“I believe our American guest will not be disappointed,” Soltero said, smiling at Shelby. “The salsa is made special for me.”
The food looked, smelled, and tasted delicious. Abel bolted it down, but when Shelby was on a methamphetamine rampage like this, he didn’t want to wreck his edge. Shelby picked at his food, but drank two more tequilas. Then he got up and lurched toward the rest room to snort the last of his meth.
Fin said to the women, “Oh oh, Pate’s heading for the John. The men’s room’s about as wide as a Cuban cigar, and he’s listing to starboard. It’ll be like docking the U.S.S. Ranger in a car wash. Listen for a collision.”
Bobbie said, “My twenty-fifteen eyesight tells me that if that guy with the slick suit and the ponytail doesn’t like you, instant emigration is in order. What’re we gonna do if they all leave together?”
Nell looked at Fin and said, “You’re of the hunter-gatherer gender. Whadda we do?”
“I think we try to get their license number and call the Mexican state judicial police on Monday. That’s all.”
“For what?” Nell asked.
“To ask if they’ll search his house for shoes,” Fin said.
“Fat chance,” said Nell. “He probably has a brother or a nephew or a cousin running the state police. Or else he owns a few of them.”
“No matter what happens, I’ve really enjoyed this day,” Bobbie said. “It’s the most fun I’ve ever had as a detective.” When she said it she put her hand on Fin’s forearm, as was her habit by now.
“I’ve had a great time too,” Fin said softly. “You’re as good a partner as I’ve ever had. You’re a smart little detective.”
Nell mumbled, “Me, I’m so dumb I better run home and memorize the encyclopedia. Well, maybe just A through G tonight.”
When Nell turned toward the singers, Bobbie whispered to Fin, “She has an attitude.”
Fin whispered back, “It’s her age. They’re all about as easy to understand as black holes in the galaxy, light-years away.”
When Shelby got back from the rest room, he was barely able to sit in his chair. He’d done the last of the meth and was turbocharged and getting paranoid. He kept looking from one to the other. The little Mexican glanced at him with amused detachment. The burly one with the Zapata mustache continued to watch Soltero as though Abel and Shelby weren’t even there. He’d nursed a beer for an hour, but had eaten more than his share of carnitas.
Abel peeked at his watch more than once, but Soltero was in no hurry at all. The tequila and salsa heated them up and Soltero unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt.
Shelby’s body temperature had shot up like a Patriot missile, but he didn’t seem to notice the flow of sweat. He was too busy fiddling with the fork, folding and unfolding the napkin, looking from one man to the other, checking inside his boot for meth that wasn’t there anymore. If there’d been a television in the place, he’d have taken it apart and put it back together by now.
When the coffee was served, Shelby ordered what would be his final tequila of the evening. Abel had given up counting, but was certain that the ox’s tequila intake could only be measured by the liter. Moreover, Shelby was blinking so hard you could almost hear it. That was when the mariachis appeared.
There were seven of them in black waistcoats, black trousers, red string ties: two trumpets, two violins, two guitars and one bass guitar. They did not play the traditional mariachi tunes that American tourists loved. Instead, they began by playing an old Mexican piece.
The music had a haunting quality; Fin thought so at once. So did Bobbie. They put down their coffee cups and listened. The restaurant din quieted and the crowd became subdued.
Bobbie said, “There’s a sadness about that.”
Nell said, “I’ve heard it before. It’s about death, I think. No, wait. It’s about a lost soul.”
Soltero smiled at Shelby Pate, who had suddenly become enraptured by the music. All the mariachis were facing the far side of the room where there was a dark alcove near the kitchen. They played and seemed to be looking for something in the darkness. And then from that black alcove came the answering sound of a muted trumpet. And a small boy, attired in the same costume as the men, stepped into a little blue spotlight.
The proprietor came to the table when Nell signaled, and he said, “Yes, señora, you have a question?”
“What’s the name of this piece?” she asked. “I can’t remember.”
“Ah!” he said. “Ees beautiful, no? Ees called ‘Niño Perdido.’”
Soltero leaned over the table when Shelby Pate asked, “Why’s that kid all alone over there in the dark?”
Soltero whispered, “The music is called ‘The Lost Child.’ You see, the boy is trying to answer the other trumpet voice that calls for him.”
As the music played, the little trumpeter moved slowly through the darkness, toward the other trumpet’s call, followed by the blue spotlight. The Lost Child wanted to be found, but could not find his way. The muted sound of his trumpet would sometimes grow faint as he moved in the wrong direction, away from the searchers.
Suddenly, Shelby Pate shouted, “Gud-damnit! Why don’t somebody jist go git him? He wants to come home! He wants his momma!”
Heads jerked toward Shelby Pate. Diners were stunned. Even the burly man with the Zapata mustache turned to gape.
Abel said, “Eet ees only music, Buey!”
But Shelby Pate stood up and knocked the heavy walnut chair crashing to the tile floor. Everyone in the restaurant turned toward him. Some diners stood to see what was happening, but it was so dark now they could only see a towering shadow figure inside the alcove.
“He’s movin away!” Shelby cried. “They gotta git him! They gotta show him the way home to his momma!”
The proprietor ran toward the disturbance, but the mariachis kept playing. The lead trumpet kept calling for The Lost Child, but The Lost Child was wandering, and his trumpet grew more muted.
The proprietor stepped into the alcove and said, “Señor Soltero! Por favor!” Then he put his hand on Shelby’s arm and said, “Please, sir, you are frightening everyone!”
But Shelby looked at him with eyes full of terror and grief, and said, “He came home for the Day of the Dead! Don’t you git it?”
The burly man with the Zapata mustache got a nod from Soltero, and for the first time that evening he spoke in English.
He said to Shelby, “Joo dreenk too much, amigo! Le’s go out to the fresh air!”
Shelby shoved him so hard he took the platter of carnitas with him crashing onto the floor.
Then Abel leaped up, yelling, “Buey! Buey! Ees okay! Outside! We go outside!”
By now most of the diners were on their feet. People were whispering, gesturing. Several men came forward.
The mariachis, including the boy, had stopped playing. The lights remained dim, but Abel Durazo, with his arm crooked through the arm of Shelby Pate, led the ox toward the door.
“We can’t follow yet,” Fin said. “Give them a few minutes.”
He and Nell kept putting money on the table to pay for the food and drinks until Nell said, “That’s enough.”
“Lemme go alone!” Bobbie said. “He’s so tanked he won’t recognize me.”
“Watch yourself!” Fin said. “Durazo isn’t drunk. He might make you.”
Bobbie nodded, and put her purse strap over her shoulder on the way out.
“Should I have let her go alone?” he asked Nell. “Can she handle it?”
“Of course not,” Nell said. “Women don’t have testicles, we have ovaries. We keep forgetting that.”
After the disturbance was over, the diners went back to eating, and the mariachis stopped searching for The Lost Child. The musical interlude had ended for the time being.