“What happened?”
“Like I said, this salesman came around with a young couple, showing the units. The place is owned by a guy in Mexico City. He’s trying to sell, the whole shebang or piecemeal, either way.”
“Through Paradise Investment Properties Associates?”
“Yeah. They got an office in Cancún. A legit outfit. The couple were looking around, real excited, and the salesman and me got to talking. He said they wanted it bad and the owner was in a squeeze and wanted to sell bad, but the couple probably couldn’t swing it. His name was Ralph Taggert, which was on the Paradise Investment business card he gave me.”
“Does Paradise—”
“First thing I checked. They never heard of any Taggert or anybody who looks like him. Anyway, we’re talking and he’s saying that the owner’s asking seventy-five grand for the two lower units, seventy for the uppers. That’s two ninety, too rich for my blood. But he says the seller is flexible. The couple comes back and they talk and the salesman takes me aside and says maybe they’ll get the money from her parents, but they’re trying to lowball the deal. I ask how much. He says two fifty. Before they leave, I say come back if it falls through. Meanwhile, I’m figuring what we can make, living in one and time-sharing the rest. Look.”
Lamm handed Luis a bar napkin with numbers scribbled on it. Printed in a corner was a grinning Mexican wearing a sombrero, shaking maracas. The figures made no sense to Luis. He handed the napkin back and asked, “What did Taggert look like?”
“Brown hair, glasses, thirty-five, medium height and weight. An average Joe.”
“And his clients?”
“Is that important?”
Luis shrugged.
Lamm lighted a cigarette and said, “They were your typical yuppies. Blond. Tanning parlor tans. The gal, her T-shirt had a toucan on it.”
“Taggert returned?”
“An hour later, alone. The yuppie gal called her daddy, but couldn’t swing a loan. I offered two hundred and forty thousand. It just sort of came out. Taggert acted like he was in pain, like I was taking advantage of him, but said his seller was desperate and that he was authorized to accept that low a price if I put a hefty chunk down.”
“Sixty thousand U.S. dollars,” Luis said.
“Twenty-five percent. In cash. Cash was the clincher.” Lamm rubbed thumb against fingers. “Money talks. So I thought. Talked me into the biggest jam of my life. We’ve been to Bermuda, the Bahamas, and Acapulco. The Yucatan beats them hands down. To retire here—”
A short elderly woman entered the verandah, limping on a brass-handled cane. She was festooned with binoculars, canteen, and knapsack. Smelling of bug repellent and sunscreen, Helen Lamm was a sprightly gray and pink elf. Luis Balam was immediately charmed by her.
Lamm gestured to her cane. “One of my old putters. She sprained an ankle yesterday. Helen won’t be happy till she’s scaled all those pyramids of yours.”
Helen touched Bud’s cigarette hand with the putter-cane. “This from a man who smokes three packs of coffin nails a day and compares eighteen holes of golf in an electric cart to a marathon. I climbed Coba’s biggest today. Twelve stories. On account of the gimpy ankle it took time, but it was worth it.”
They were teasing each other, Luis knew, but their words were tart. “I must go.”
Helen smiled and shook his hand. Bud walked him to his car. “You used to be a cop, Martinez said. How come you’re not now?”
Luis supposed that Lamm was entitled to a summary. “I went to Cancún to work construction. To escape the village and the cornfields. Back and forth I went. I made money, learned Spanish, then English, but had family problems. I later joined the police. A rich man’s son was drunk and speeding in a sports car on the highway. He hit a bicycle and kept going. A Maya man, wife, and child were killed. I investigated and arrested the boy. Money changed hands. The report was altered to show a phantom driver, case closed. He was released. I persisted. I had witnesses, signed statements, and pictures of the car. I made too much noise. He was convicted and jailed. I was fired for unrelated infractions that were manufactured.”
“An honest Mexican cop,” Lamm said. “You were a rarity.”
“I wasn’t an honest cop,” Luis said. “Not by your standards. Police are paid badly. They have to take small gratuities to feed their families. No amount of money can condone killing.”
“I don’t blame you, you being Indian, too.”
“Maya.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You said Indian,” Luis said. “That is like me calling you gringo. I am Maya.”
“Sorry,” Lamm said, raising hands in mock surrender. “A final question before I get in any more trouble. What’s Balam mean? It don’t sound Spanish.”
“Balam is jaguar in Maya.”
Bud Lamm gulped his drink, shivered, and said, “Jaguar. I can use one.”
Luis returned to Cancún City, reciting a prayer to any saint specializing in the longevity of Volkswagens. On a broad avenue of government buildings was the Quintana Roo State Judicial Police and Inspector Hector Salgado Reyes.
Salgado was dressed like Luis, in slacks, white shirt, and sandals. He eschewed the military uniform favored by his peers. Hector was roly-poly and nearly bald. Epaulets and khaki would have made him resemble a character in an operetta.
Hector was Luis’s mentor. During the scandal, he had tried to save his favorite young officer from Mexico City clout and his own zeal. He, of course, could not. Hector’s stand was unpopular. He barely saved his own career.
Luis related his story.
Hector was mildly sympathetic. “Poor stupid man. His wife will kill him.”
“Not if we recover the sixty thousand dollars.”
“Ricky Martinez and his golden clients,” Hector said, clucking his tongue. “Ricky would buy a sweepstakes ticket and be thunderously disappointed if he didn’t win. Ricky has no grasp on reality.”
“I realize Cancun has no shortage of con men, Hector, but have — you received other complaints fitting this pattern?”
“Not of this magnitude. Sixty thousand.” Hector whistled. “This could be his first and last job, you know. He accepts his wonderful fortune as an omen, a message from God that he retire from crime and spend it. No. Rental deposits hustled by bogus managers, five hundred, a thousand, that is the usual score.”
“I wonder if our Ralph Taggert has flown out already.”
“I would,” Hector said, rocking thoughtfully in his chair. “Then again, I might not. I might worry.”
“Why?”
“You fly home. Whichever city you fly to, you submit to U.S.A. Customs. They don’t like the shape of your nose, they search your luggage. They discover the sixty thousand. What do they think?”
“Drug money,” Luis said.
“Exactly. You have nothing to do with drugs, but you raise suspicions. They hold onto you and make inquiries.”
“Taggert waits in hiding or he converts the money.”
“Yes,” Hector said, raising a stubby finger. “Remember this, Luis. Dollars flow into Cancún. They do not flow out. That is an unnatural act.”
Cancún Island, the hotel zone, is a 7-shaped, fourteen-mile strip of luxury hotels, fine restaurants, a lagoon, and beaches with sand that could be mistaken for granulated sugar. In twenty years Cancún has gone from scrub brush to a sun-and-fun mecca that hosts a million visitors annually.
It got me out of the cornfields, Luis thought yet again as he cruised along Kukulkan Boulevard, the narrow island’s single street. Good or bad? he debated for the thousandth time, coming to the same nebulous conclusion.