The noontime clientele at El Poche was quite different from the crowd that came in at night. There were workers from the nearby warehouses and from the docks on their midday breaks. Sailors off the merchant ships in the harbor were starting off hopefully on a twelve-hour carouse. And usually there were a few of the previous night’s customers, looking bleary and hoping a little hair of the dog would set them right again.
The bar did a quiet, steady business, but this was the time of greatest activity for the kitchen. There a one-eyed chef who went by the name of Cisco prepared a selection of chilaquiles, enchiladas, chalupas, and tamales. It was not always easy to tell the difference since Cisco drenched everything in bitter chocolate mole poblano sauce. There were few complaints, since Cisco was a man of short temper, and his kitchen held the finest assortment of knives and cleavers in that part of Veracruz.
At the bar, the most popular beverage at this time of day was pulque, a mild working man’s drink distilled from the same maguey cactus that produced the powerful tequila. Paco Silvera was on duty as usual when Hooker walked in. Local legend had it that Paco never slept.
Hooker hitched up a stool at the bar next to Klaus Heinemann, who was reading a tattered old copy of Life.
“You’re up early, Hooker,” Paco said. He swabbed a towel over the bar space in front of Hooker. Without being asked, he poured a shot glass of tequila and placed it on the bar.
“Business,” Hooker said. He leaned over to peer at Heinemann’s magazine. “What’s new with the world, Kraut?”
“A poll of school children in New York shows your President Roosevelt to be the most loved man in the world.”
“Good for him.”
“It is even more impressive when you know who came in second. God.”
“Never mind that; get to the important stuff.”
Heinemann flipped through the pages. “Clark Gable and Carole Lombard are getting married.”
“About time he made an honest woman out of her.”
“A fisherman off the coast of Africa caught a coelacanth.”
“You can catch a lot of things in Africa.”
“This happens to be a fish thought to be extinct for fifty million years.”
“Must have been a little ripe.”
Heinemann turned more pages. “I see college boys are swallowing goldfish again.”
“It’s a big week for fish stories.”
“I did not think you would be interested in the world situation.”
“You were right,” Hooker said. “Are there any pictures of Carole Lombard?”
“Only where she has lots of clothes on.” Heinemann tossed the magazine aside. “I understand there was some excitement outside here last night.”
“Not much. Just a couple of punks from across town feeling their oats.”
“Just my luck to miss the fun. And on a fool’s errand at that.”
“How so?”
“I had a movie producer from Hollywood who wanted to fly to Mexico City with his girlfriend. He was going to pay all my expenses just to wait there a week for him, then fly him back.”
“Sounds great. What’s the problem?”
“He canceled out on me. It seems he learned his girlfriend is pregnant, therefore no longer desirable.”
“Never trust a woman,” Hooker observed.
“I hear you got a job offer, too.”
“News gets around.”
“There are no secrets in El Poche; you know that. Tell me about it.”
“In a nutshell, Nolan Braithwaite’s wife wants somebody to go down to Quintana Roo and find him. Or his corpse, if that’s the case, which it probably is.”
“Braithwaite? That was a year ago, wasn’t it? Didn’t he disappear on the plane your friend Kaplan was on?”
“That’s it. I don’t expect there’ll be much left of him by now.”
“Nor of the airplane itself. Not the way the jungle swallows things down there.”
“That’s what I told her.” Hooker downed half the shot of tequila Paco had placed before him. “Still, I wonder.”
Heinemann stared at him. “You’re not actually considering this insane venture?”
“Last night I wasn’t. Today I’m not so sure.”
“What brought about the change?”
“A couple of things happened. Have you ever heard of muerateros?”
Heinemann nodded slowly. “Walking dead men who are supposed to guard the sacred temples of the Mayas. Some such nonsense.”
“Are you so sure it’s nonsense?”
“What else could it be?”
“I had a visitor last night. Alita says it was one of them.”
“A mueratero in Veracruz? It does not seem probable.”
“Maybe not, but whatever it was, this was no ordinary man. He splintered my door like a berry box and lifted me off the floor with one hand. I hit him as hard as I’ve ever hit anybody, and he never felt it.”
“Curious,” Heinemann said. “What was his business with you?”
“He left a note warning me to stay out of Quintana Roo. I’ve been getting that advice from a lot of people lately.”
“You can add me to the list. Quintana Roo is no place for a white man. Or anybody else except those primitive Maya tribesmen who are supposed to be still living there and eating each other for dinner.”
Hooker was thoughtful. “When so many people tell me not to do something, it gets my curiosity up.”
“You said there was more than one reason you might actually undertake this madness.”
“Well, there’s the money.”
“Now you begin to make sense. The amount is considerable, I trust.”
“The lady did say she’s ready to pay a bundle.”
Heinemann took a sip of beer and studied his friend. “This Mrs. Braithwaite … Is she by any chance — what is the current word? — a knockout?”
“I suppose you could say she isn’t hard to look at,” Hooker admitted.
“Aha!”
“Aha, my ass. The fact that Connie Braithwaite is a beautiful woman has nothing to do with my decision one way or the other.”
“I see she has progressed from ‘not hard to look at’ to ‘beautiful.’”
“Semantics,” Hooker said grumpily.
“I tell you this, my friend. Marlene Dietrich could make a personal visit to my room, take off every stitch of clothing, and I would still think long and hard about entering the jungles of Quintana Roo.”
“There’s one more thing to be considered,” Hooker said. “If there is even a small chance that Nolan Braithwaite is still alive, then there is the same chance for Buzz Kaplan.”
“Ah, yes. You two were very close.”
“He was a good friend.”
“I hope you think of me as a friend, too,” Heinemann said, “and on that basis I hope you will consider the personal danger involved. I would not like to lose you.”
Hooker swallowed the rest of his tequila and grinned at the German. “Thanks, Kraut. But don’t start the eulogies yet. I’m still thinking it over.”
He dropped a coin on the bar and walked out of the cantina onto Avenida Revolución. Klaus Heinemann watched him with a troubled expression.