Planet Willie (21 page)

26

At the station
I am only too pleased to find the Chief in his office. Adding to that pleasure
is that fact that my old friend Rodrigo is on duty at the front desk and sees
me greeted by the Chief with the sort of bear hug that makes me wonder whether
he’s still got pheromones in his system. Makes me sort of wish Saint Chief
Mahoney could get down here sooner for a training seminar. Might really improve
morale in our department.

“I love the
whole world!” the Chief shouts to nobody in particular. He may even pinch
Rodrigo’s rear as we pass. I wouldn’t want to say.

In his office
we have a seat, and I explain my predicament. I tell him he’s holding a friend
of mine named Mister Kis, who I’m hoping he might see his way to releasing for
good behavior and pesos if necessary.

“Mister Kiss,”
he says. “I like that.”

“I like it a
whole lot, Chief. That’s why I hate to see him in here.”

The Chief
shakes his head like he’s just devastated and tells me that if he’d known they
we’re holding an amigo of mine, he never would have let that amigo sleep a
night in his jail. Any amigo of mine is an amigo of his. “I love the whole
world!” he shouts again, then gets to chuckling a bit, which eventually I feel
the need to interrupt.

 “So about
Mister Kis,” I say.

“He is as free
as a bird,” the Chief says.

“I’d like to
compensate the department for their troubles if I can,” I say.

“Do not talk
to me about compensation,” the Chief says. “But I would like to introduce you
to my sister. You will love her.”

“I’m sure I
will Chief, but I wasn’t really planning on sticking around much longer in your
fine city, and certainly not in a romantic capacity.”

“Perfect,” the
Chief says, “because Rosa wants to go to America. Ever since she was a girl,
she has loved the show tunes. She is made to be a singer, Willie. In America, I
am certain she will find her chance.”

“I’m sure she
will, Chief,” I say, “but unfortunately I’m not too well connected in the show
tunes industry.” The Chief doesn’t appear to hear this, however, considering
he’s launched into his own rendition of
I Loves You Porgy
. I let him get
through a verse before breaking in with some applause. Then he takes a ring of
keys from his desk and leads me back to the cell block. As we walk, he pulls me
close and whispers that he’s a very happy man.

“I gathered as
much, Chief,” I say. “That was some party, wasn’t it?”

“Some party!”
he roars. “I’ve been waiting for a party like that for years!”

“Surely a man
of your stature doesn’t lack for entertainment,” I say.

“But oh,
Willie,” he whispers. “Nothing like the entertainment of seeing Ricardo Queso
put in handcuffs by your Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have been trying to
get out from under that man for years, and now I am
free!
They say he
kidnapped an American and won’t be leaving prison for decades.”

So Lady Eralda
and Alberto Pasha will be reunited, I’m thinking, a grin spreading across my
face as the Chief unlocks Kafka’s cell and shouts, “You are as free as a bird,
Mister Kiss.” Kafka just about falls into my arms.

“Let’s get out
of here, kid,” I say. “The sooner the better, if you know what I mean.”

“I will have Rosa here waiting for you in a hour,” the Chief says. “She will ride with you to Nuevo Laredo, where there is a man who will take her across the border. A
coyote
,
we call them. I will be forever in your debt, Willie.”

“Much obliged,
Chief,” I say, as I drag Kafka out past Rodrigo’s desk to freedom, never
intending to see the Chief again, much less his sister Rosa.

“Where’s
Twiggy?” Kafka asks, blinking in the sunlight.

“Nevermind,
kid,” I say. “We’ve got to pack up Che and get out of here.”

“I have to see
her,” he says.

“Then I
imagine you’ll find her over at Santa Pulcheria, likely in a habit. I’ll give
you half an hour, then we all meet back in my room.”

I watch him
walk off towards the plaza. Then I head for the hotel, where packing doesn’t
take more than a minute or two, which leaves time to put in a quick call to
Jimbo James in the hopes getting a handle on Rock Lightford’s fate and whatever
else awaits me in South Texas. When he picks up the phone, I tell him I think
I’ve spotted Lightford down in Mexico, where my own high diving career is really
taking off. Jimbo has so few occasions to demonstrate his intelligence that I’m
counting on him not missing the opportunity I’ve presented. Naturally Jimbo
obliges.

“That wasn’t
Rock Lightford,” he says, barking it out real serious like he’s talking to his
chief over the radio, “because three days ago he was found stark naked at the
bottom of an empty swimming pool across the bay in Texas City.”

“Terrible news,”
I say. “I’ll have to call Caroline to offer my condolences. If you don’t mind
me asking, what was the cause of death?”

“Cause of
death was diving stark naked into the bottom of an empty swimming pool. Or at
least that’s what it seemed.” Of course I’m expecting him to jump right in and
start asking me for an alibi, but astonishingly Jimbo doesn’t say another word.

“Seems like a
funny way for a professional diver to go,” I say after a moment. “Sounds pretty
suspicious to me. You boys suspect foul play?” More silence, which I’m
beginning to find near fascinating. “You got something else you want to tell
me, Jimbo?”

“Yeah, we
suspect foul play,” Jimbo sighs. “Head was bashed in, and his neck was broken.
In the back of this foreclosed house. I mentioned that he was stark naked, and
I mean completely, not even a swimsuit. The funny thing is, his truck was
parked out on the street, but we didn’t find any clothes anywhere. A guy drives
naked over to an empty house to jump into a drained pool? No, I don’t think so.
Then we searched his house. That’s where we found his clothes.”

“Stroke of
genius, Jimbo,” I say. “I’m guessing they were in the closet, but you’ve really
got me on pins and needles here. Do tell.”

“I’m referring
to the clothes the victim was murdered in. They were covered in blood.”

“Okay, so
whoever did it killed him at home, then drove him over to the abandoned house.
Is that what you’re figuring? Sounds like a lot of trouble to me. Easier to
just dump the body in the bay, don’t you think? Somebody trying to send a
message about our ex-diver?”

“Looks that
way,” he says, and against my better judgment I’m actually beginning to respect
ol’ Jimbo. Give him a murder case every day, and over time he might even become
personable.

“From the way
you’re panting into the telephone, Jimbo, I’m guessing there’s even more.”

“The clothes,
Willie. The bloodstained shirt. I think you’re gonna find this interesting. It
was pink paisley.”

“Damn,” I
sigh, somehow disappointed. Was I really killed by a professional diver named
Rock Lightford? “You think it was him?”

“We don’t know
yet. Maybe we’ll know something more once we get the shirt back from the lab. We
didn’t find a gun, but we’re looking at all his past associations.”

“Caroline?”

“Yeah, we’re looking
at her too, and you know better than anyone how much she likes to be looked at.
It’s funny, though. For once she seems genuinely upset.”

“I doubt
that,” I say, “but who knows. What about Susan?”

“Richard Susan
couldn’t be better. His wife’s probable lover is dead, and he just beat out
every other contractor in the region for the new sanctuary at Second Baptist.
Can’t figure out how he gets all these big projects. Hell, you could probably
build a better sanctuary than Richard Susan, and that’s not intended as a
compliment.”

“I’ll go ahead
and take it as one anyway, Jimbo,” I say. “You think Susan’s crooked?”

“That’s enough
questions for now, Willie,” he says. “Meanwhile you owe me a bottle of Wild
Turkey. Make it the twelve-year-old premium.”

“I’ll see what
I can do, Jimbo,” I say. “And one more thing before I leave you. Remember that
Alberto Pasha you were after? Turns out he was kidnapped and brought down here
to Acapulco. Long story, but the F.B.I. raided a place last night and found him
there. Looks like the cocaine in his car was a plant, but anyway, figured you
might want to know. Get a little jump on the local investigation, so to speak.”

After hanging
up, I sit there for a long while trying to make sense of it all. If Lightford
shot me, I doubt it was on his own initiative. Even if he loved Caroline, she
sure as hell didn’t love me anymore, so he wouldn’t have been jealous. Then
Caroline? Or is Susan in the mix again? Did he know Lightford before Caroline
developed her diving fetish? Does Caroline still have a diving fetish, and is
she familiar with the cliffs of Acapulco? I wish I knew, and I wish I had more
time.

Then I start wondering
what the odds are I’ll run into Lightford on some cloud once they zap me back
up, although if he murdered yours truly, he’s probably getting sent down to
hell. Then again, nobody up there has ever been able to tell me with any certainty
whether hell exists, so a showdown on Cloud Nine might be a possibility. It’s
all so complicated that a man could go crazy thinking it through, which is why
I’m particularly grateful to discover that the minibar has been restocked with
mini-bottles.

I drink for
another hour or so, and there’s still no sign of Kafka or Twiggy. The Chief has
made contact, however. He calls from reception. He was worried that there might
have been a misunderstanding, so he’s brought Rosa on over, and they’re waiting
in the lobby.

“Rosa is dying
to meet you, Willie,” the Chief says.

“Tell her the
dying’s mutual, Chief. I’ll see you in a bit.” Then I go back to my
mini-drinking, and eventually Kafka returns solo. He’s even paler than when I
left him at the jail. He’s found Twiggy, and from the way he flops down on the
bed, she also appears to have broken his heart.

“She’s
staying,” he says. “She’s going to take Catholic orders. It’s crazy, Willie.
She’s like some other Twiggy now. She says she loves the little orphans and
wants to devote her life to them, not to me. Che was over there too,” he says,
and if it hurts him, it may hurt me more. “Although he’s not Che anymore. She
let the orphans paint over the hood. I don’t know, Willie. It’s got this
picture of the Virgin Mary now, but there’s nothing artistic about it. Her nose
takes up half her face. It’s just sloppy.”

“It’s your
car, Kafka.”

“Not really,”
he says. “It’s ALF’s. We all paid for it.”

“Alright,” I
say. “Go pack your bags, and I’ll work out something, but we may end up having
to introduce ourselves to a cocktail singer named Rosa.”

Kafka manages
to lift himself off the bed and slumps off to his room, at which point I figure
I don’t have much choice but to go down and face the music, and I mean
literally. Rosa and the Chief are sitting over in the waiting area doing some a
capella. She’s got two suitcases at her feet, and when the Chief stands to
introduce me, she throws herself into my arms. Comes up to about my chest,
little Rosa, but what she lacks in size, she more than makes up for in pep. I
mean she won’t let go. Gets to jumping up and down with the excitement of it
all until I have to press my hands down on her shoulders to settle her a bit. She’s
got big bright eyes and a little mouth that shows two front teeth when she
smiles, which is more or less permanently. Her black hair’s cut short like a
kid’s, but the body’s all cocktail singer, the curves all the more dangerous
when they’re packed into five feet.

“We’ve got a
little problem, Chief,” I say.

“She doesn’t
take up much room,” the Chief says.

“I can see
that,” I say. “Problem is, even if she did, we are unfortunately no longer in
possession of an automobile to put her in.”

“This is no
problem,” the Chief says with a smile as Rosa bounces up and down next to him.
“In fact, this is perfect. A cousin of mine, also a cousin of Pepe’s, has a
truck for sale. It could be obtained for a good price with the proper
connections.”

The Chief, of
course, is the proper connection, and the price, to put it mildly, is a handful
of Hidalgos too much. Not to mention that the truck is Japanese, which is a fact I’m having trouble with but am choosing to ignore. In any case,
it’s how I come to find myself on the Mexican highways accompanied by a
lovesick Albanian named Kafka and a five-foot cocktail singer partial to
belting out
The Sound of Music
at passing cacti. Drives me near insane,
particularly the little vibrato she does for effect at the end of every phrase.
Also she keeps substituting my name into the lyrics of the old favorites, like
the all-too popular
Heels are Alive with the Sound of Wee-Lee
. And she can’t
let a motel pass without making propositions in Spanglish to both me and the
kid that nearly run us off the road on more than one occasion, and I’m not
referring to the little lady’s grammar.

Keeps you on
your toes, a little Rosa like this, which can also be a good thing when Kafka’s
near comatose with misery, and when driving across the north of Mexico can probably only be surpassed in scenic boredom by one of your larger African
deserts. I mean it’s really just dust and these poor serenaded cacti sometimes.
Puts that nuclear Armageddon in mind again, a landscape like this, and I spend
hours considering whether if the world were ending I’d stop off somewhere with Rosa and do my duty for the propagation of the species or just keep driving and let the world
take its chances. By midnight I’ve come to the conclusion that the species was
probably overrated anyway, particularly if you consider that it was the species
who invented the Japanese truck.

Our first
breakdown occurs about three hours north of Mexico City in the middle of nowhere.
I pop the hood, and what they’ve got in there looks more like a lawn mower
engine. Two cylinders, from what I can see, and we’re firing on one. We’ve
passed maybe two sets of headlights in the last hour, and I’m foreseeing a long
night of show tunes round the campfire, but Rosa gets out there on the road with
her curves on display, and within three minutes we’ve got a traffic jam the
likes of northern Mexico has never seen. Three brothers from Monterrey get us
moving again and exchange numbers with Rosa, and before dawn the lights of Nuevo Laredo are on the horizon.