Paradise Investment Properties Associates rented space in a newer hotel toward the southerly, least developed portion of the island. Luis didn’t recall seeing it before. They were springing up like weeds. The architecture was familiar, though: a latter-day Maya pyramid of glass and view decks.
Straight through the lobby was a disco boasting the latest electronic glitz, to the right a coffee shop serving tacos made with American cheese and iceberg lettuce, to the left an arcade of shops and realty offices. Luis, guided by a neon PIPA, asked a lovely, green-eyed mestiza receptionist to see the boss. She said that he was unavailable indefinitely. Luis sat on a sofa and said, fine, I’ll wait indefinitely. The receptionist went behind a partition. Luis heard whispering, including “Indian.”
A man of approximately forty came out with the pouting receptionist. He had Luis’s muscular build but was six inches taller. Luis surmised that his hairy arms and hands displayed more gold — watch, bracelet, several rings — than every piece at BLACK CORAL combined.
“Chester Cross,” he said. “Call me Chet. I’m the branch manager. Hortencia says you were gonna camp out.”
The levity was accompanied by a quick smile, but not in Call-Me-Chet’s ice-blue eyes.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I didn’t peg you as a prospect. No offense.”
“Bud Lamm.”
“C’mon back.”
At his desk, Cross said, “I didn’t know Lamm from Adam until he came in to see a salesman we don’t have about a property this office didn’t sell him. Needless to say, he came unglued.”
“You don’t know Ralph Taggert? He has business cards.”
“Anybody can have them printed. Where do you fit in?”
Luis disregarded Cross’s question and repeated Bud Lamm’s description of Taggert.
“Sorry. He could be anybody. Listen, con artists make it tough. Creeps like that reflect on me. PIPA’s situated up and down the Pacific Coast along the Mexican Riviera, and in any other resort town where you can walk across the main drag without tripping over a chicken. Also Hawaii and the Virgin Islands. I make good dough honestly. Gimme half a chance and I’ll hand this Taggert clown his head.”
Chester Call-Me-Chet Cross was too passionately outraged to be believed. Ralph Taggert had made a fortune in a short afternoon of deception. Chet Cross was a salesman, too; he should have been catatonic with envy.
Luis waited across the street, with plans to follow Cross. An hour later, a visibly unhappy Bud Lamm strode into the hotel. He had changed into a shirt the color of his condo. And now his face. Lamm left in ten minutes, no less agitated. Chet Cross departed ten minutes later.
Luis followed him out of Cancún, south along the highway to a resort. It had a marina catering to fishermen seeking marlin and sailfish. Cross went into the bar and sat with Bud Lamm. Luis was willing to observe discreetly, but Lamm began shouting and jabbing a finger at Cross, who took Lamm by the wrist.
Luis entered, took them each by a wrist, and said, smiling, “Smile, gentlemen, like you’re having fun. You’re attracting attention.”
Cross and Lamm smiled, gritting their teeth. Luis wrenched their arms apart and sat down.
“Nice grip,” Cross said.
“That son of a bitch,” Lamm said. “I want my money!”
“Slow learner,” Cross said to Luis, shaking his head. “I’ve told him fifty times, I don’t know any Taggert and would string him up by the thumbs if I did. I invited him here to get him out of the office, he was raising so much hell.”
“You ought to know Taggert,” Lamm said, then to Luis, “Helen and I had a blowup after you were there. She knew I’d brought the money. She knew it was gone. She packs and unpacks us. Guess I didn’t hide it too good. I confessed the whole deal. Needless to say, she’s steamed. She’s getting up early tomorrow to go visit Xelha. I’m staying out of her hair till she hits the sack.”
“Staying out of her hair and threatening me,” Cross said.
“Wanna know why?” Lamm asked Luis.
“Oh, yes.”
“This slick talker here, Helen ran into him while he was showing the condo, the morning before Taggert clipped me.”
Cross spread his hands and raised his eyebrows. “Prospective clients wish to view a property. I show it. Is that a crime?”
“No crime except if you know Taggert, which I think you do. You show up at the condo. Then Taggert drops by.”
“What’s your point?” Cross asked him.
“My point is, it’s a small world, but it ain’t that small.”
Luis refereed three rounds of beer, compliments of Cross. The men were surprisingly mellow drinkers. Luis encouraged them into their respective cars before they became traffic menaces. He drove to BLACK CORAL. The sun was setting, and Esther and Rosa were closing.
“I smell beer on you, Father,” Rosa admonished.
“In the line of duty,” Luis said. He explained.
“Do you think Cross was lying?” Esther asked.
“I don’t know.” Luis unfolded a military cot and slapped dust from the canvas. He slept at the shop during high season, pistol under his pillow, when there was too much merchandise to lug to the village. “I have to be at Xelha early,” he explained.
“What can Mrs. Lamm tell you?” Rosa asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Ask everything that occurs to you, Father,” Esther said. “She may be the only person involved who will speak the truth.”
The Xelha (shell-HAH) ruins were ideal for tourists who merely wanted to say they had seen a Maya ruin. Located across Highway 307 from the immensely popular Xelha lagoon, the structures were modest, an isolated and easy walk on a jungle path. At the ruins was a small, brushy cenote — a sinkhole well. The Yucatan was a limestone shelf, flat as a tortilla, riverless and possessing few lakes. Cenotes were considered bodies of water and were sacred to Luis’s ancestors.
Luis waved to the visitor center’s caretakers. They had soft drinks and souvenirs, but no customers. Xelha, lacking towering pyramids, had once been described to Luis as “not very sexy.”
Helen Lamm was aiming binoculars into a copse of trees. She heard Luis’s footfalls, lowered her glasses, and said, “Mr. Balam, your homeland is a birder’s dream. This morning I’ve already seen a tody-bill, three species of flycatcher, and a bananaquit.”
Luis smiled.
“Our genial and knowledgeable Tulum guide, you aren’t a coincidence today either, are you?”
Luis shook his head no.
“I sensed Bud had involved you. We had words. He came home last night and cried. He’s a big, strong man. I’d never seen him cry in forty years of marriage.” Helen limped by Luis toward the entrance, unaided by the putter-cane, and continued, “Bud’s a good man and he isn’t stupid. He’s punched a time clock all his life. He hoped to finally make a special splash for our retirement. I appreciate anything you and your attorney friend can do to recover our money.”
“Your husband is convinced that Cross and Taggert are conspiring.”
“I couldn’t say. I never met Mr. Taggert.”
“You met Cross.”
“I did. He showed the condominium to some people. Bud was playing golf.”
“What did you and Cross discuss?”
“Not a lot,” Helen said. “It’s funny, you know. I would have sworn he’d make the sale.”
“Why?”
“His clients were an attractive young couple who were positively giddy about it. Evidently they didn’t smell the mildew. As they scampered through the rooms like children, Mr. Cross remarked to me how he hoped they could qualify financially, they loved it so, and it was such a bargain. Well, in the final analysis, they couldn’t swing it. They were so disappointed.”