Chapter Thirty-Two
As they wound out the Punta de Mita road, Harvey pointed up a steep side trail that would traumatize even his battle-scarred Wagoneer. “Up there’s where Oziel and I have our little artifactory. It’s the site of an opal mine. Beautiful stuff, dirt cheap, but no real value except to suckers who don’t know the difference between Mexican and Australian.”
“But you were contributing to the delinquency of miners.”
“Actually, they were doing masks when I first found them. Beautiful work and perfectly antiqued–I sold a hell of a lot of them. But really, what’s a wooden mask worth, no matter how old and well done? We’re doing a lot better in stone and metal. I’d take you up for a tour, but I figure you guys are too lame to appreciate fine fraud. Oziel’s down at the Anclote now, sucking up booze and leching the daughters.”
And the daughters were as lechable as ever. Goyo, the owner of the only restaurant on one of Doc’s favorite stretches of beach anywhere, always had two or three daughters carrying shrimp and beer to the battered tables under the palm roof, and they never aged. Every year or so his mountainous wife produced a beautiful new child that came to work in the restaurant when they reached their teens and when they hit twenty disappeared. They were pretty much indistinguishable and had wonderful smiles and were always too busy to talk to customers. The idea was, you sat there with your beer and your shrimp and when you got tired of looking a beautiful beach, you could look at some beautiful girls moving around doing restaurant things. Or you could play ping-pong or take a shower if you wanted to.
Oziel was a heavy duty guy, somewhere over fifty and as massive and stolid as a Toltec head. His weight pressed the chair he sat in deep into the sand, but there was still a lot of him visible above the table. His nose was a monument to aboriginal blood, his knuckles a mass of scars, his eyes absolutely flat black. He was wearing an old, discolored, but clean Resistol with a rolled brim. He seemed to have an understanding with Primo before the kid even sat down. He paid no attention to Harvey and not a lot of approval towards Doc. He didn’t say much. But he watched everything.
What he did say, he asked Primo where he was from. Primo didn’t bother with geography, he mentioned a branch of the Tarahuamara and Oziel nodded. And he said he had a boat ready to leave for the Islas Marias that afternoon. Finally Doc asked him if they could pay passage on the boat, round trip. Oziel named an amount. In dollars. Doc pulled out the money and handed it to him. He stuck it in his pocket. Harvey said the boat would leave from the end of the point in a half hour. Doc thanked Oziel and started to get up, but he waved a big thick hand with blunt, tapered fingers and motioned for a daughter to come over. He ordered a round of Pacificos with a platter of shrimp, oysters, and lobster ceviche and the four men sat silently, eating and drinking beer and watching a world in which everything but their chairs and beer cans was natural and local and part of the color scheme and the clouds and the waves and the girls moved endlessly in beautiful, soothing, repetitive rhythms.
The boat said “smuggler” all over, looking just like everyday fishing pangas but better equipped and overpowered, but according to Harvey it was just used for beach seining along the coast, except for the occasional run out to the federal prison. The Islas Marias aren’t quite Devil’s Island, as prison locations go, but they’re a lot less hospitable than Alcatraz. And without the charm. Forty miles out to sea in waters that probably require vacationing sharks to book in advance, the islands are a natural for security. Except that security always has people involved.
Generally, the boat would just idle close enough to the federal dock for somebody to toss a package into the hands of a guard or designated inmate. But sometimes they would actually tie up for more complicated transactions. Packages might contain drugs, money, guns, gourmet foods, or clothing: tie-ups often involved information or passing of people, both in and out. The boat, and Oziel himself, were under the protection and gratitude of the most illustrious inmate of the Islas Marias pen, El Ojo. Doc thought it was a weird way to run a prison. Harvey told he was naive, even though he’d been in Mexican prisons before; he’d been downscale and had no idea of what truly grandiose corruption is really like.
When the boat’s crew trooped out of the dingy seafood shacks that litter the point, Primo was more than a little surprised. Doc wasn’t because he’d seen it before, but it did present an image one seldom associates with third world fisherfolk. The entire four-man crew was totally and flamboyantly gay. They favored plunging necklines and very high heels. The wore toreador pants and loose pajama bottoms. They sported lots of personal jewelry and daring hairdos. They minced their words. They didn’t seem very happy to have Doc as a passenger, but were perfectly delighted to have cute little Primo aboard for however long he desired.
Doc smiled through the expected rough humor and alternating simpering and aggressiveness of the boys with good grace. Primo sat blank and unmoving, having no idea what the fluttering fishermen were all about or how to react to it. But about five minutes after they had launched the boat and sunfished out through the ground breakers, things started getting a little rough and Doc asked them to cut the kid some slack. It was exactly what the crew had been trying to evoke and they reacted instantly, grouping together, producing some very nasty-looking knives, and telling Doc he was not expected to have much of a say in the afternoon’s activities. Doc shifted his weight, then stood up. The fishermen grinned.
“Can you give me the keys to the motor first,” Primo said in a voice so flat and matter of fact that it cut through the charged atmosphere and got everybody’s attention. He explained off hand, “You’re going to attack him. He’s going to kill you. You catch fish for your job, he kills people for his. So before we start, could you give me the keys so we can get back when our business is done?”
The gay blades stared at Primo minute, then at Doc. Then they all broke out laughing. Don’t flatter yourselves assholes, Like we’d get all wet over racially challenged uglies with no sense of humor. But the rest of trip wasn’t exactly a comedy cruise.
There were two armed guards on the dock, which would have looked like some sinister installation out of James Bond if it had been freshly painted and in decent repair, and two prisoners actually dressed in striped suits like refugee referees, who belayed the lines the fishing crew tossed them. A fisherman with shoulder length dangling earrings handed a very suspicious-looking white bale of tight-wrapped Ziploc bags to one inmate, the Madonna wannabe coxswain gave the other a smoldering wink and a dufflebag obviously containing firearms. The captive zebras trudged off with their bindles, one guard walking behind them. The other guard motioned for Doc and Primo to step ashore. Doc looked around the dock, then up at the forbidding guardhouses, and thought: I can’t believe I’m voluntarily putting myself into a prison.
The guard, dressed in snappy khakis with an officer’s insignia on the shoulders, smiled and shook hands with them both and offered himself as their escort. He mentioned the points of interest–the tobacco patch, the mango grove, the ruins of the original fortress, the new baseball field–as they walked through what looked like a scattered village of buildings and fields on their way to the totally convincing gray cement walls of the main compound.
Inside, the main yard was surrounded with little stalls, taco stands, restaurants, bars, and shops. Inmates ate, lounged around, or moved about their business. Doc and Primo drew little attention as the guard led them to what must have been the exclusive dining zone, where a tall, athletic inmate wearing a white guayabera and mirrored Gargoyles sat sipping coffee under a thatch umbrella. A special assistant to El Ojo, who would lead them into his actual presence.
Doc estimated that El Ojo’s “cell” was a building designed to sleep eighty men before it had been cleared out and converted into a mansion. From the outside it was as drab a stack of concrete as the rest of the place, a third world prison in stages of neglect. But one step inside the huge steel doors and the decor took a surreal turn for the better.
The entry way was tiled in green travertine, with walls covered with a watery yellow satin. Hand carved hardwood doors set between bas-relief pillars opened into a reception room that couldn’t make up it’s mind between the Trianon and Ceasar’s Palace. The chandelier alone was a staggering achievement, especially in an offshore security prison. Good thing he’s got all that security, Doc thought, or he’d be overrun with burglars.
Mr. Mirrorshades motioned them into two chairs whose combination of slim Louis Whoever design and over-upholstered cushions seemed to emulate nothing but high price tags, then stepped through the inch thick glass doors at the end of the room, deeply etched and blasted with three nude and very busty graces. Doc scanned the ceiling moldings while Primo checked out the oil paintings of European landscapes and neo-classical nudes in their elaborate gilded frames with brass plates and individual lighting. They didn’t look at each other, just stared and kept straight faces.
Then they were ushered into the carved leather paneling and antique splendor of the inner sanctum where the paintings looked a lot more important, the furnishings a lot more expensive, and the huge console of sophisticated ship-to-shore communication gear a whole lot less probable. Two very beautiful young women reclined on a fainting couch in minimal gauze effects and the older man who was approaching them from behind the enormous plane of polished desktop, gliding through the depths of the carpet pile, could only have been El Ojo.
Doc was taken aback at first. Surely anyone who could afford a set-up like this, especially on this particular lot, could afford to have a plastic surgeon stitch up the neck wound that gaped open like a tracheotomy scar. Then he realized that he was looking at a trademark, a carefully cultivated logo that advertised a lot of characteristics at a lot of levels, one of which was invulnerability. He instantly understood that it wouldn’t be a good idea to mention the wound, or to look at it, or to use the name El Ojo. Just say, “Sir”, look elsewhere, and bear up under the gaze of that round eye winking out of the man’s throat.
El Ojo shook hands with Doc coolly, and nodded slightly to Primo as he would a servant or child. He said, “You’ve come a long way to see me.”
“It was worth it just to see your decorating,” Doc replied, “Señor DePilar didn’t prepare me for this. I wish I’d brought my cameras.”
“Ah yes, you’re the photographer. But you speak of Sr. DePilar?” The eyes held Doc’s as steadily as the stare from the third eye glaring out from between his collarbones.
“He mentioned the name La Quina, but also that he finds it rude.”
“I know just what he means,” the old gangster smiled, “But it’s a good thing you said it once.”
Jesus, Doc thought, why not just have a secret handshake. “You may call me Señor Ocampo, by the way. Or Padrino,” the old Don continued.
Doc thought, Godfather? Great, he’ll probably make me an offer I can’t understand. He started to say something trivial, but El Ojo cut him off by snapping his fingers. The tall factotum instantly stepped to a sideboard that looked like an advertisement for some sixteenth century veneerist and opened the top to reveal a wet bar and several rows of bottles. “I seldom have a visitor with the sensibility to appreciate what I have made of my punishment cell,” he said, “Let Lico make you a drink and I will take you on the hundred peso tour.”
The wine cellar was a surprise; not impressive but adequate under the circumstances. So was the firing range with racks of target pistols and automatic weapons such as seldom seen in prison living quarters. The fireplace in the living room was another puzzle until their glowing host showed them how the clever, silent blowers kept up its draft. Doc wondered if there was air-conditioning to make having fires in the tropics a little more comfortable. The refectory table with two dozen chairs was also unexpected, but only to somebody who hadn’t just walked through the huge stainless steel kitchen where the cooks were at work. And the women and the wall safe or course. But once again, Primo was most blown away by the bathroom.
If the luxury of the Vallarta condo had been beyond his imagination, the black marble, gold-fixtured, crystal-laden fantasy of El Ojo’s latrine seemed beyond the minds of architects and kings. Black marble floors, walls, stalls, and ceiling, that is. With concealed indirect lighting. The washbasin carved from a single block of the same black marble. The tub hollowed out of another and big enough for four. The shower had six gold heads designed to spray from all angles at once and was partitioned off by slabs of etched glass hanging from golden chains. The DRAINS were apparently gold. Only the toilet was recognizable. Low, sleek, futuristic, and jet black, but obviously a toilet. And beside it, an equally space age, but obvious bidet.
El Ojo was obviously proud of his plumbing, and was warming up to Primo because the kid was so obviously awestruck. Pointing to the bidet, he addressed him for the first time, “What do you know about that, eh, boy?”
Primo stepped over for an appraising glance and said, “Only that it’s not a Kohler.”
The old Godfather stared at him for a moment, then at the Star Trek bidet. Doc couldn’t believe he was watching a rich powerful Mexican feeling insecure in front of an Indian. But he loved it.
“Well, of course not,” Ojo said, “Everything here is domestic manufacture. I’m a Mexican and I buy Mexican.”
Yeah, like the Jack Daniels you’re drinking and the Galil rifles and the Italian paintings, Doc thought. But he steered away from the bidet a little. “Yes, I noticed some lovely young women, Señor. But tell me, don’t they get bored out here on this piece of rock?”
El Ojo gave a tigrish smile, back in charge, “Well you see,” he said, “Since they live in my bedroom they find it exciting enough.”
Back in the inner office, cushioned on leather as soft, he guessed, as the non-bored backsides that required the bidet, Doc sipped Armagnac and buttered up the decor while waiting for the old ogre to let him get to the point. A point that was reached very suddenly when El Ojo set down his glass of bourbon and said, “I have talked with my associates.”
Doc just nodded, all ears. The Don went on, “You mention Armando Lios Leyva, a cherished friend of mine for a great many years. And now I learn that he is dead.”
He let that sink in a moment and went on. “His position has been usurped by the man who killed him, a young man who he had treated like a son. Even now the killer is living in Armando’s house and trying to continue his business. He is a traitor, a renegade, an outlaw even among criminals. Anyone who kills him would be doing a favor to all of us. I will tell you exactly where to find this man. However, I have to warn you that there has been fighting. Perhaps the woman you are looking for is already dead.”
Doc looked at Primo, then both looked back at their host without speaking. He thought, Man, this old fart is just chock full of surprises.
As he personally walked them to the door, obviously enjoying playing “Lifestyles of the Rich and Blameless” host, the old man spoke to Primo again, asking him very seriously, “Say, son, do you really think the Kohler pussy washer is the superior model?”
Primo pursed his lips in thought, then said, “Well, I’m sure they all get the job done.”
“True, but…”
“And there is the matter of supporting our own national sovereignty and industry.”
“Well naturally. But…”
Primo brightened, “Perhaps you should have one of each and test their performance.”
The old boss roared at that, “You’re right. I’ll do it. Test them mano a mano and may the best douche win.”
He waved them through the door, which closed resoundingly behind them. The Gorgoyled bodyguard and the prison guard both stepped over to escort them back to the dock. Doc spoke quietly to Primo as the wound through the clutter of the prison yard, “That man needs a hobby.”
On the ride back, the boat seemed to slide across the black swells, light from the early moonrise giving the sea a hard shine like obsidian. A dim lantern bulb amidships threw a vague circle of chiaroscuro onto the passengers and crew. The huffs of the engine seemed to be discreet streaks of sound against a ground of dark silence. At last Primo couldn’t stand it anymore. He turned to Doc and asked, “So those things are really just for washing pussies, like he said?”
The fishermen, who’d been staring petulantly into the night, started and stared as Doc broke out laughing. He sure hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy who would just start laughing his fool head off. “Your perceptions are wasted on journalism, Mano,” he said. “But you know, the secret prime directive of capitalist technology has always been the comfort and dissembling of women.”
Primo still had questions. “Does the device produce an improvement noticeable enough to justify its expense?”
The fishermen thought it possible that the gringo fool might laugh himself right overboard. And wouldn’t have been at all unhappy if he had.