The Jade Notebook (27 page)

“His nickname’s El Dedo,” I whisper. “We can try to find out his full name.”

Gerardo rubs his mustache. “All right, but be careful. This kind of guy can be vicious. And leave the rest to us.”

I glance toward the window. “Actually, we—” How to phrase this delicately? “We’re concerned that Chucho might be involved. The poachers mentioned his name.”

Rubbing his mustache again, Gerardo says, “Well, you are aware that Chucho is a nickname for Jesús? One of the most common names here, next to José and Juan.”

I look at Wendell and take a deep breath. “They said Chucho told them to cover their tracks, be careful. A
Chucho with inside information. And we think the curses we reported might’ve been left by these guys. With Chucho’s knowledge.”

Gerardo nods, says, “I’ll keep this from Chucho. For now. Until there’s more information. But you understand, I have to trust my fellow officer.”

I press my lips together, not sure whether to trust Gerardo.

He copies the photo file to his computer, hands back the memory stick, and shows us where to sign the forms. “Is that all,
muchachos
?”

“There’s one more thing,” I say, and tell Gerardo about the second curse, the threatening note.

He nods briskly, then shakes our hands and tells us to be careful.

As we walk outside, Chucho glares at us. A chill sweeps through me. Probably not a good idea to have made an enemy on the police force.

Next, Wendell suggests we swing by Tesoro Escondido to see if El Sapo has any ideas about El Dedo’s full name.

“No clue,” says El Sapo, shaking his head. “I don’t think any of us know his name.” He pauses. “But man, I’d love to see that
vato
behind bars. And his buddies.”

“His buddies?”

El Sapo nods, peering at the image on Wendell’s camera. “Two more guys from Mexico City. These guys here,” he says, pointing to the image. “Supposedly in his gang. You’re lucky you haven’t met them. They’re almost as bad as him.”

“Well, if any of them turn up,” Wendell says, “tell us right away, okay?”

“Sure. And I’ll spread the word.” El Sapo gives a satisfied grin. “If El Dedo shows his face on this beach again, he’s as good as in jail.”

Next stop, the Turtle Center.

We breeze across the grounds, straight to Pepe’s office. The door’s open; he’s absorbed in his cell phone, until he notices us and tucks it away. When we give him the latest news about the poachers and how we suspect Chucho’s involved, Pepe runs his hand through his hair, obviously upset. “I’m just glad you escaped,” he says gravely.

Deep creases form at his forehead. “Let’s see the photo,” he says.

When the photo shows up on the computer screen, Wendell points out the four-fingered hand and explains our theory that the poachers are El Dedo and his buddies.

Pepe draws in a sharp breath. “Anything else?” he asks, handing the memory stick back to Wendell.

Wendell nods and lowers his voice. “We don’t know how far the corruption goes, Pepe. We’re concerned that the volunteers weren’t there again. We think someone’s paying them off. Or maybe they’re the ones poaching.”

Pepe sighs, shaking his head. “What a mess. Listen, leave this to me,
muchachos
. I’ll look into all of this. Just don’t try anything like last night again. You could’ve been killed. Stay away from that beach.”

Wendell shakes his head, his jaw set firm.

“Wendell,” Pepe begins, his voice sharp.

“I told you,” Wendell interrupts. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect the turtles.”

I cross my arms. “We’ve faced danger before. We can handle it.” I keep my gaze steady. “We’re investigating this ourselves.”

Pepe stares at us for a moment, frustrated. Then his expression softens. “Hey, you two must be exhausted. Why don’t you go home and take a nap? We’ll talk more about this later.”

As we leave, he calls out,
“Tengan cuidado, muchachos.”

Pepe’s right about the nap. I wake up feeling refreshed. Sunlight streams through my window and a song loops through my head—my favorite song from my father’s CD. The melody moves through me as I crawl out from under the mosquito net and walk into the bathroom. Surrounded by glass starfish mosaics, I splash water on my face, then braid my hair and throw on a sundress. On the way out the door, I grab Rogelio’s guitar. If I want to master those four chords, I’d better practice every moment I can get.

I settle on my hammock, squinting at the silver light reflecting off the ocean in the distance. One by one, I play the chords. A minor, D minor, E, and G. I switch from one to another, with only a small pause in between. Hard-won calluses have sprouted up on my fingertips. My hours of practice have paid off.

I savor the feeling of my fingers switching instinctively
from one pattern to another to another, without my mind interfering. It’s like learning a new language—at first it’s such a struggle it hurts my brain, but after I say the same phrase fifty times, it becomes part of me. Without looking down, I just let my fingertips lead the way. I stare at the ocean as the notes repeat, like one wave after another.

Rogelio said these were the only four chords I needed to know to play “La Llorona.” I start humming the tune, singing a few phrases here and there, slowly fitting it all together. My fingers cooperate, finding the notes that correspond to the melody. And soon, to my complete shock, I’m more or less playing the song.

Suddenly, my fingers freeze on the strings. “La Llorona.” It’s the song that’s been running through my head. My favorite song from my father’s CD. My father’s version had a different arrangement, but still, it’s the same song, the same basic four chords.

I’m staring at the waves, trying to comprehend this, when Wendell calls, “Hey, Z!”

He comes out of his cabana, yawning and stretching. Running his hand through his tangled hair, he plops down beside me with a kiss.

Then, seeing my odd expression, he asks, “You okay, Z?”

“The music Rogelio played for me,” I say slowly. “ ‘La
Llorona,’ the song I’ve been learning those chords for … it’s on my father’s CD. The first song.”

Wendell wrinkles his eyebrows, trying to remember. “Hold on, Z. I’ll grab my iPod.”

A minute later, Wendell’s back. We each take an ear bud, listen with our heads close. The song sounds like diving below the sunlit surface into cool, dark shadows, and deeper, into the fierce currents of longing and regret. As I listen, I sing along softly, filling in the words I remember.

When it ends, I take out the ear bud and stare at Wendell. “That’s definitely it, Wendell. ‘La Llorona.’ ” Still caught in the music’s spell, I try to think about this logically. “Rogelio did say it was an old folk song. Probably everyone here knows it.” I bite my lip. “It has to be a coincidence.”

Wendell twists the cord around his finger. “Didn’t Rogelio tell you his son played guitar? And liked rock music?”

I nod.

His gaze intensifies. “He didn’t mention Jimi Hendrix, did he?”

I shake my head, but I see where he’s going. I try to recall the stray bits of information from conversations with Rogelio and Lupita. My words come out slowly. “But this son did leave as a young man. Years ago. And he never returned.” I search my memory for more. “And he was troubled. Different. But he loved Punta Cometa. He loved sea turtles.” Excitement is welling up inside me. Not sure if I’m getting carried away, I turn to Wendell. “What do you think?”

“It could be your dad, Z. Everything fits.”

I clutch the guitar neck. It’s just a possibility, I remind myself. Not a sure thing. Cautiously, I let my mind go down that path, and little by little, more realizations hit me. “Wendell, if this is true, then Rogelio is my grandfather! And Lupita’s my grandmother!” Now I can’t help it. I let the sheer happiness of this idea overtake me. My mouth, my face, my entire body turn into one giant smile. Even my toes tingle with excitement. I throw my arms around Wendell. “My grandmother!”

Lupita already treats me like a granddaughter, without even knowing who I am. Who I
might be
, I correct myself. She’s trusted me with her secret
mole
recipe, showered me with hugs and advice. And if Lupita were my grandmother, and Rogelio my grandfather, then of course they’d let me stay on the land.

Wendell cups my face in his hands, looks into my eyes. “Will you tell them?”

After a long pause, I shake my head. “My father has to. We have to find him.” What I don’t dare to say out loud is
If he’s even out there. If he’s still alive
.

“Maybe Lupita knows,” Wendell suggests.

I nod, my mind racing. “I’m supposed to meet her this afternoon. I’ll find out everything I can.”

A thousand emotions swirl around inside me, until I’m nearly exploding. I need some outlet, or I might start jumping around and squealing. Or sobbing and screaming. Instead, I pick up the guitar and play those four chords, over and over and over, as if their currents might carry me to my father.

Lupita greets me in her blooming, buzzing courtyard with a hug.
“¿Qué me cuentas, mija?”
she asks cheerily. What do you have to tell me, daughter?

Oh, just that I’m your granddaughter
, I think. Swallowing hard, I compose my thoughts. I mention my visit with her husband, which she’s already heard about—and which utterly delights her. Then I go into the events of last night—El Dedo and the other poachers chasing us, Meche and Gatito saving us, the incompetent cops.

“¡Ay, pobrecita!”
Poor thing! Lupita folds me again into her great bosom. “How terrifying!” She insists on giving me a shot of what she calls
agua de espanto
—fright water. She pours dark liquid from a dusty, ancient bottle into a small glass. “Here,
mija
, so you won’t get sick from fright.”

Fright. That about sums up last night. The liquid burns going down but warms my insides. It tastes like sugar cane liquor laced with rich spices—cloves and cinnamon.

As I let the heat seep through me, Lupita says, “You’re right about the police. They’re paid off, some more than others. It’s all about exchanging favors and bribes in this town.” She shoots me a devilish look. “Why, even I’ve been known to give the cops some
mole
to stay on their good side!”

Not surprising. It’s how things work in most parts of the world. Little networks of favors—with a fine line between generosity and corruption. Especially in small, out-of-the-way places like this.

Lupita leads me to the outdoor kitchen area, where bulging burlap sacks sit by the table.

“I’ll teach you how to make
pozole
today!” she announces.

I peer inside one of the bags. It’s full of large, hardened corn kernels. Another contains dozens of dried red chiles. Lupita disappears into the kitchen and emerges with a pot containing a large pig’s head. Not quite what I was expecting.

After Lupita starts boiling the water, she places red chiles gently on the comal, one by one.
“Mija,”
she begins. “I’m so glad my husband agreed to give you more time. But you shouldn’t count on my older son saving you.”