe, the money’s yours, and I’ll take you out on the town and dance that fucker arthritis right outa your bones. Count on it.”

“That’s a better offer than my doctors are making. Thanks, Hector. I don’t suppose you’ve got a Juarez address on him. Another source said he had a place in—”

“Campestre—that fancy country club area with the golf course. Think he plays golf? I’d like to see that. He’d probably keep coke in them golf socks and heroin dissolved in his water bottle.” Hector gave me the address.

Not likely I could get in there, but I could try. Now I needed to know where he hung out. Barrientos wasn’t smart enough to be careful about stuff like that. I called a couple of Juarez numbers until I hit pay dirt. I should have remembered about the singing. Barrientos liked to sing with mariachi bands. Not so many of those places left these days, or so I’ve heard. His favorite was called Mariachi Caliente, and he showed up there a couple of times a week, according to my source.

Okay. There was the line I’d use to reel Barrientos in. With Carolyn as bait. Barrientos knew me, or used to. But I wasn’t on the job anymore, and if I showed up at Mariachi Caliente with a respectable music lover like Carolyn Blue, he just might bite. He even liked blondes. He used to say he bleached that skunk streak in his hair to lure in blonde
chicas.
They’d be about the same age—Barrientos and the very nice Mrs. Blue, opera lover. If she told him his singing reminded her of some tenor—Caruso or someone—Barrientos would fall all over himself making up to her.

Perfect. I bent and stretched my knee. No pain. I was up to it. We could find out if he killed Gubenko, and if I brought him back, the twenty-five thousand wouldn’t hurt. I punched in Carolyn’s number, wondering if she’d want her share of the money. Well, if she hung in there with me and did a good job, she’d deserve it. I pictured her lighting into that scuzzball at Brazen Babes and thought the whole deal just might work.

“This is Luz. Vallejo . . . What the hell. Were you asleep? . . . Well, wake up and listen. I got a lead on Barrientos. So we’re going to dinner in Juarez tonight. Great restaurant. You’ll like it.” I’d like it too. Best margaritas on the continent. Should do my joints a world of good. “You can write a column about it. That’s what you do, isn’t it? . . .

“Say, are the meals you eat out tax deductible? . . . Great. That should save us some money . . . No, we’re not meeting him at the restaurant. We just want to get across the bridge without causing any notice. Two women going to dinner at a fairly early hour. No sweat. We’ll look for Barrientos after dinner at a mariachi club. . . . So if he’s not there, we go back tomorrow night, or is your husband coming home and he won’t let you go? . . . So what’s the problem? . . .

“You drive . . . Of course you can drive in Juarez. There aren’t any more assholes on the roads over there than there are here in El Paso, and believe me, if we have an accident, no one wants to call the police. . . . All right. So you don’t like the word asshole, and you don’t want to drive in Juarez. How do you think we’re going to corner this guy? By riding the tourist trolley? . . . Yeah, there is one, and no, it won’t help us.

“Pick me up at seven. Wear something moderately sexy but still in good taste. We want Barrientos to be taken with you without trying to screw you under the table . . . Just kidding, Carolyn. See you at seven.”

I hung up before she could raise any more objections. Of course she could fail to show up, but I’d have to take that chance.

Surely, she doesn’t expect me to go over there with her,
I thought.
And why does she think Jason controls where I go?
I was really irritated about that, especially since Jason was acting so peculiarly and making me uneasy in a way I’d never been before.
All right,
I thought defiantly.
I’ll do it. In fact, it sounds exciting, chasing down a drug dealer or bookie or whatever he is. We’ll be in a club, after all. What can he do to us? And there’s the restaurant. But does Luz really know a good restaurant from a bad one? Well, I’d be finding out. In the meantime, I’ll simply ignore the problem of driving in Juarez, which is truly terrifying.

I looked at the bedside clock. Twelve-fifteen. Hopping out of bed, I rushed to change my clothes, comb my hair, put on lipstick, and fix some lunch. There were leftover enchiladas in the refrigerator. I zapped two in the microwave and ate them, keeping my mind on the afternoon’s tasks. Once I’d met with Dr. Tigranian and the dean, I’d look up the Russian girls. After all, l had a trunk full of donations for them, not to mention the possibilities of part-time work, maybe even a used car, one that would start and keep running. I imagined how happy they’d be. Maybe I’d follow them out to the trailer with my presents.

Moderately sexy but still in good taste?
What did that mean? No, I wouldn’t think about the mission Luz had proposed. Time enough to worry about that when it was too late to back out. Maybe my car would break down, and I wouldn’t have to go.

Protecting Academia

As Dr. Tigranian
walked me at a very rapid pace from the Fine Arts Building to the Liberal Arts Building, I wondered irritably why I couldn’t have of simply met him at the dean’s office. He hadn’t said a word to me in his own office other than, “Hurry. I don’t want to keep the dean waiting.” Well, I wasn’t keeping the dean waiting. I’d been exactly on time. Tigranian had kept
me
waiting outside with his secretary while he shouted at someone on the telephone about the care of tubas.

The dean’s secretary showed us right in, and there stood a short, plump man with fuzzy gray hair on head and chin; small, round spectacles; and a vested suit with the jacket removed. “Why you’re the Middle Eastern history professor,” I exclaimed. I’d had a fascinating conversation with him at a presidential reception. He and Jason are both chaired professors.

“And you’re Mrs. Blue, who likes medieval European history.” He shook my hand. “I’m also the dean. I don’t think you know my name. Lester Latimer Britten, spelled like the English composer of ugly operas, as Tigranian can tell you.”

“I never said ‘ugly operas,’ ” the music chairman declared. “I love Benjamin Britten.”

“I like the Italian composers better myself,” I said, always happy to discuss opera. “Verdi, Puccini, Bellini, Donizetti.”

“I quite agree. Much more pleasant,” said the dean. “Except for that performance of
Macbeth
staged by Gubenko, with whom, I hear, we’re having problems.”

“Postmortem,” I agreed. “You did know he’s dead?”

“Small wonder,” said the dean. “It’s a miracle the audience didn’t accomplish that. I personally like
Macbeth,
both play and opera, in period costume. I wonder who hired that man.”

“I didn’t hire him,” shouted Dr. Tigranian, as if he’d been accused. “That Russian Don Juan, that seamy, long-haired . . .”

Oh dear,
I thought.
Dr. Tigranian’s working himself into a rage again
.

“
You
must have hired him,” Tigranian roared at the dean.

“I did
not
hire him, and if you insist on having a childish temper tantrum in my office, Tigranian, I shall call security and have you locked in the men’s room until you cool down,” said the dean, without ever raising his voice. Then to me, “Now, tell me, my dear, did you read
Desert Queen
as I suggested?”

“I did,” I replied enthusiastically. “And it gave me the shivers. So many things she talked about are happening all over again in the news.”

“He who doesn’t read history is doomed to relive it,” said Dean Britten. “I’ll be discussing
What Went Wrong
at your book club next spring.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“What is this?” demanded Tigranian, who had been sulking over the threat of being locked in the men’s room. “Gubenko leaves us with an ugly mess, which could explode in our faces and get us sued, and you are talking about romance books.”

“Hardly a romance,” said the dean. “A very timely biography that teaches us about the unfortunate parallels between Arab-English relations in the period of the first world war and American-Arab relations now. But you’re quite right; we need to address this unsavory situation with the two Russian music students. It’s not the first time we’ve had a similar problem, you know, but it wasn’t in our college, and the young women, although they had student visas, weren’t actually our students. That sort of thing couldn’t happen now. The government is keeping close track of foreign students these days. Still, there’s no question that we have to remove these young women from their present situation and see that they receive their degrees, in due time, without being sexually exploited.” He patted his fuzzy beard as if hoping to rearrange it into a tidier configuration.

“Tuition is not a problem. Gubenko arranged for that, and I can see that the grant continues next year. However, I understand that their housing accommodations are unacceptable.”

“Disgusting,” I agreed. “I’ve visited their trailer. It’s not fit for human habitation, but no one seems to know who owns the trailer, whether Vladik rented it for them, or owned it, or—”

“Yes. Well, we always have people dropping out of school and leaving the dormitory—for the most part athletes who haven’t made and will never make their grades. Therefore, I can provide the young women with a double room and board in university housing that, happily, has already been paid for by the athletic department. Do you think that will suffice to solve the housing problem, Mrs. Blue?”

“I’m sure they will be terribly grateful and relieved. When can they move in?”

“As soon as they like.”

“Maybe we can do it this afternoon.” I glanced at my watch. “They can call the dreadful man who is making them work for free now that Vladik is dead, quit on the telephone, and refuse to tell him where they’re going, if he should ask. That should take care of that problem.”

“I can’t provide them with jobs, however,” cautioned the dean, “and Dr. Tigranian tells me there’s no money in his budget to hire any student help.”

“No money?” said Tigranian. “Worse than no money. We’re—”

“Shhh,” I cautioned, putting my finger to my lips.

“Stop doing that,” he retorted, voice quieter.

“Maybe I should try the
shhh
option,” said the dean dryly. “I’m sure, Mrs. Blue, that you know the state legislature is cutting our budget to the bone.”

I smiled. “I hear about it all the time; however, I’m hopeful that members of Opera at the Pass, and, incidentally, they don’t know about the strip club, just that Vladik was supporting the girls—”