Here again there was no flicker of recognition that I could detect. A hand, minus two fingers, which I could see had been cut, maybe even hacked off at the knuckles, reached out and picked up the ear spool. With his other hand, he held a magnifying glass, which he placed against the object, then bent his head to examine it closely. I got to look at a bald spot on the top of his head for a moment or two.
“Very nice,” he said finally. “Where did you get it?”
Hilda and I had rehearsed my answers all the way into town. “Near Cerro de las Ruinas,” I replied.
“Staying at the Hacienda Garua, are you? I didn’t think they’d found much there yet, but the vigas sound promising, don’t they?”
I didn’t answer his questions, but it made me very nervous to think he knew so much about the project. “I said I found it near, not at, Cerro de las Ruinas,” I said. “And I’m not saying exactly where.”
“But you didn’t find it recently,” he replied. “This object has been partially cleaned and restored.” Hilda and I had rubbed a little dirt into it before we came, but we couldn’t put back the aging of centuries in a matter of hours.
“Of course it has,” I said. “We have a lab.”
“You’re an expert on restoration, are you?”
“I know enough,” I replied testily. My nervousness was coming across as annoyance, which was good. “Are you interested or not?”
He chuckled again. “Sensitive type, aren’t you? I’m sure you’re only selling this to help out a sick friend.” He smirked. He paused after he said it, congratulating himself, no doubt, on his deep understanding of the dark side of human nature. “I’m interested,” he said at last. “How much?”
This one was tricky. Hilda and I both regarded the ear spool as priceless, and from an academic point of view it was. But it also had a commercial value, and we were not at all sure what that was. I wanted to look neither an expert nor a fool.
“A pair of these might get as much as $100,000, I’ve heard,” Hilda had said. “But half a pair isn’t worth half the price, if you understand what I’m saying. So let’s assume that rather than $50,000, it’s worth $25,000. Ask for ten.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” I replied.
“Nonsense!” He laughed. “A thousand.”
We went back and forth a few times and settled on $2000. What a rip-off, I thought indignantly: My little Moche man was worth more, much more, than that.
“Cash!” I insisted.
“Of course,” he replied, opening the drawer in his desk and tossing two little packets of U.S. currency onto the table. As I reached for it, his mangled hand slammed down on mine. “You wouldn’t be associated with the police in any way, would you?” he asked, his voice a really menacing whisper. “Because if you are, you will be taken care of, do you understand me?”
“Of course not,” I gasped. “I understand.” His hand drew back from mine and the money. “Go out the back,” he said, pointing to the right. I heard Carta’s footsteps on the stairs. I grabbed the money and fled the room, down a hallway toward a back door. I passed the kitchen on the way out, and took a peek in as I went by. It didn’t appear to be much used as a kitchen, rather, it looked more like a darkroom. The window was covered over, and there were several photographs hanging up to dry, some of them artistic poses, shall we say, of Carta, the kind you’d have some difficulty, and embarrassment, getting developed at your corner photo shop. Pervert, I thought, as I slipped out the back door into a little garden fragrant with night flowers, then through a gate to the side street. But then I had another idea about Laforet’s photographic talents, one more related to the subject at hand, the smuggling of artifacts, and my theory on how it was done. Away from the house, I paused for a moment and took a deep breath, willing myself to relax.
There was a smell of something in the air, ozone, perhaps, and lightning crackled off in the distance. Heat lightning, I thought. It doesn’t rain in the desert. There was a feeling, though, a change in the air, that at home I would have thought meant a storm.
I circled back to where Hilda was waiting, and handed her the bag. “Two thousand, can you believe it?” I whispered.
She groaned. “We’d better get it back,” she said. “How did you get out?” she added. “Back door?” I nodded.
“ T think we need to reposition ourselves slightly so we can see both the front door and the alleyway where I came out. The good news is that the alleyway deadends, so there’s only one way out of there,” I said. We waited to make sure that the curtains didn’t move and then stationed ourselves a little farther along the street. While we waited, I filled her in on what had happened, and Laforet’s connection with Carla Cervantes, his mini photo studio setup, and his knowledge of our activities, which we both agreed was unnerving. I also told her about Laforet’s missing fingers.
“Interesting,” Hilda said. “He’s a bit of a legend around here, you know. He’s slippery as anything, and he always seems to get away, even when his partners in crime do not. There’s a story that one time he almost got caught with illegal artifacts at the border with Ecuador, but got away, losing his fingers in the process, and leaving his partner to take the blame. I have no idea of whether or not this is true, of course, but you have confirmed his fingers are missing, and regardless, it does say something about the man, doesn’t it?”
“No matter what kind of man he is,” I said, “for better or worse, we’re in play.”
About a half hour later, the front door opened, and two shadowy figures emerged into darkness, Carla and the Man, no doubt. They got into his Mercedes and pulled away.
Unwilling to have the truck seen, we’d parked near the crowds in the Plaza de Armas and made our way through the lanes to Laforet’s place on foot. It had been a calculated risk: We knew Laforet had the Mercedes, but we’d decided, wrongly as it turned out, that he wouldn’t leave the house. We followed on foot, thinking this was hopeless, but luck was with us. At the end of the little street, the Mercedes pulled into the main square, but the crowds were so thick that they made very little progress, so much so that we passed him on foot, and were in our truck and waiting as the Mercedes edged past us.
They didn’t go far, another block or two to El Mochica bar. Personally I wouldn’t have taken the car that few blocks, but then I hadn’t worn high heels like Carla’s in at least fifteen years. I let Hilda out. “Your turn,” I said. “Go in and have a look around. I don’t think it would be a good idea for him to see me.”
While I waited for her, I watched the entrance. A motorcycle taxi pulled up, and someone I knew headed into the bar. It was Manco Capac, eschewing for a while the solidarity and simple life of the commune, and his epicurean tastes, for the smoky conviviality and bar fare of El Mochica.
About forty-five minutes later, Hilda climbed back into the truck, alcohol on her breath. I hoped we weren’t into another bout of drinking, but she seemed okay.
“Well, I gave Lucho a bit of a turn,” she said in answer to my question. “He was in there holding up the bar with a couple of his young pals. Planning the next invasion of somewhere or other, I think. I don’t think he was too pleased to see me. He was the only person in the bar that I recognized. I made a pretense of looking around for a friend, and checked out the dining area. The mayor was there, holding court at one table, bobbing up and down to talk to everybody in the room. I didn’t know anyone else, but there was a man there with a young woman who’d forgotten to dress. Pink slip, black lipstick and nail polish. I figured that must be them.”