Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard (21 page)

“To quote Dean Martin, ‘You’re not drunk if you can lie on
the floor without holding on,’” he muttered in a whisper. When he raised his
head up to look around, he was greeted with an unexpected sight.

The party was still going on. And it was much bigger than
before, too.

It would seem that the original group of bus passengers and
Mexican police officers were pretty much all on the ground around him, sleeping
it off, just like he had been. The ones still standing and dancing and drinking
with the Oni were newcomers--those that had arrived on later buses or passersby
snagged by an Oni spell. Paul noted too that there was an inordinate number of
police at the party. No doubt, every police officer in the city had come to
investigate and become trapped here.

Abe no Seimei had been correct. The Oni had a remarkable
ability to party down, making every other party animal that Paul had ever known
look like a piker by comparison.

“Ah, awake again, I see,” boomed an Oni’s voice. “Come, you
need a drink!”

Paul shook his head. “Food first. Then, we will see.”

“YES!” the Oni shouted. “You are right! This party lacks
food! What a brilliant idea, wizard! I prefer
sashimi
(raw fish) and
tsukemono
(pickles), myself. But I know Yuji likes
kibi dango
(dumplings), and Haneul,
that barbarian, will want
Ojinguh Bokum
(stir-fried spicy squid). Humph,
everyone knows that squid is best eaten raw!”

Paul gulped but managed to keep a forced smile on his face.
“That sounds wonderful. Say, as the bus was coming into town, I saw a Sushi
Mexicano store, not far from here, either. Just the place to pick up a few of
those dishes you mentioned.”

The Oni looked confused. “But we can portal anything we need—”

“Ah, but is it fresh?” Paul persisted. “Is it handpicked?
Don’t you want the best?”

“But of course—”

“I’ll just pop down the street and select it myself.”

“But—”

“I’ll be right back, trust me. Just imagine how good it will
taste.”

“Well,” the Oni said, sounding doubtful. “If you promise to
hurry.”

“Cross my heart. I swear, I’ll go as fast as I can,” Paul
honestly promised him. “Oh, I’ll need my money back, please, to buy the food
with.”

“Money? Oh, you’re an honest wizard, heh? Very well.” And
the Oni dug a wad of cash out of a pocket, the same money he had taken from
Paul earlier that day.

As Paul headed off down a random street, the Oni called
after him, “Get plenty! There’s another bus pulling in and we will need lots of
food!”

Paul half-staggered, half-ran down the street, striving to
get as far away as possible before the Oni discovered that they had been
tricked. At the first corner, his stomach and spinning head could stand it no
longer, and he fell to his hands and knees, vomiting heavily on the sidewalk. Three
solid heaves were followed by retching and a bout of coughing.

When it was over, Paul did his best to catch his breath and
wipe his face off with a shirt tail. Getting to his feet again was no harder
than climbing ten flights of stairs, but he somehow managed. He focused on the
next corner, only five hundred miles away, and set out in a lurching jog.

Huffing and puffing like a freight train, he slowed to an unsteady
walk and tried to make himself think.

It was mid-afternoon. But he had lost the gold bar.
Moreover, the Oni knew where he was…more or less. As soon as they sobered up or
as soon as more Oni appeared, they would begin looking for Paul in earnest. So,
what was he going to do? How could he get out of the city?

“Merlin?”

“That was too close,” Merlin observed, floating along beside
him. “Somehow, they figured out you were on that bus.”

Paul nodded weakly, but in total agreement. “What was your
first clue?”

Merlin shrugged indifferently without answering.

“I don’t have my gold bar anymore or my luggage,” Paul
whined. “Plus I stink of puke and tequila. I’ve got to do something about that.
I need something to use as an amulet.” He shook his head, trying to clear it in
order to think, but all it did was made him dizzier.

“I need
something
,” Paul insisted. “You said that the
rarer an element or mineral was, the larger the magical quotient it had.” It
was time to explore some of the possibilities. “Let’s see that chart again, the
one of the magical quotients of elements versus their atomic numbers.”

A floating hologram of the periodic table materialized in
front of him as he walked. He traced backward from the heavier elements toward
the left, where the magical quotients were not so dramatic. And he found one
that made him blink.

“Tin? Tin is a rare element?” Paul muttered in surprise.

“Not like gold or platinum, no. But still decent in large
enough quantities,” Merlin observed.

A smile grew on Paul’s face. As an electrical engineer, he knew
of a ready source of tin. Solder contained a high percentage of that metal,
together with lead, which according to the same chart, was also a fairly rare
metal. Yep, a nice big roll of solder would be just the ticket to suit his
purposes.

“Merlin, didn’t we pass a hardware store coming into town?”
Paul asked, feeling a bit better about his first trip to Mexico.

• • • •

It was only a mile away, too.

And yet, it seemed to take forever to walk that distance.

The Cain Ferretería (hardware store) was small in comparison
to the standard box stores in the U.S. However, it was very well stocked. Paul
had no trouble finding a nice spool of resin core solder. However, when he
approached the front counter, the sales clerk jerked back in disgust at his
appearance and odor. For a moment, Paul was afraid that he would be thrown out
of the place and not allowed to make his purchase.

However, the sight of the money in his hand was sufficient
for the clerk. The sale was made quickly, and Paul fled the store with all due haste.

Outside, he bolted down the nearest alley, ducking behind a
large dumpster.

“Time to do something about my appearance and this revolting
smell,” he muttered, removing the solder from its packaging. With a firm grip
on it, he said, “In the names of Christian Scientists, Mormons, and Muslims
(teetotalers all), let there be a two foot diameter low energy portal here,
with a filter setting for ethanol and...” here, he wrinkled his nose in
distaste, “...the stench in my clothes! Let the other end of the portal deposit
the elements removed into this dumpster!”

A portal formed above his head, the other end hovering above
the dumpster. Tucking his arm in tightly, his end of the portal dropped over
him, filtering the ethyl alcohol not only from his clothes, but from his entire
body, leaving him immediately free of its effects.

Like a transition from night to day, he felt instantly
better and more alert. He took an experimental whiff. Yeah, he smelled a lot
better, too.

The key question now was how to escape.

“I need to talk to the CIA guy.”

The CIA agent that Paul had talked to in the Pyrenees Mountains
appeared nearby, facing the mouth of the alleyway.

The specter carefully studied the city street through his
dark sunglasses for several moments before sighing.

“When they discover that you lied about going for takeout,
they will lock down the roads going out of town,” the agent pointed out. “Since
there are only six such roads, it won’t take them long. After that, they will
search the city until they find you.”

Conceding that the CIA man was probably right, Paul glanced
back in the direction of the bus terminal. “I can’t get out of town before they
lock it down?”

The agent shrugged. “Not by bus and not by plane, no. Maybe
if you stole a car, you might make it. And then, maybe not. Do you want to risk
that?”

Paul turned eastward. He could not see the ocean, but he could
smell the salt in the air.

“How about by boat?” Paul suggested inquiringly.

Again, the CIA guy shrugged. “There are no cruise ships that
dock in Tampico, nor do Mexicans go much into yachting. Most of the ships in
port will be freighters with no passenger berths. And forgive me for saying so,
as an escape vehicle, freighters are much too slow.”

Paul couldn’t disagree with the man on that point. Still,
the harbor front might make a good place to hide with all the warehouses and
such.

“I have always liked ships,” Paul said with conviction.
“Which way to the harbor?”

• • • •

Gripping the roll of solder tightly, Paul used one
relatively low-energy spell for flying at a sedate pace and another to disguise
himself as an airborne seagull (albeit a rather large one). Even at his
leisurely speed, it took only a few minutes to land on one of the docks on the
north side of the river. From there, he stood deep in thought, watching the nearby
loading of one of the freighters.

Rio Panuco cuts in from the Gulf of Mexico across the
southeast corner of the city of Tampico. There might be some great places to
hide here, but Paul reluctantly concluded that there were no modes of escape. Just
as the CIA man had said, Tampico did not seem to have a marina like most cities
on the waterfront in the United States would have had. No fast, small boats
anywhere in sight. And no slow ones, either.

By now, the roads leading out of town would be cordoned off.
There would be no escape that way. And probably none by sea, either. From where
Paul stood, the south bank looked more run down, much seamier. He decided to
try his luck there.

Another brief bout of flying took him across the river, to
land near the front entrance of a salvage yard. Even from where he landed, he
saw a veritable treasure house of old junk, most of it apparently from old
ships and dockyard equipment.

Paul surprised himself, sensing mental activity in the back
of his head, just below his conscience level. An idea was cooking there. Maybe.
It remained to be seen if it was a good idea or not. He had been in this
situation before, his subconscious working on solutions to difficult problems.
More than half the time, the idea generated wasn’t worth the effort, but when
it worked, the results were often impressive.

For lack of anything better to try, Paul made the trek down
the street and wandered into the yard.

“Bienvenido, Señor. ¿puedo ayudarle? (
Welcome, sir, may I
help you?
)” asked a middle-aged, male voice.

Paul turned and faced the man speaking to him. He was dark,
with black hair and eyes and a thick mustache. Short, too. And Paul saw a touch
of gray along the temples and age lines around the eyes.
Early
fifties, maybe.

“No sé. E
spero que sí. Veo tantas cosas
interesantes
aquí.
(
I don’t know. I hope so. I see so
many interesting things here.
)”

The Mexican laughed.
“Por un
gringo
, hablas
bien el español
, casi como
un
Mexicano. ¿Te gustaría conocer el dueño? (
For a gringo, you speak Spanish
pretty well, almost like a Mexican. Do you want to meet the owner
?)”

“Muchísimo. Gracias. (
Very much. Thanks.
)”

The black-haired man led Paul to an old building that was
very much in need of repairs and a new coat of paint. Inside, the front room
nearly overwhelmed Paul. It was hot and stuffy and smelled of mold. Junk was
piled high everywhere, leaving barely enough room to navigate to the peeling
countertop. Once there, Paul noted with passing interest the oldest cash
register he had ever seen in his life.

“¡Eh
, antiguo! ¡Tienes
un
cliente!
(
Hey, old man! You have a customer!
)” his guide shouted.

From a back room behind the counter, an elderly man stepped
forth. His hair might have been gray, but his age seemed indeterminate, one of
those men who could be anywhere from mid-fifties to late seventies. He carried
himself well, giving the impression of strength gained by hard work and
experience. Darkened by years in the sun, his face bore heavy wrinkles and
several small moles.

Paul liked him immediately. He definitely had character.

The gray-haired Mexican gave Paul an insincere smile as he sized
up his potential customer. Paul could tell that the other man was decidedly not
impressed.

“Sí,
¿qué es lo
que
quieres?
(
Yes, what do you want?
)” the yard owner asked.

“Me gustaría
ver lo que tienen.
Hay
un montón de cosas interesantes
aquí.
(
I
would like to see what you guys have. There is a lot of interesting stuff here,
)”
Paul replied.

The owner exaggerated an eye roll then waved an arm around.

“Junk, you mean,” he corrected Paul, still speaking in Spanish.
“Go ahead, look all you want.”

With that, he disappeared back into the back room.

Paul chuckled in complete understanding. So, okay, the man
was a bit gruff, but what could you expect when a gringo stops into a salvage
yard to window shop?

That embryonic idea in the back of his mind continued to
tickle his consciousness. But Paul knew that trying to force it to the
forefront wouldn’t work. Better to let it stir around a little more and come
out on its own when it was good and ready.

So Paul wandered around the room, poking at the various
piles of junk. There were logbooks, compasses, an actual sextant, cracked
chinaware, old rope, lanterns, two old windup clocks, sea chests, duffel bags,
and a host of other old junk that Paul didn’t even recognize. Some of the items
were in decent shape, considering their age, and other items were rotting away
in the warm humid air.

Out the dirty, smeared front window, Paul could see tons of
other types of hardware in the yard including pipe, conduit, plates from ship
hulls, fire hoses, and piles and piles of other junk.