Rum Luck Read online

  Then again. If the meager income from busing at the cantina allowed Luis to pursue his dream of fashion design, he might have been angry if Antonio tried to take that from him. Perhaps angry enough to kill. He’d have to talk to Ana about it. She was the only one of them who had known Luis for more than the past few days.

  At the bar, people were lined up five deep to buy one last drink, blocking the way behind the counter. He’d have to go around to the far side if he wanted Ana’s attention.

  1:38 a.m. There’d been a time when he could make it through an entire weekend on four hours’ sleep. Now he wanted nothing more than to grab a blanket and a mug of tea and curl up on the nearest horizontal surface not covered in a thin sheen of beer. He gazed longingly at the last intact couch in the lounge, then realized he was staring at a pair of retirement-aged tourists locked in the mother of all make-out sessions, their beige fanny packs grinding in time to the Latin dance music. Perhaps he’d find a chair instead.

  Ben turned from the spectacle and winced. He’d caught a glimpse of who was behind the bar. Victoria was bartending. By herself. Again. Bloody hell. Where was Ana?

  He swallowed his annoyance and reminded himself what his head bartender had so recently gone through, both that night and since the death of her uncle. If anyone deserved a coffee break right now, it was Ana Guiterrez.

  He caught Victoria’s eye, but it still took awhile for her to finish pouring a line of shots four feet long. The customer cheerfully handed over a thick wad of bills and began handing out shot glasses to a mob behind him like candy on Halloween. Ben smiled. That was the kind of questionable decision he could live with.

  He looked back at the couch. Still going at it.

  “You rang?” Victoria asked.

  “Hey, baaaby . . .” slurred one of their more lubricated patrons, “Why duh . . . does he get served first? I’m nuxht . . .”

  Victoria poured a glass of water and handed it to the drunk. “Have a vodka. On the house.”

  “Ruh . . . right on,” he yelled, running away with his prize.

  “Your understanding of human nature never ceases to amaze me,” Ben said.

  “Thank you. But I imagine you have something else to discuss? Otherwise . . .” She hiked a thumb back toward the thronging bar crowd.

  “Where’s Ana?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. By the time I finally packed my equipment away and changed out of that damned business suit, the back of the bar was deserted and some moron was trying to drink straight from the draft tap.”

  “For crying out . . . Were you able to stop him?”

  “Let’s say he realized the error of his ways.”

  “Sorry?”

  “He ran to the bathroom when foam started coming out his nose.”

  “That works,” Ben said. “So, no idea where Ana might be?”

  “None at all.” Victoria turned back to the growing crowd. “Send her back when you find her. Assuming she doesn’t have something more important to do, like painting her nails or teaching herself Mandarin.”

  Ben gave way to the press of patrons behind him and headed for the back hallway. He should have asked Victoria for a drink. This was shaping up to be another long night.

  Ben began to push his way inside the storeroom but froze when he heard sobbing. This part of the job should have fallen to Miguel. It would have, if he weren’t busy sleeping off a car accident. Only Ben could help Ana right now, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling he was wading into something that was none of his bloody business.

  “Who’s there?” Ana called in a trembling voice.

  Now or never.

  He pushed the rest of the way inside, blinking till his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of a single ancient bulb. Ana sat on a wooden crate, surrounded by musty cardboard boxes. “Hi, Ben. I am just . . . doing the inventory.” She wiped her cheeks.

  That would make this the third inventory in two days. He dragged a second wooden crate across the floor and sat next to her. They were silent for a moment.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I thought I’d give you a hand,” Ben said. “I’ve been doing a lot of inventory of my own lately.”

  “I can do this by myself.”

  “Should I get Miguel instead?”

  “No!” She took a breath. “I mean, there is no reason to wake him up. He has gone through so much today already. I will be fine. Really. I miss Antonio, that’s all.”

  Behind Ana’s watery brown eyes, there was an unmistakable coldness. Ben was on intimate terms with grief. He knew every twist and turn of that long, dark road. Whatever Ana was feeling, it wasn’t grief. It was rage.

  Without another word, she rose to her feet and walked from the storage room, slamming the door behind her as she went.

  Two in the morning. Ben had a mental list of suitable activities for this time of night. A last drink with friends. Contemplating the moonlit ocean. Getting to know Jenni. Curling up in a nice, warm bed. Definitely not skulking in the bushes while tailing his sobbing, enraged bartender down the dark, dusty side streets of Tamarindo. He might as well stab himself and call it a night. That would save everyone a lot of time and energy.

  Where on earth was she heading? Ben still hadn’t learned his way around the town, small as it was, and wondered if they hadn’t passed that particular tree before. He listened intently, trying to sense what sort of trouble might await, but there was only the dull rustle of palm fronds, the faint music from another beachside bar, and the distant crash of the surf, now joined by the low rumble of a truck speeding along a dirt road. It seemed a peaceful night.

  Ana pulled out her keys as she neared a low-rise apartment building on a dead-end road. Ben rolled his eyes. So much for trying to help. All he’d done was to trail her back to her place. There was a fine line between gallant and creepy, and Ben was on the wrong side of it. He crouched down in the bushes, trying to recall the way back to the cantina.

  Then Ben saw him. Denim Jacket lurked by the entrance to the apartment building, smoking the damp stub of a hand-rolled cigarette. He stepped into the light as Ana fumbled with her keys, the corner of his mouth curled in an unmistakable smirk.

  He flicked his cigarette into the bushes, a few feet from where Ben was crouched, and lunged for Ana. She dropped the keys as Denim Jacket seized her by her wrists. She tried to pull away, shouting. Ben couldn’t understand their Spanish.

  Denim Jacket let go of one of Ana’s wrists and leaned over to pick up the keys. Even in the face of Ana’s withering barrage, and now also shouts coming from a second-story window, his smirk never faltered. He selected a key, slid it into the lock, and began to drag Ana inside. That Ben understood.

  He hadn’t realized he’d picked up a rock, and he certainly hadn’t planned to throw it. It just happened. The breath that followed was a humble prayer that it wouldn’t hit Ana in the back of the head. Instead, he scored a direct hit on Denim Jacket’s cheek. Ana’s keys clattered to the pavement once more.

  Then the knife came out.

  Ben rose to his feet, hoping they’d say something nice at his funeral.

  Denim Jacket locked eyes with him, brushed Ana aside, and started down the path, the naked blade gleaming in the streetlight. Blood trickled down his face.

  Ben might well have died on the streets of Tamarindo that evening but for an engine’s rumble. Denim Jacket was bathed in blue and red light as a police cruiser rolled past, on routine patrol or perhaps in response to a call from the apartment above—he would never know. The knife vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Ben crept noiselessly behind a dense hibiscus hedge.

  Ana had disappeared.

  Ben finally found his way to the cantina, only to discover that Ana had beaten him back. She’d pulled a stool down from the top of the bar and sat staring into nothing. Strands of hair spilled from her usually tidy bun and clung to her neck, damp with sweat. Her only concession to the oppressive nighttime heat had been to loosen an
other button on her plain black work shirt. A heavy tumbler filled with clear liquor sat before her. She hadn’t bothered to put the cap back on the bottle.

  “Leave, Ben,” she said when she heard his flip-flops echo through the empty lounge.

  “You do know this is my bar, right?” he asked gently.

  “Diay! Everything is a joke with you.” She took a long drink from her glass. “This is my problem, not yours.”

  Ben pulled down a stool and sat next to her, then reached over the bar and took another tumbler from the drying rack. He gripped it tightly, hoping to stay his trembling hand. He had to force his gaze away from the chef’s knives drying beside the sink.

  He filled his glass and weighed his words. “Ana, I really do want to help you.”

  “And how will you do that? By going back to my apartment, so Juan can stab you and you can bleed on him until my problems go away?”

  “It would save him a trip to the bar.” Ben regretted the words as they left his lips.

  Ana slapped her hand on the counter. “If you will not leave, just let me drink in peace.”

  “Look, Ana . . .” He took a deep breath. “You’re right. It’s none of my business. And I’m sorry. For following you.”

  Her slight body slumped on the stool. “No, Ben. I was lucky you were there tonight.” She took another gulp.

  Ben reached for the open bottle by her elbow, wrinkling his nose at the fumes. Whatever it was, it wasn’t rum. The label read Cacique Guaro and there was a picture of an Incan tribesman on the front. He filled his glass and took a sip. Definitely not rum. Or tequila, thank heavens. “What is this stuff?” Ben asked.

  “Guaro.” She sounded sad. “It’s made from sugar cane. To us Ticos, it is like mother’s milk. Antonio made his own, a long time ago. We would have a glass, after the bar closed.” She closed her eyes.

  Ben was silent for a while. Then he found himself saying, “My mother died when I was six.”

  Ana’s glass froze midair.

  His voice caught. A crash. The smell of burnt cinnamon. A telephone held in small, shaking hands.

  “What about your father?” Ana asked.

  “He wasn’t in the picture by then.” Or ever. “It gets easier.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ben said. “And thank you for all your help this week.”

  “It was better than doing nothing.” She paused. “Do you really want to help?”

  “If you’ll let me.”

  “Will you promise not to tell Miguel?”

  Ben faltered. That was a lot to ask. “I . . .” He looked into Ana’s eyes and saw the hope fading. “One condition. You tell him yourself. When the time is right.”

  “All right.” She drained her glass. “Juan is my last boyfriend.”

  “Last boyfriend? Does that mean . . . ?”

  “The last boyfriend I had, before now. Not my last boyfriend ever.” She fixed Ben with a withering look, then continued, “I met Juan at a club in San José two years ago. He seemed dashing and handsome. I came back to Tamarindo, and one day he showed up at my place with flowers.” She shook her head. “I knew it was a bad idea to move so fast, but before I know it he is staying at my place with me. He . . . moved in.

  “I gave him some money, until he could find a job. He find jobs but never keep them. A few days later, he asks for money again. I got so angry at him for smoking pot, for leaving my apartment a mess, for sleeping half the day away. I would threaten to kick him out, and he would turn on the charm.

  “All of my friends know it was a mistake, but I do not listen to them. Eventually, they got tired of watching me ruin my life with Juan. By the time I knew how bad things really are, all of my friends are gone and I am deep in debt, thanks to him. Antonio helped me get a loan from the bank. I tell him it was so I could go back to school. He knew it was a lie.

  “There was a time when Antonio treat me like his daughter. But things changed between us, after the money. He never ask anymore, he only give orders. And he make me come back every night to help close up, so he can keep an eye on me. Then he start to look at me the way he looked at all the others who owed him. It only pushed me and Juan closer.

  “Eventually, I find out Juan left San José to escape gambling debts. I stop giving him money, but he take it from my purse. Or sell my things. One day, I come back home and the television has disappeared. And there is Juan, with big puppy eyes, saying it was already gone when he return from the corner store.

  “When the money finally run out, so did Juan. He would come to my apartment only when he needed a place to stay, or food to eat.” She looked up, and the fire returned to her eyes. “One day—the best day of my life—I change the lock. Juan came to the bar to threaten me once, but Antonio chase him away with his bat.”

  Something clicked. “Do you think Juan might have gone after Antonio?” Ben asked.

  Ana thought a moment, then shook her head. “Juan is just a bully. He did not mind pushing me around, but Antonio was different. If he get the excuse to teach Juan a lesson . . . well, I do not think Juan would be here to cause problems.”

  Ben wondered if Ana meant here in Tamarindo or here, period.

  She continued, “Juan went back to San José months ago, and left me alone since then.”

  “Until now.”

  “Juan hear about Antonio’s death, and my inheritance. He wants it for himself. I tell him there is no more money, only enough to pay back what he has taken already.” She took another gulp. “Juan does not care. He . . . he . . . threaten to . . .”

  Ben rested a hand on her shoulder. “Take your time.”

  She took a deep breath. “Juan has pictures of me.”

  “Pictures?” he asked. Then he understood. “Oh. Pictures.”

  “Si, Ben. Pictures.” Ana scowled. “Juan threaten to put them on the Internet, and email them to my family and friends.” She shook her head. “I still do not know why I am telling you all this.”

  “I . . .”

  A car pulled into the parking lot. Its horn honked twice.

  “I have to go. My cab is here.” She downed the last of her drink.

  “You’re not going back to your apartment, are you?”

  “My friend Jacqueline says I can stay at her place. Juan will not find me there. Good night, Ben.” She flipped her stool up on the counter and left without another word.

  He watched in silence as she walked away. A small, selfish part of him wanted to break his promise. But he didn’t need Miguel’s help on this. He knew exactly how to stop Juan.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sunlight streamed through the windshield of the black SUV. In the back seat, the principal delivered his opening address via Bluetooth headset. He rested a pad of paper on his lap and jotted notes in indecipherable handwriting, paying no heed to the tumble-down buildings rushing past the passenger window.

  No matter how many runs they did in a day, the principal’s suit remained pristine. Today he was wearing the charcoal one, and his favorite cobalt blue tie knotted in a double-Windsor. His face held the same look of vague annoyance that it had for each day of the three years Miguel had provided close protection. Today was different, though. It was Miguel’s first run as team leader.

  He rested his thumb on the safety of his MP5 submachine gun. He had already chambered a round, before they got in the SUV. This was not a nice part of Bogotá. They were skirting the outer barrios, where makeshift houses were built on top of each other and capped with corrugated metal. Carjackers here were typically better armed than the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionares de Colombia or their countless splinter groups.

  And so he scanned. Windows. Doors. Traffic. Near. Far. Over and over.

  Glass shattered.

  Miguel woke as the shards hit the ground. Then came the crunch of glass being crushed against the floor. He sat bolt upright in bed. Someone was in the cantina.

  He slid his feet to the ground and dress
ed himself soundlessly, all the while reminding himself, Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. He thrust his feet into sandals and pulled on a pair of socks over them to muffle his footfalls. Going barefoot would have been quieter still, but he couldn’t risk the broken glass.

  He reached for the assault rifle leaning against his bedside table. His hand closed around empty air before he remembered there wasn’t one. He hadn’t had a firearm within arm’s reach for almost a decade, but his dream left him feeling naked without the heft of cold steel in his hands and the comforting weight of body armor and an extra hundred rounds of ammunition on his chest.

  He scanned the room for anything he could use as a weapon. Nothing. Perhaps that was for the best. Stepping outside with a weapon would either lull him into a false sense of security or put another body on the ground. Better to be cautious.

  He gently turned the doorknob. The click of the bolt sliding back echoed in his ears. He put his eye to the gap between door and frame and slowly pulled the door open. Moonlight spilled in from the bar, bathing the corridor in liquid silver. Miguel peered down its length and saw the beam of a flashlight slice across the end of the hallway.

  The door across from him opened. Ben staggered into the corridor, his eyes bleary with sleep. Miguel held a single finger to his lips and pointed sharply at the room behind Ben, then at the door handle. He mimed turning a key. Ben nodded once, stepped back inside his room, and quietly locked his door. Miguel released the breath he’d been holding. If only he could have mimed a way to tell Ben to call the police if he wasn’t back in five minutes. Miguel hoped his friend could handle himself if the worst came to pass.

  He crept down the hallway, keeping close to the wall. As he drew near the kitchen, he could hear the intruder walking behind the bar. Either the burglar didn’t know how to muffle his footfalls, or he simply didn’t care. The man moved as though he owned the bar. Miguel knelt at the end of the corridor, his back tight to the wall, and peered out from the doorway.

  The intruder was on his hands and knees, going through the cupboard under the sink, tossing buckets aside and tearing open cleaning supplies. His clothing was dark, the kind of filthy gray that met the shadows in the way black never could. His face was masked with a balaclava of the same color, and a flashlight sat tucked under his arm. The light was barely visible. The beam had been dialed low, and there was a red filter on the end. That meant military or paramilitary, the type Miguel had served beside a lifetime ago. A rip-stop nylon pouch hung from the intruder’s hip. There was almost certainly a weapon inside.