Rum Luck Page 10

  Miguel closed the lid to the hatchback, the last of the boxes of liquor loaded safely inside. The rear of the car sagged beneath the extra weight.

  He should have been glad to be headed back to town, his errand almost done, but was still on edge. By the time he had reached the supermarket, he was convinced he’d imagined his pursuer. Still, he’d kept glancing in the mirror to see whether he was being followed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. This has to stop, he told himself. It was all in his head.

  He took a deep breath and smiled at an elderly couple, who squinted at Miguel and his graffiti-covered hatchback. They probably wouldn’t approve of the hundred-odd bottles of booze in the back, either. He settled into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The hatchback sputtered back to life.

  He eased himself from the parking lot, careful not to bottom out the laden car. It was quarter to one, according to the dashboard clock. With luck, he would get back in time to grab a late lunch and finish setting up before Uncle Enrico arrived. The roads were quiet and he was making good time.

  Ben was right. Miguel was being paranoid. He took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the drive as a scenic trip, not a series of choke points and kill zones.

  His nerves aside, the errand had gone surprisingly well. He had found everything on his list, as well as a few choice bottles of Scotch, rum, and tequila. He smiled as he pictured Ben’s reaction to the expensive bottles of aged tequila. Ben hated tequila. He said he’d rather drink the gasoline that floated to the top of rain puddles. More for Miguel, then. He’d acquired a taste for it while he was on exchange in New Mexico—the good stuff, the kind made from pure agave and aged in barrels, not the paint thinner served by most bars.

  The long drive to the supermarket had given him time to think about last night’s disagreement. Miguel had a hard time carrying a grudge. He’d eventually decided that, as long as Ben went back to minding his own business, the two of them would be all right. The tequila would serve as Ben’s apology.

  Miguel eased the hatchback onto the long, winding road back to Tamarindo. He was looking forward to seeing Uncle Enrico again, and—

  He glanced to the right as a pair of headlights smashed into the side of the hatchback. The world went dark.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ben strolled in through the beachside entrance to the cantina, whistling. Victoria and Ana sat at one of the tables, waiting for him, the bar’s ledger at the ready. Victoria seemed more comfortable in a floral skirt and pale blue tank top than she had in the business suit earlier that morning. Ana tapped her pen on a pad of paper. The two seemed to have reached an uneasy truce. Whether they were united by a desire to see the bar stay open or a mutual fondness for sangria, Ben hoped it would hold.

  “Where have you been?” Ana asked. The top sheet of her pad was covered with a lengthy checklist, written in cramped writing.

  “And why are you whistling?” Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “The last time you whistled was after you met Tara. And we all know how well that turned out.”

  He’d forgotten Victoria was the first friend he’d told about Tara, whom he’d met near the end of university. She hadn’t approved then nor forgotten since, apparently.

  “I went for a swim,” he said. “My whistling is hardly a sign of impending apocalypse.”

  Victoria’s eyes stayed narrowed. “And?”

  He opened up the draft tap and filled a mug with foam. “And I met a girl.”

  “Told you.” Victoria poured fresh glasses of sangria for herself and Ana.

  “Who is she?” Ana asked. She frowned at Ben’s feet as he walked from behind the bar. “Why are you wearing bright orange flip-flops?”

  “Someone stole my sandals.”

  “A modern fairy tale,” Victoria said. “She stole your heart—and your shoes.”

  “She didn’t . . . Never mind.” Ben flopped down in a chair next to them. He took a sip of warm beer and grimaced. “Is that new draft fridge ever going to arrive?”

  “Tuesday,” Ana said. “And only if we have money to pay for it.” She looked at Victoria.

  “The money’s there. For now.” Victoria flipped through the ledger. “Last night’s take was quite large, but we’re going to take a hit restocking the bar. It’ll take time to make that back.”

  “Miguel is buying more bottles this morning,” Ana said.

  He looked up at the clock. “Really? It’s already the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Says the man who just arrived at work,” Victoria said.

  Ana glanced down at her watch and frowned. “I will call him in a few minutes. I am sure he got held up somewhere.”

  Ben looked around the bar. They hadn’t gotten all the grime, but most of the place gleamed. If you didn’t look too closely. They’d also taken down the girly posters, though there were strips of ripped paper where the glue had proven particularly stubborn.

  “The place looks nice,” Ben said. “Anything else we need to do to get ready for Enrico?”

  Ana tapped her checklist. “The extra storage rooms have been turned into bedrooms, and we will have liquor to sell. That’s my list for today.”

  “What’s he going to use for a bathroom?” Victoria asked.

  “Oscar put a rain barrel up on the roof and hooked it to a watering can. That will be his shower,” Ana said. “For the rest, he can use the men’s bathroom.”

  “The same bathroom that was torn apart during a brutal murder?” Victoria asked. “Charming.”

  Ben recalled the smashed plaster and shattered mirror. Victoria’s description was closer to the mark than he wanted to admit. “How’s that bathroom looking, anyway?”

  “Better,” Ana said.

  “Is that the same as good?”

  “Not really.” She took a long sip of sangria.

  Ben envisioned a tall, manicured musician in silk pajamas, daintily stepping over passed-out surfers so he could brush his teeth above the daiquiri and phlegm-encrusted sink. He sighed. “We’ll do the best we can with what we have for now. If we sign some clients, we can ask Oscar to put in another bathroom.”

  “We could change over one of the last two storage rooms,” Ana said. “They are all filled up right now, but there is a lot of junk we can throw out.”

  “Good thinking,” Ben said. “Anything else?”

  “Miguel tried to get in touch with Enrico to see if he has any special requests, but he could not reach him,” Ana said.

  Ben shrugged. “He is on tour, after all. With all that traveling, I’m sure he’ll be glad to have a bit of a break. Maybe hand out a few free drinks.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Victoria said. “Preferably, sometime after we tell him he’s going to have to fight the monkeys for use of his shower.”

  Ben’s lips flattened into a thin line as he looked over at Ana. “Any new developments on Antonio’s case?”

  “The coroner’s report is back. No surprise, Antonio was beaten to death. There was only one strange injury, the bone that was broken here,” she said, touching her collarbone. “They think it was maybe caused by a second weapon. A thinner one.”

  “A thinner one?” Victoria asked.

  “It is difficult for them to know for sure. It was the baseball bat that killed him, though.” She stared into the pitcher of sangria, but her eyes were dry.

  She seemed oddly unaffected by her uncle’s death. Or perhaps she had cried herself out some time ago. “I’m sorry, Ana,” he said.

  Ana nodded wordlessly.

  The three sat in awkward silence for a time. Victoria’s curiosity eventually won out. “Do they have any theories as to what the other weapon could have been?”

  “One officer thought it might have been a pool cue . . .”

  Ben tensed. He’d played a round of pool with Miguel in the cantina late yesterday afternoon.

  “. . . but we are not missing any of ours, and they already check the ones that are here,” Ana finished.<
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  “Strange.” Victoria clicked her pen over and over.

  “When do we meet the new girlfriend?” Ana asked, changing the subject.

  “She’s stopping by later tonight. She wants to hear the rest of the story of how I—we—bought the cantina. She already knows the part about me and the sombrero.” Ben made a face.

  Ana laughed. “I think half of Tamarindo knows that story by now.”

  “How did you meet her?” Victoria asked.

  Ben took another sip of beer. It wasn’t too bad, now that the foam had finally subsided. You just had to think cold thoughts. “You know, the usual story. Girl almost kills boy with her surfboard. Boy yells at girl until he realizes she is a girl. Girl invites herself to boy’s bar for drinks later,” he said. “Assuming she finds time to stop by. It sounds like she spends half her life out on the water, so who knows if she’ll show.”

  Ana tilted her head to one side. “Is she Australian?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “That is Jennifer Walker. She teaches surfing. She competes, too,” Ana said, “I am surprised she almost hit you.”

  “Could be the surfer equivalent of dipping your pigtails in the ink well,” Victoria said.

  “I’ll admit, I was surprised when she asked if she could swing by. She’s a gorgeous surfer and I’ve still got a face like a tie dye T-shirt.”

  “Everyone in town is talking about you and the cantina, Ben,” Ana said. “You were in town for twenty-four hours and managed to buy a bar from a man who was soon murdered. Then you got arrested and have a lawyer fly halfway around the world to get you released on bail. There is even a rumor that you are here with the CIA to—”

  Victoria snorted sangria out her nose. “Ana, not while I’m drinking.” She wiped her face. “Augh. I think I lodged a lemon seed in my sinus.”

  “You should not be too surprised if women are interested in you,” Ana finished, her face deadpan.

  Ben was skeptical. And he planned to remain so until an entire evening passed without Jenni asking him to buy into a pyramid scheme or convert to Zoroastrianism.

  Victoria glanced at her watch. “I’d like to get some lunch. Is there anything else we need to cover?”

  Ana shook her head. “Not until Miguel gets back.”

  “Victoria, can I borrow your phone for a few minutes?” Ben asked.

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Heat billowed from the office the moment Ben opened the door. He had to move quickly if he wished to remain undetected. He pulled Victoria’s phone from his pocket and dialed the fateful number.

  “Greater Canadian Financial, how may I help you?”

  “Hi, I’d like to try and access my account.”

  “Hi Ben, it’s Miranda. I took your call yesterday.”

  “Hi Miranda. I don’t suppose you could give me a hint, could you?”

  “Sorry. I can’t give you any hints, Ben.”

  Why on earth was she saying his name so often? Must be something they teach you in customer service school to calm frustrated clients. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  Miranda sighed. “Ready when you are, Ben.”

  “A ninja?”

  “No, Ben.”

  That exhausted his childhood dream jobs. What had Ana said? “An international man of mystery?”

  “No, Ben.”

  Last chance. Time to think outside the box.

  “A grizzly bear?”

  “Sorry, Ben. You’ve been locked out of your account for another twenty-four hours.”

  He clicked off the line. It was unlikely he could stop payment at this point, nor would he back out after dragging his best friends into the deal. But it would be nice to have access to his bank account again. If he played his cards right, he might even have money to put in it, one day.

  He relented to the heat and switched on the ceiling fan. It stirred the air lazily, scattering a few stray papers from the top of his desk. He picked up a sheet that could either be a useless flyer or his liquor license, for all he knew. He would have to learn Spanish. Until then, though, he was going to have to ask Victoria to—

  A ring broke the silence. At first, he thought it was Victoria’s phone, but then he realized it had come from beneath the pile of paperwork. After a short but furious archaeological dig, he unearthed the bright red receiver. It was the kind of phone that, many years ago, a major world leader would have reached for to prevent the outbreak of thermonuclear war. The phone pealed once more.

  “El Cantina, Ben speaking.”

  There was a flurry of Spanish on the other end of the line.

  He glanced at the open doorway, hoping either Victoria or Ana was close enough to translate. No such luck.

  “Hob-laz on-glaze?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “May I speak to the owner, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Carmen at the Tamarindo Gazette. How are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks.” Ben leaned forward in his chair. He hadn’t thought to talk to the local media about his business plan, but any coverage they could get would go a long way toward drumming up more pretend-owners.

  “Great. You left us a message earlier about a classified ad for a new busboy. Are you still interested in running it?”

  “Uh . . .” Ben’s mind raced as he groped frantically for a pen. “Would you mind reading it to me?”

  Carmen starting reading the ad in Spanish.

  “Er . . . in English.”

  “Are you really the bar’s owner?”

  A bead of sweat slipped down his forehead. “Look, Carmen, you called me, all right? If that’s the way you’re going to be, there are plenty of other ways I can advertise this new position.” Not that he could think of any. Ben was surprised Tamarindo had its own newspaper.

  “Okay, okay,” Carmen said. “It says, ‘Wanted: Busboy at Antonio’s. Immediate start. Must follow directions. Fashion designers need not apply.’ I am a little confused by the last part.”

  Ben’s blood ran cold. “I need time to think about it.” He hung up before she could object.

  He sat motionless beneath the whirling fan, lost in thought. Had Antonio fired Luis? He could hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, as Luis and Oscar started making lunch. If so, why? And why was Luis still here?

  A sharp knock at the door brought him back to reality.

  Ana leaned in. “Enrico will be here any minute.”

  “Any minute” is a flexible measure of time in Costa Rica. After they had waited close to an hour for Enrico to arrive, it began to seem literal. They could choose any minute they liked from now till eternity, and Enrico was equally likely to arrive during any one of them.

  “Perfect in every way, but she insists on blending all of her food before she eats it.” Victoria was putting the finishing touches on a paper airplane folded from a page torn from her ledger.

  “You mean, at home?” Ben asked, trying not to wonder whether he’d been stood up by a bongo drummer. Correction: A world famous bongo drummer. He wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

  “No, everywhere. You’re at a three-star Michelin restaurant and, after ordering the filet mignon stuffed with lobster and foie gras, she asks the waiter to ‘put it all in a blender and set it on high for a few seconds.’ ” Victoria tossed the airplane in the air. It executed a perfect loop and landed back in her lap. She started tearing a set of wing flaps.

  “No way.” Ben shook his head. “I couldn’t do it.” They had been playing this game for close to an hour. If it went on much longer, Victoria was all but certain to start making clown jokes. “Your turn. Perfect in every way, but he has an imaginary friend who goes everywhere with him.”

  She stared up at the thatched ceiling. “Everywhere?”

  “Everywhere. You’ll ask, ‘Want to go see a movie?’ and he’ll say, ‘That sounds good. Mr. Wibbles, do you want to see a movie?’ Then he’ll go ahead
and answer himself in a high, squeaky voice, ‘Golly gee, that sounds like fun!’ ”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “No, no! A thousand times, no.”

  Ana walked out of the back hallway. “Miguel is not answering his phone. I am getting worried.” She glared at both Victoria and Ben, both of whom were still laughing. “It is good to see you are both so concerned for your friend,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Ben said, “We’re playing ‘Perfect in Every Way.’ We each imagine our ideal woman or man. Then we take turns introducing a single critical flaw.”

  Victoria added, “We play it when we’re bored.”

  “That sounds nice.” Ana smiled thinly.

  “Here, you try,” Ben said. “Close your eyes.”

  “I do not think—”

  “C’mon, give it a shot.”

  “You are the boss.” Ana sighed and closed her eyes. “What now?”

  “Now imagine your perfect partner. Everything you’re looking for physically, but also with a wonderful personality. Got it?”

  “All right.” A small grin appeared on her face. “Fine, I think of him.”

  “Okay.” Ben looked across at Victoria, who raised both palms and shrugged. No help there.

  He thought fast. “Now imagine that, wherever he goes, he says ‘Left foot! Right foot! Left foot! Right foot!’ whenever his feet hit the ground.”

  Ana laughed and opened her eyes. “I would keep him. It is kind of cute, really.”

  Victoria shook her head. “There’s no accounting for taste. My turn. Perfect in every way, but—”

  “Excuse me, Victoria, Ben, I really am worried for Miguel. I keep calling him, but I only get his voicemail,” Ana said.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Ben said. “I can’t imagine him ending up anywhere he couldn’t either talk or fight his way out of. Now, forgetting to charge his phone? That I could see.” He had already lent his charger to Miguel, who had forgotten to bring his to Costa Rica. On the other hand, it wasn’t as though Ben had a phone to charge anymore.

  “But—” Ana was interrupted by the rumble of engines as a pair of cars pulled into the parking lot.