CHAPTER 7The walk to the Zocalo was short and cool in the early morning air. Robbed of his usual morning workout by business calls before the tour’s scheduled departure, Blaine enjoyed the brisk walk through the early bustle of traffic and vendors. Given his way, he’d enjoy a quick scan of the market section of the newspaper, a black cup of Mexican espresso—no latte or flavored frills, and pan dulce—still oven hot—in one of the sidewalk bistros. The continental muffin in his room paled in appeal at the tantalizing scent of the sweet rolls that wafted from the restaurants and street stalls along the way.
Ahead of him, Caroline paused unexpectedly in front of a cascading display of woolen blankets and ponchos. “I’m almost tempted to buy one of those. It’s the middle of summer, for Pete’s sake. When does this place warm up?”
“By noon you’ll be sorry you did,” Blaine told her.
With a skeptical look she drew away from the vendor, who’d already dropped the price of the poncho he held up for Caroline to examine. “Special price, just for the pretty señora.”
“Maybe on the way back,” she answered, rubbing her bare arms for some friction warmth.
Blaine checked an instinct to draw her under the protection of his arm as some of the other men had done for their chilled companions. But he’d already made a fool of himself last night and sent the poor woman into shock. He must have been caught up in Hector’s Cinderella nonsense, to play the gallant, sending her sprawling in disbelief. And she wasn’t the only one dumbstruck.
Blaine had never kissed a woman’s hand, not even Ellie’s.
His mom was right about one thing. He had been working too hard. And now that his right brain had been given a little leeway, it wanted the whole playing field.
“Vámonos, peoples, vámonos,” Hector shouted from the street corner, where the light had changed in favor of the pedestrians to cross over.
The historical center of the city was a mix of the Aztec and Spanish past and the present Mestizo evolution of the two. The Plaza of Three Cultures was constructed upon the ruins of an ancient Aztec temple. Blaine had been there without a guide to have a look at the architecture, but Hector’s spiel regarding its history gave him a broader perspective.
The building materials the Spanish used to erect the massive Metropolitan Cathedral had come from the pyramids of the conquered Indians. While he didn’t approve of the Spanish motivation and unconscionable acts of cruelty, Blaine could find no fault with their practical use of the pyramids. The Indians no longer used them. Now the excavations of their ruins lay open to the public, and the church in turn struggled to remain intact on the unstable foundation of the city originally built upon a lake. The modern design of the adjacent museum brought both worlds into the present.
“Stand in one spot,” Caroline told the girls with a hint of conspiracy in her voice, “and slowly turn full circle. Use your imagination. It’s like a time machine.”
Bemused, Blaine watched as they all three did so, clicking off pictures with their disposable cameras all the way. “You know,” he told Caroline, “you can buy postcards with better pictures in the museum.”
“But it wouldn’t be what I actually experienced, and I want to take it with me.” She looked at him, almost breathless. “Can’t you just feel it?”
Arms flung wide, she pulled another spin, nearly taking out a camera-blinded Japanese tourist. Blaine caught her in time, pulling her out of the way with an apology to the disconcerted photographer.
“Oh!” Caroline turned to the man. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. She nodded. He backed away, and Caroline turned her bright-eyed attention back to Blaine, her arms folded harmlessly against her chest. “But it is beautiful, isn’t it?”
No, the dingy concrete and ruins weren’t beautiful, but Mexico with Caroline was an entirely different country. It was as if she had infected him with the wonder and awe on her face. Even the dourest Scrooge couldn’t help feeling her kid-at-Christmas excitement.
“The pride, the pain. In the midst of all this concrete and rock is the color of the people,” she gushed on, shades of a stage diva.
“Look, I have goose bumps.”
“Probably the morning air.” Yet, as Blaine followed Caroline’s gaze, he almost envisioned more than the drab buildings that he actually saw—images of the heart, not logic. And they were breathtaking.
“Hey, you two, come on,” Karen called back to them, as the loosely knit group started off behind Hector.
“Omigosh.” As if prodded by a sharp stick, Caroline broke away from the still frame that captured them and hurried ahead, leaving Blaine to catch up.
“He’ll do a head count before we leave,” he called out in assurance, but by now she was power-walking beyond earshot toward the gathering at the cathedral’s dark arched doors. Blaine grimaced, certain now that Caroline Spencer was as spooked by his behavior as he was. Even Karen looked at him like he’d grown a third eye.
Although, on second thought, his daughter did that on a regular basis. Realizing his feet were still glued to the spot, Blaine shook himself free with an energized pace, as if to outdistance that which he was at a loss to understand.
“Maybe the Indians knew what they were doing when they refused to attend services inside the church, but worshiped with the missionary fathers here in the open plaza,” Hector said as Blaine brought up the rear of the group on the opposite side from where Caroline stood. The guide pointed with a cryptic grin to some scaffolding where repairs were being done on the looming stone structure. “Perhaps both would have done well to take the Scripture about building on a rock literally, eh?”
The “amens” that echoed around Blaine sobered him in an instant. The rock he’d leaned on in his past was like the facade of this church, dark and stern, with all the ornate trappings. When Ellie’s alcoholism came to light, he’d wondered what he’d overlooked, what he’d done to deserve the lot dealt him. But he’d clung to the faith of his childhood, believing—hoping—that God would make things right. Then his wife died in the accident, and anger set in. Now there was a strained coexistence of spirit. Blaine didn’t bother God, if God didn’t bother him.
“Now it’s time to discover your ancient roots,” Hector announced, drawing Blaine out of his dark thoughts. “We will separate into the hunters and the gatherers. Meet here at the door of the National Palace in one hour.”
The group broke apart very much as Hector, tongue-in-cheek, had predicted. The “hunters and explorers,” mostly men, staked out a bench or section of railing, while the “gatherers”—the women—meandered through the rows of tables and blankets displaying Indian crafts and jewelry. The merriment that drifted Blaine’s way as Caroline tried a handwoven hat and posed for her young charges contrasted with his shrouded desire to escape.
Maybe he should have remained at the hotel and followed through on the news that his brother hadn’t yet read the contract prepared by Blaine’s secretary. Mark was out of the office until the following Monday, according to Alice. Heaven forbid his younger sibling work a full week when the fishing was good or the weather perfect for golf.
Instinctively, Blaine reached for his cell phone and realized he’d left it on the nightstand beside the bed. He never went out without it tucked in his jacket, but today he hadn’t suited up for business. Nor did he usually start his morning by seeing a sleep-tousled redhead try to shrink inside an oversized nightshirt. Flustered, Blaine leaned on a section of rail overlooking the temple excavation, and was promptly interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, would you mind taking a family picture of us with the dancers?” Ron Butler handed Blaine a good digital camera.
Dancers? Blaine turned, surprised to see that a group of brightly feathered and leathered Indians with bells and rattles had managed to sneak up on him. “No problem. I use one like this for work projects.” He waited until the trio paid one of the dancers to pose with them. Nothing came free here.
“Christie?” He thought that was the daughter’s name. “Can you move closer to your mom?” Finally he had the two blondes in the picture. “Did anyone ever tell you that you two look more like sisters than mother and daughter?” he observed as they came into focus.
“My real mom is in California,” Christie said without embarrassment. “This mom got stuck with me when she married my dad.”
Her stepmother gave the girl a quick hug and laughed. “Yeah.
We’ve tried everything to get rid of her, but she keeps finding us.”
Blaine captured the glowing bond between the stepmother and stepdaughter with the push of a button. Maybe Caroline was right about taking the experience home with her. Postcards didn’t have loved ones in them.
“That’s a keeper,” Ron Butler said, taking the camera back.
“Thanks.”
“Now can Pegeen and I go shopping?” Christie linked her arm with her stepmother.
Ron mimicked Hector with a wave of his hand. “Vámonos, vámonos. Me, I’m going to get one of those snow cones before you two break my piggy bank.”
“That extra suitcase will come in handy after we empty the goodies at the orphanage,” Dana remarked to an equally package-laden Caroline as they approached the bench where Randy and Blaine were engaged in conversation. “Till then, there’s Randy.”
“Hey, honey,” she called to her husband, “will you carry this for me?”
Randy met her halfway, grunting for effect as he took the bag, but his grin belied any real grudge.
“You gals realize those fake straw bags with Mexico on them are probably made in China,” Blaine pointed out.
Caroline rallied to the wry observation. “Maybe so, but it’s where I bought them that counts to me.”
“Would you like me to carry yours?” Blaine offered.
“No thanks, I’m used to being the pack mule.” Then she mustered a gracious smile. “Although, you could take Karen’s.” She handed over a bright woolen blanket rolled up in a used plastic supermarket bag, but Blaine looked past her, distracted.
“The girls are over by the snow cone vendor,” she said, anticipating his question. “They’ll be along in a minute.”
“Aren’t those some of the kids from the nightclub?” Taking his daughter’s purchase under his arm, Blaine bristled with paternal wariness.
Caroline turned. Sure enough, there was the exchange student whom Karen had introduced to them the night before and his Mexican companions, including the one with the spiked red hair and enough studs to bear a resemblance to a ballroom globe when he moved in the bright sun.
Caroline shuddered as Spike let Annie taste his snow cone. She’d warned her daughter against the water, but not against the natives.
From the flirty look Annie gave the young man, germs were the last thing on her innocent mind.
Just as Caroline started forward, the boys were drawn away by an authoritative figure waving a small Mexican flag over his head.
The youths fell in with a group of tourists, ranging from babies in strollers to straw-hatted senior citizens, and walked toward a tour bus parked at the end of the square. A few minutes later, Annie and Karen ambled over with bright red snow cones.
“Isn’t it too cool?” Karen raved. “The guys we met are taking a bus tour to Acapulco this week too.”
Leaving Blaine to his own concerns, Caroline pulled Annie aside. “Sweetie, you don’t drink after strangers . . . or anyone, for that matter.”
Annie was indignant. “Mom, Manny hadn’t taken a bite yet. I just wanted to see if I should get the rainbow flavors or stick with my black cherry standby.”
“Hey, isn’t it time to head for the National Palace?” Kurt called out, bringing up the rear of the snow cone aficionados.
As they moved en masse toward the designated meeting place, Blaine reached down and coaxed the straw bag out of Caroline’s hand. At her surprised look, he gave her a rakish grin. “My mother would never forgive me if I allowed a pretty lady to carry packages while I had a free hand.”
With her heart curling up and purring in her chest, she mumbled a “thank-you” and concentrated on walking straight ahead before she was tempted to brush kittylike against her companion to coax more such attention. Behind them, a diesel engine roared and popped, but Caroline hardly flinched. Siding with logic, she battled to stop the continuous loop of Blaine’s smile and the word pretty that held the audience of her senses captive.
Gears groaned as the tourist bus nudged its way into the mainstream of traffic.
“I tell you, man, you have brushed that señorita off her feet, no?”
Javier said with that silly grin on his face.
John Scott Chandler’s gaze followed Karen Madison’s group across the plaza. He hadn’t found another candidate to move the package. He’d tried, but the young women who came in after the club turned to the older clientele weren’t interested.
“It does look that way, amigo. If anything goes wrong, Jorge will have my hide drying on the wall of his hacienda before the sun sets on the news.”
It was like handing candy to a baby. Karen had dropped the card in her bag of souvenirs while they waited in line at the Ice Man vending truck. After a quick look to see if Big Daddy was around— he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was onto him—John gave her another chaste peck on the cheek in front of the twerp with the crush on her.
Javier grinned. “Mi tío, he has his ways.”
Like a hundred ways to eat beans. And if Javier kept eating pizza with the same enthusiasm, he would soon be just as round as his uncle. Today, he slurped down a grape snow cone. The ice in the cone that John finished before boarding the bus had given him a headache. At least that was how he reasoned this latest one away.
Lately, everything upset him. And Javier, with his delusions of being as big as his uncle, now gnawed on John’s last frayed nerve.
Reaching into his shirt pocket, John retrieved the aspirin tin he always kept on hand. Popping a pill into his mouth, he chased it down with the warm bottled water he’d brought on the bus that morning. If only he’d known of Javier’s gift for understatement before becoming involved with the Rocha family.
“Why so glum, hermano?” The young man beside him kicked back the reclining seat and folded his hands behind his head. There was a purple stain on his white polo shirt. “We get an expense-paid trip to Acapulco and the charms of the señoritas until they fly off to see our letters posted in the good U.S. of A.”
As if Javier could pick up a female American mark. He was a real ladykiller all right, if boring them to death counted. Guys, on the other hand—like John—didn’t care about his Pillsbury doughboy face and short, stocky build, giving his good old chico personality a chance to make the pitch. That he bought the beer didn’t hurt any.
“This is it, man. I have my degree, and I am back home soon as this one is over.”
It had all started with the same line John used with this latest wide-eyed dupe. No one could depend on the Servicio Postal de Mexicano. It made perfect sense to help a new buddy get a letter to his Tía Rosa by carrying the letter-sized packet to the U.S. to mail.
“I will miss you, hermano.” Javier checked the bag of pizza pretzel treats he’d polished off before leaving the bus, to be certain there were none left. “We have had some good times, eh?”
John nodded in silence. It had been a game at first. He had a way with girls, and it fed a malnourished part of his ego to manipulate them so easily. Sometimes the contraband was rare stamps, sometimes jewels, always small and always costly.
And the quick, easy money enabled him to live a high life in an apartment with Javier off university grounds. It wasn’t as though they were dealing drugs or doing something really sinister. What harm was it to steal from some old rich collector, who many times didn’t even miss the valuable until well after it had been lifted and sold on the black market? No one got hurt—as long as things went as planned.
Javier clapped his hand on John’s arm. “Good times, no?”
“Yeah, good times.” John put his fingers to his head and leaned against the pillow rest. “Too good, especially last night.”
“ José Cuervo is not so much your amigo today, eh?”
With no prospects to replace Karen Madison as their unwitting courier, tequila proved a temporary salve for his conscience. But today it was back, pounding his brain from all sides.
“My head feels like a piñata about to burst.”
John hardly heard Javier’s “You need to eat more regular, man.”
Conscience and worse—the memory of the one time something had gone wrong. All the front men—students who handed off the goods to the unsuspecting couriers—had been forced to watch Jorge Rocha and his sidekick, Argon, take turns beating a guy who’d tried skipping with some goods and fencing them on his own. After Jorge and company left, John called the attention of some passersby to the victim in the alley, who in turn used their cell phones to summon an ambulance. John had faded into the crowd, letting the callers answer the police questions.
“Candy?”
Jerked from the nightmare in broad daylight, John opened his eyes to see the punk with the red Mohawk and enough studs to outfit a motorcycle gang holding an open box of multicolored treats. Javier helped himself to a handful. John shook his head.
“No thanks, dude.”
God help him, this was it for him. Karen Madison was his last mark.