Chapter Nineteen
Olas Altas was going all to hell. More big condos, less of the old courtyards. Even Daiquiri Dick’s was being converted to condominiums. No more lion cubs on the beach; no more “Dicker for a Daiquiri, Doc?” The homosexual delegation had relocated from the El Dorado down to Sharkey’s, evidently in a collective snit over the proud tradition of rotten service and overcharging. There was no more volleyball court full of bounding hardbodies at the south end of the beach–that crowd migrated to Los Cabos.
But there were still the European crispy critters baking in front of the Tropicana, basted in coconut oil. Elena was still there, renting inner tubes, swapping ribald stories and beach gossip, selling them the coconut oil–with iodine added to taste for those wanting faster tans. There were still parachutes being snatched off the beach behind motor-launches, tourists dangling beneath them and occasionally landing in the water, making their last VCR tapes spectacular, if expensive. The huge herd of kids still frolicked in the sand and dolphined in the water, discovering the life in the rocky tide pools and posing for pictures by the bronze seahorse statue. And on an expensively rustic patio above Los Muertos, the Iguanas were still basking in the sun and up to nothing whatsoever productive.
The Iguana lounge was a fixture on Meri and Alicia’s balcony, a motley crowd of expatriates stretched out among the boulders and fronds to catch the afternoon sun. The women had lived here since anyone could remember, in an architectural marvel they maintained without visible means of support. The closest they ever came to explaining the house, their lavish lifestyle, and Meri’s bright red MG TC was Meri’s comment that she’d divorced very well and Alicia had widowed even better.
Doc took in the full scope of the beach below and the tangle of bare bodies that was the basic Iguana scenario. He headed towards Meri, who was pretending to listen to Wild John’s drifty line of bull.
Wild John looked up from one of his two margaritas and said, “I must be sicker than I thought, here comes the Doctor.”
“Sorry, Wildman,” Doc said, “You’re too far gone to be treated with drugs.”
“I know, I know. God knows I’ve tried. I’m a candidate for brain salad surgery.” John patted the deceptive big belly covering his hard, brawler’s muscles and sighed, “I’m just a shell of my former self.”
Meri tossed her blazing Texas smile out of the lines and shadows that failed to ruin the all-American beauty she had worn so carelessly all her life. “I’m just another self on the half-shell, Doc. How about a little kiss?”
“Fat chance, Tex. You still owe me a blowjob from that dice game in Yelapa.”
“Yelapa debts are null and void in the real world. Who’s your faithful Indian companion?”
“That’s Primo. He’s my child out of wedlock from a tragic former marriage out of my species.”
The Iguanas were Doc’s kind of people, the kind who don’t ask a lot of questions and pick up where it left off–otherwise you spend your whole life just saying hi and bye. He settled down into a morning of idle chit-chat, affectionate insults, catty bitching and dishing, and immoderate drinking. Lazy talk in which international politics, dining scandals, local sexual atrocities, wave action, drug gangster follies, and the behavior of the beach dogs got the same emotional and intellectual weight.
Meri sidled over in her modest bikini and straw hat with a braided Zapotec belt twined around the crown and trailing down behind in the tangles of her damp black hair. She had a dew of sun sweat on her upper lip, so Doc bent down to kiss it off. That turned out to be a more interesting project than he’d expected so they stood embracing in a slow, nibbling kiss.
Still the great kisser, Doc thought, remembering the first night he’d been here, the two of them smooching and necking like school kids on the wide tile terrace thrusting out of the flowery jungle towards the luminescent sea. Going to bed had spoiled a lot of it for both of them; had taken away that special intensity. Finally she broke away and looked at him with the old shine and laughter in her eyes. “I think we’re embarrassing Kimosabe,” she said.
“Don’t worry about him,” Doc was still smiling right into her eyes, “He’s researching gringo social behavior and asked me to expose him to as much embarrassment and decadence as possible.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll show him around,” she smiled at Primo and reached for his hand.
“Some new faces,” Doc said, looking around the porch.
“Newbies,” John grunted. “Iguana wannabes.”
“That redhead looks like shes going to fall over the wall in about thirty seconds.”
“One more traumatic Tequila tragedy.” Wild John shook his head with patriarchal concern, “Fifth one this week. And it’s only Tuesday. The fools.”
“It’s Saturday, Wildman,” Meri said.
“See what I mean?” he muttered darkly into his own Margarita.
Alicia waved from her chaise where she was listening to Ruth and Drew whining because the harbormaster was demanding a higher bribe to let them get away with taking tourists out for hire on their forty foot ketch, “Whammer Jammer”. Nobody bitches like yacht owners. Meri called Ruth and Drew “the boat people” because they were always bumming money and showers. She waved Doc over. As ingenuous, genuine, and giddy as Gracie Allen, Alicia was more popular than her more beautiful, more cerebral roomie. Especially with Mexican beachboys in their twenties who would hang out at the place being macho for a few weeks at a crack, Meri wading through them as blankly as she traversed Porky and Bess, Alicia’s matched Schnauzers.
Doc kissed her cheek and tried to find something to say about the short, spiky, bleach-streaked hairdo that she’d hidden under a cowboy hat at the beach. “Going new wave, Delicia?”
She grimaced, “Oh you bet, Doc. El Nuevo Wavo, that’s me.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice confidentially, “See if I take my hair to those psychotic queens down a Pair of Guys Lost ever again.”
“You should have gotten the manicure, instead.”
“The famous Texas Chainsaw Manicure? No way. I wouldn’t trust those little fiends to cut a fart after this disaster.”
“Well, you’re taking it very bravely.”
MariPaz d’Alba switched one of the finest butts on the coast past Doc’s eyes, bisected but not at all concealed by a thin black thong. She looked over her shoulder at him with a bored expression. “Get tired of American women yet, Doc?”
“I always have been, Crime Wave,” Doc said, “But if I could find one as mean and vile as you, I’d give it another shot.”
“Crime Wave” was a reference to a headline in “Vallarta Opina” during MariPaz’ heyday stealing, dealing, peeling, and concealing. She’d been queen bee of a street gang when she and Doc ran up against each other, moving a lot of dope and skimming the edge of outright prostitution with a feather touch only possible to a woman of her guts, bravado, and cynical good nature.
What he most admired in MariPaz was that she was a sexual outlaw. She could roam her range freely, picking up food, shelter, and money when she needed it–a predator in total control of those who exploited her. She could survive and prevail penniless and naked. Her simplicity was almost biblical; she fed like the birds of the air, slept like the beasts of the fields, had a field lily’s disdain for the glories of Solomon.
Doc watched as she latched on to Primo and started to chatter. Her Spanish blood gave her the slim height and proud teeth, but she was half Indian–her mother straight tribal–and she always got right into it with other Indios passing into society. Within minutes they were both squatting on their heels by the pool, Primo silently watching her face as MariPaz leaned forward, her full breasts pressing into her knees as she gestured with her glass and cigarette, her bright teeth and eyes flashing as she gasped in laughter. Doc wondered how long it would be before Primo steered her around to the topic of the most unforgettable drug cartel bosses she’d ever known. He didn’t think he’d find much; MariPaz was resolutely, even defiantly, small-time.
Doc smiled at Martha Gilbert, but didn’t go speak to her. It was their way. Both knew and respected the other’s work, but they only spoke at gallery openings. She was Vallarta’s most famous artist since the passing of Lepe and her “La Bandida”, with broadfaced bandit girl in bandoleros and sombrero was one of the most famous paintings in town. She gave him back her guarded, shy smile; her white face peeping out of her black wool rebozo and stark black hair. She raised her glass in a gesture that was half moue, half shrug.
Doc found Carmen under the palapa, talking with Primo. MariPaz was listening to the two of them and looking at them with an incredulous awe, as if she couldn’t decide if they were lunatics or geniuses. Carmen sat up straighter in her deck chair as Doc ducked under the lip of the palapa, and extended her hard, square hand in her usual businesslike manner. She was a squat, tough, peasant-looking woman; very Mexican, but more given to crisp American mannerisms than to any simpering or cheek-bussing. She was not a pretty woman, but had a sturdy body and very strong face. Too strong for Doc’s taste. She was perceptive, though. And very bright. And must have some inner fires to have kept a cockhound like Kevin interested all these years. She gave a choppy wave at Primo and spoke to Doc in smooth, Mexico City Spanish.
“Your young friend here is a bit of Nahuatl student,” she said without preamble. “He is very interested in the Popol Vuh and other Mayan codices I’ve barely heard of.”
The idea of Carmen not having heard of a Mexican book was novel enough, but picturing Primo delving in the ancient Nahuatl, the primal “Latin” of the Americas, was more bizarre.
“You never struck me as an academic,” Doc said.
“I’m just a young guy trying to find out who I am,” Primo shrugged. “I can’t afford the North American methods, like autos and drugs, so I look at my racial roots. It’s hard to figure out who Indians are in the twentieth century.”
“Like it is for all Mexicans,” Carmen said.
“True. It’s actually easier for me, being full blooded. I’d really go crazy if I were the average Mexican trying to advance into the Los Angeles civilization and sneering down at his own Indian blood when he’s not trotting it out to brag about on feast days.”
MariPaz stared at him, dropping her cigarette. “Easy for you to say, Indio,” she snapped. “Let me tell you some stories about blood. My mother was pure Indian and her whole tribe begs on street corners. I’m a woman; I know things about blood you never even thought of.”
Primo listened to the elevating pitch of her speech respectfully, like a sailor facing a rising wind. He looked in her eyes as she fumed, stumbling through the thickets of the very racial confusion Primo had just mentioned. Doc had heard it all before, much of it screamed into his face while she leaned her hands on his throat and bashed her hips up and down on his dick. But it must have held some interest to the kid, because he watched her face instead of her heaving breasts in their thin, tiny cups. Which is what Doc was watching when Carmen tapped his shoulder. “I’m not your favorite person, Doc.” She was right about that. Doc rarely liked feminists, especially dour, self-righteous, political ones. “Is that why you sent your friend to pick my brains?”
“We’re looking for somebody. I wouldn’t have thought of you as a stone to turn, but Primo evidently did. What did you tell him?”
“That he’s looking for the wrong man. And working for the wrong man. That doing gringo drug things is a poor way to do business.”
“It’s not a business thing,” Doc said.
“And not a photography thing either, since Lios Leyva is notoriously camera shy. So we can conclude it’s a shotgun thing, perhaps? Out of your league.”
“I just want to know where to find him.”
“Why?”
“He kidnapped a woman. Her father wants her back.”
She pursed her lips, regarding him, weighing him. Then she made up her mind and spoke briskly. “I’ll help you do that. I’m sure he would be in some sort of contact with the local cacique, a man named DePilar. In addition to other corruptions, he has taken a controlling position in local drug retailing. My contacts are sure that DePilar meets with Guadalajara people affiliated with Lios. So he knows, but I don’t see any reason why he would talk to you.”
“I didn’t see any reason you would, either.”
“Your Indigena friend had a lot to do with it. If you’re smart, you’d let him do all your talking. But mainly, I am sympathetic to women taken and abused by men.”
Doc hid his smile. At least feminists were predictable. That’s why they get manipulated so easily. Then Carmen surprised him by bluntly asking if Primo was any good. He glanced at Primo, who was within earshot. though squatting directly in the full force of MariPaz. He watched the kid lift his hand to shush MariPaz and was amazed when she actually shushed.
“Yeah, he is, actually. He’s got a nose for news and a lot of mindless dedication. And guts. He wrote an expose on prostitution in Los Cabos where there isn’t supposed to be any. Caused a bit of a stir.”
“But can he write?”
“Definitely. A bit yellow and florid for my tastes, but then I’d say the same thing about most Mexican periodical writing.”
“Too florid?” Primo asked, genuinely curious.
“Well, in the states phrases like, ‘Only when the refulgent rays of liberalism pierce the ominous dark clouds of occulted corruption can the upturned, expectant faces of the people be warmed by the warmth of patriotic fervor.’ would be considered a little purple.”
Carmen gave a half-smile and nod, “You’ve got a good memory for my work. That was a while back.”
“Really? I though you did it every week. Anyway, he’s a pretty cool kid.”
Turning to the boy, Carmen said, “You could probably work for ‘Controversia’, if you wanted to, maybe help me with some investigations.”
“How would that be?” Primo asked, no sign of his probably excitement.
“Well, for instance I’d love to do something on the scams in the construction of the new marina and a certain judge’s parties at Sr. Chico’s but they know my face up there and a woman couldn’t get near the marina work crews.”
Primo said nothing, just fixed her with a long, thoughtful look.
“You think it over,” she told him, “When you’re through with the Doctor here. Or before, if you’d rather write than get yourself killed.” She turned her back on Doc and regained control of the conversation with Primo, MariPaz sulking and gaping as the two of them tripped off into politics. The big wheels and invisible gears behind it all. All MariPaz ever saw of political power was the barrel of a gun, the bars of a cell, maybe a little jailer-rape between old friends.
Doc inclined to her view of the political world. It’s too nasty for polite conversation, too dangerous to mess with, and makes simple criminals like MariPaz and himself look clean in comparison. To hell with intellectuals like Carmen. He’d like to see how her shrewd analyses and unflinching moral stances would stand up to a few weeks in the dark, pissing on the same floor she had to eat from. MariPaz was a standup chick, that’s what he knew about her. And always laughing. He caught her eye and felt his heart flood out to her. It must have got there, too, because she flashed him her perfect teeth and gave him just a hint of jiggle. Doc felt warm and loose as he headed back to the bar.