Dos Equis (22 page)

He sat up and rubbed his eyes lazily. He glanced at the bedside clock. It was close to three-thirty a.m. “You know, since you woke me up from a perfectly good sleep, you’re going to have to put out.”

“JP! If you left anything behind in your rush to get out, Frances is going to suspect…not to mention that everything you’ve

collected so far is lost…this could all be over!”

“Russell, it’s okay,” he said, giving my bare forearm a comforting rub. “I didn’t leave anything behind.”

“But where’s the laptop and scanner? You didn’t have them with you.”

“I couldn’t very well swim to the boat carrying them, could I? Electrical equipment and sea water don’t mix very well.”

True.

“When I realized the boat couldn’t get to me, and I had to get to the boat, I knew I’d have to leave the equipment behind. So I hid it. I thought it would be pretty safe there. That’s a pretty unfriendly piece of terrain. Not as if there’ll be a bunch of sun worshippers running around there tomorrow, stumbling over it.”

Also true. “We’ll have to go back for it somehow.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“You have? When? You fell asleep in like two-point-five seconds.” He smiled. “It’s a gift.”

“So what’s the idea?”

“Earlier this week I was thinking about renting a boat to go fishing. I chatted up these guys down by the marina. For not a lot more than the price of this hotel room, I can rent a good size fishing boat.”

“Uh, are you telling me you’re quitting all this, and going fishing?”

He sniggered. “Not yet. Actually, I was thinking that instead of living here, I could live on the boat. I’d anchor it off the beach by Frances’s house. Whenever you give me the coast-is-clear, I’d row a small kayak to shore—keeping me and the

scanner dry— crawl up the hill, get into the house, do my thing without the Incredible Hulks in front knowing a thing, and I’d leave the same way. There’s a lot of stuff there, Russell. I don’t know yet what’s useful and what’s not. So we gotta get it all.

At an hour here, and an hour there, this is going to take more than one or two visits. Especially if we want to make sure we have enough to send her away for good.”

This—could—work. “You know what?” I said, bringing my face very close to his. “You were right.”

He lay back, pulling me with him. “Oh yeah? About what?”

“You are good at this.”

“And if this was some cheesy forties movie, right about now I’d say something like: I’m also very good at something else.

And then I’d kiss you.”

“I always liked those movies.”

We shared a smile. Somehow it seemed more intimate than any kiss.

“Your hair,” he began in a quiet voice, lazily running his fingers through it. “It’s exactly the same colour as mine.”

I hadn’t noticed it before. But he was right.

“And your hands,” he kept on, “they look just like mine.”

Some men are into butts, or breasts, or legs. I like those things…well, the butts and legs, anyway. But mostly, I am a hand

man. I love a nicely shaped, well-tended, strong, man’s hand. JP knew this about me. I took one of his hands in mine and stared at it, as if for the first time. It was a good hand. Just the right shape and size, the skin was soft, yet tough, the fingers long but thick. It was a caring hand. A hand you could imagine cupping a newborn’s head, yet masculine enough to handle a stick shift or baseball bat. I opened my palm and placed it against his. They were a perfect match.

There was so much about JP that was different from me. His impossibly thick butterfly eyelashes, his devilishly cherubic

facial features, the way his body moved when he walked, the way his lips always seemed to be partially upturned in a smile.

But we were also alike. The biggest way of all was that we were two men, two blond men, with the same hands. I suddenly felt very close to him. I was so in love with him. I wanted to wrap him up in my arms and squeeze him forever, to somehow eat him up, to cover every inch of his body with my own. The latter was probably the better option.

Rolling on top of JP, I entwined my hands in his and threw them above our heads, bringing us face to face, pelvis to pelvis, toe to toe. For a long time, we just stayed that way, only interrupting the communion with light kisses, or by licking the tip of an ear or nose. Finally we curled up into each other, and made love until we couldn’t.

*
Stain of the Berry

*
Tapas on the Ramblas.

Chapter 16

I’ve always loved it when detectives on TV or in movies go undercover wearing disguises. In practice, however, I have found

my career sadly lacking in opportunities to indulge in the same activity. But Mexico was changing everything.

First there was my stellar turn as the Spanish-speaking, grocery-carrying, chauffeur. And now, I was going for long-haired

hippie to Errall’s psychedelic lovechild. We were having lunch at Beccofino, one of the best pasta joints at Ixtapa Marina.

Although it doesn’t look it, Ixtapa Marina is Mexico’s largest. It has two large basins, with capacity for over six hundred boats.

Like most of the waterside restaurants here, Beccofino is split in two, divided by a sidewalk that runs the length of the

marina. One half of the restaurant is indoors, the other—outdoors—was made to look as if you were sitting on the deck of a

boat floating in the marina waters. We were on the faux boat side. We weren’t here dressed like Sonny and Cher circa 1970

just because we enjoyed looking silly or were feeling a little peckish. This was work. Intentionally seated at a table within listening distance, was Jared, waiting for his date: Frances Huber.

Errall blew away an errant strand of long black hair that seemed intent on lodging itself in her mouth. “This wig is fuck-ing hot,” she spit out along with the hair. “It’s already eighty degrees, and with this get up it feels like ninety.”

“Think of it this way,” I told her, trying to ignore that my own false hairpiece was also causing me to work up a good sweat.

“At least you aren’t sitting over there as bait for a serial killer.”

“I thought the plan for Jared was that he was going to start sorting through all the scanned documents JP is bringing back.”

I nodded. “That was Plan A. But flexibility and spontaneity are a detective’s best friends. Frances got the hots for Jared,

before JP or I could put ourselves on the market. So it’s on to Plan B.”

“This was Plan B?”

“It is now.”

She studied our friend. “He looks so calm.”

“Oddly enough, he seemed pretty happy to have his responsibilities shifted from office grunt work to himbo. The wardrobe

is much better too.”

“I hope he does better than I did. I haven’t had a call from Frances yet. I don’t think she bought my scam.”

I shrugged. Part of me was glad of it. The way Frances was assessing my mother at the art show had made me think twice

about setting her up as a potential new victim for Frances’s little business operation. “The good news is that she did buy

Sereena and Anthony’s shenanigans.”

“Really? She’s going to buy your mother’s painting?”

“Well, not quite. But before she left the party, she told Sereena to ask Toraidio not to sell it to Anthony until she had time to think about it.”

“My god, Russell, your mother could actually become an internationally recognized artist out of all this.”

“Oi.”

“Double oi.”

“Oh oh, keep it down, Cher. Here she comes.”

I watched Jared stand up to greet Frances like the perfect gentleman he was. They cheek kissed and he held out a chair,

inviting her to sit down. I immediately texted JP to tell him to get to work. He texted back a confirmation. We ordered lunch.

Over the next forty-five minutes, not much of note happened at either table. We enjoyed a delicious Catch of the Day at our

table, and Frances inhaled several sangritas (a tomato-based cocktail with tequila) at theirs. Things started getting more

interesting when Frances, quite obviously enjoying Jared’s charming company and not wanting it to end, suggested a chilled

bottle of Duckhorn Sauvignon Blanc as the dessert course.

“Oh, Frances, it’s a lovely idea, it really is,” Jared replied. “But…well, I’m embarrassed to say this…”

“What? What is it? Spill it. Come on, you and me are old friends now.”

“I invited you to lunch, but…well…the Duckhorn isn’t exactly in my budget today.”

I grinned at Errall. Nice play, Jared.

“Oh, who cares about that? Dessert’s on me!” she laughed a little too loud for lunchtime.

“No, no, no, I can’t accept such generosity. And, if I buy the wine, I won’t be able to afford to take you out for dinner,” he added suavely.

Frances’s eyes ogled. “Dinner? As far as I know, I don’t believe I’ve been properly invited.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Only if you let me buy us some liquid dessert. Besides, it’s so nice here, isn’t it? I don’t feel like going home yet. Do you?”

“Absolutely not.” Jared was turning out to be a surprisingly accomplished liar.

Frances waved a hand at a server who was attending to a nearby table. Not getting anywhere, she finally whistled, and said,

“Hey waiter, can you take our order over here, please?”

The waiter graciously complied, with more civility than I could have mustered. I could only hope they’d leave him a real big
propina
.

“Do you come from a less-than-well-to-do family too?” Frances asked Jared in her typical disarmingly candid way.

I winced. I wasn’t sure how prepared Jared was to make up an entirely false background.

“Actually no,” Jared told her. “My family was pretty well off until…”

“Until what, sweetie?”

Jared touched his face. “Until this.”

“What do you mean?”

The waiter returned with their wine. Frances made a to-do about having Jared taste it.

“Is it good, hon? Would you rather have something else?”

“It’s very good,” Jared replied after the ceremonial sniff, swirl, and sip. He smiled up at the waiter. “It’s great, thanks.”

The waiter filled glasses and left.

“You see, I’m from Canada…,” Jared began.

“No kidding! Me too! A lot of people here in Mexico are, you know. It’s so cheap. To live here. To buy a house here. If only it was cleaner. Or if more of them spoke English. Then it’d be perfect.” Jared nearly choked on his wine.

Frances took a large gulp of hers. “Sorry, sweets, I interrupted you. So you’re from Canada…?”

“When I had my accident, I was travelling in the United States. Like an idiot, I had no travel insurance. You know how it is.

When you’re young you don’t believe anything bad can happen to you.”

Frances nodded, seemingly very intent on hearing the story.

“Of course, my Canadian health insurance didn’t help me unless I could get back to Canada. But the accident and my injuries

were so severe, they couldn’t risk flying me home for several weeks. In the meantime, the medical bills just grew and grew.

My parents were by my bedside the whole while. I was out of it for a long time at the beginning. When I finally came to, they just told me all I had to worry about was getting better. So I did. I had no idea that the cost was skyrocketing. By the time I was well enough to be transferred to a hospital in Canada, my parents were near bankruptcy. I had no money of my own. We were

broke. As soon as I realized what had happened, and that it was all because of me, I stopped all further treatment and

surgeries.”

“Surgeries? What kind of surgeries?”

“Oh, you know,” he lied with bashfulness. “Reconstructive procedures to…well, to make me look like I used to. Even

though I was back in Canada, they were considered cosmetic, so insurance wouldn’t pay.”

Errall and I exchanged gloomy glances. I couldn’t imagine what it cost Jared to say those words. In reality, he and Anthony

had travelled the globe visiting every specialist and spending great sums of money to do just that. To restore his former beauty.

But the damage had been too great. What Jared was left with today, was the best it would ever be.

As I sat there, listening to Jared reel in Frances like an expert fisherman bringing in a hooked shark, I couldn’t help but

wince from the twisting and grinding of the twin monsters residing in my stomach—guilt and doubt.

JP being in continuous danger, my mother set up as bait for a killer, now Jared suffering emotional indignities; my family,

friends, my boyfriend, were paying high prices for what was happening here in Zihuatanejo. For what I was making happen.

What right did I have to ask them to put their lives and emotional health in jeopardy? Had I made the biggest mistake of my

career? My life?

I watched in distaste as Frances reached across the table and touched Jared’s scars, just as she’d done the first night she met him.

“My father used to beat us,” she said in a casual way.

I almost lost my wig when I heard the unexpected admission. I knew a lot about Frances Huber. But I didn’t know this. I

resisted the urge to pull my seat closer to their table. What sort of game she was playing now by uttering such seditious words?

Apparently Jared was not quite so jaded. He reached over and laid his hand atop hers. “Us?” he asked tenderly.

“Me. My brother. My mother too. It was his thing.”

“Frances, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, yeah, well we all have crap in our past, don’t we? Here, let me refill your wine.”

Jared had hardly touched his, but she used the offer as a handy excuse to refill her own near empty glass.

“Is everybody…okay?” Jared asked her.

Frances took a long swallow, then carefully laid down her glass on the table top. She eyed Jared warily, as if trying to

decide if she could really trust him. After a beat, she answered. “Not really. My brother got the worst of it. Especially after my mother got smart and started hitting the bastard back. Dad was a coward. Like all men who hit women and kids. I think she got in a few good shots one night when he was too drunk to defend himself. He got scared of her. So I guess he decided that me and my brother David were easier targets. Which we were.”