Rum Luck Page 16

  “Most of it?” Miguel echoed, peering inside the sack. “I don’t think ‘most of it’ is going to cut it for Enrico.”

  “You saw the list, Miguel,” Ben said. “You know what I’m up against.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  Victoria stuck her head out the pass-through. “What’s taking so long?”

  “Ben didn’t get everything on the list,” Miguel said.

  “What?” Victoria ducked back out of sight and then came over to the bar. “Enrico was very particular about that list.”

  “I know, Victoria,” Ben said. “I was there, remember?”

  “I doubt I’ll ever forget.” She sighed. “What’s missing?”

  “See for yourself.” He gestured toward the bag.

  She began rifling through the supplies.

  “Where did you find all that, anyway?” Miguel asked.

  “One of the concierges at the Diria put me in touch with his supplier,” Ben said. “The address alone cost me five thousand colones.”

  “A bargain at twice the price, brother.”

  “What about Enrico’s other request?” Ben asked.

  “Luis knows a guy that can help us out,” Miguel said. “He’ll be here at seven.”

  “He knows what’s required of him?”

  Miguel nodded. “He even has his own equipment.”

  “Perfect.”

  Victoria finished her inventory. “We’re close. Very close. Perhaps if we substitute dry ice for the liquid nitrogen, we can—”

  They turned at the sound of footsteps. Enrico stepped from the back hallway, clad in a splattered apron, elbow-length gloves, and a dust mask. “Where are my ingredients?” he demanded.

  Luis followed a few steps behind, clutching a cardboard box filled with forgotten gadgets pillaged from the storeroom.

  “Right here, Mr. Morales,” Ben said.

  Enrico stepped forward, holding his gloved hands skyward like a surgeon bound for the operating theatre. He nodded toward the bag. Ben withdrew each item in turn.

  “No sparrows’ eggs?” Enrico asked between the gold leaf and the rosemary syrup.

  “Out of season. But I was able to procure three fermented cones from the monkey-puzzle tree.” He withdrew the spiked bulbs from the bag, each the size of a large softball.

  Enrico judged the haul in silence for a few heart-rending moments. “You’ve done well, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “Luis, bring them to my laboratory.”

  Luis dutifully gathered the ingredients and followed Enrico into the back hallway. Ben looked at Victoria, puzzled. She mouthed the word kitchen. He would have preferred something at a safer distance—Guatemala, perhaps—but at least Enrico was conducting his experiments somewhere well ventilated. The fire extinguisher wouldn’t hurt, either.

  “How’s it going so far?” Ben asked in a low voice.

  “He’s created two concoctions already,” Victoria said.

  Ben raised his eyebrows. “Not bad for a few hours’ work.”

  “On closer inspection, they proved to be a Blue Hawaiian and a French 75.”

  Miguel shrugged a shoulder. “We did tell him that inventing a new cocktail was harder than it seemed.”

  “We certainly did,” Ben said. “And that’s when Dr. Jekyll handed us that bloody grocery list.”

  Enrico’s voice echoed from inside the kitchen. “Luis, did I ever tell you that I started my entertainment career as a juggler?” A hollow crack unleashed a rancid aroma not unlike blue cheese wrapped in gym socks.

  “Do you think we should, you know, give him a hand?” Ben asked with no small amount of reluctance.

  Victoria shook her head. “I tried that already. He said my presence was ‘impeding the creative process.’ ”

  Luis dashed down the hall toward the dumpster, garbage bag in hand.

  “Heaven forbid,” Ben said.

  He and his friends retired to the lounge. “I almost forgot.” Miguel reached into his pocket and pulled out Ben’s battered phone. “I found something interesting last night.”

  “Let me guess,” Ben said. “A video of me trying to steal the sombrero off the wall?” He almost hoped that was the case. They could post it on YouTube and live off the royalties.

  “Even better.”

  “Was there another article of clothing? A pair of socks nailed to the ceiling, perhaps?”

  “You were dictating some of your bright ideas for the bar into the voice recorder.”

  Victoria clapped her hands together. “I’m so glad they were recorded for posterity’s sake.”

  “Yes, I was quite the posterior that evening.” Ben sighed.

  “I’ll play it for you.” Miguel tapped the screen and set the phone down so everyone could hear.

  Ben’s slurred voice came over the phone’s tinny speaker. “Note to self. Monkeys. Costa Rica has lots of monkeys. What about a bar with monkeys? And what if they wear little tuxedos? Monkey butlers. What would someone pay to rent a bar with monkey butlers?” There was a brief silence, then the sound of ice cubes tinkling in a glass. “Another rum!”

  “Right away, Mr. Cooper,” said a faint, heavily accented voice.

  “Was that Antonio?” Victoria whispered.

  It was. This all felt uncomfortably familiar.

  His past self continued, “Note to self. We need a mascot. What kind of mascot? Larry the Lizard? Bloodbeard the Pirate? Toby the Dancing Sloth? Toby the Dancing Sloth. Contact tailors for pricing on a costume. One size fits most.” There was a scuffling noise, as if the phone were being put down clumsily.

  “Here you are, Mr. Cooper.” There was the faint sound of liquid splashing into a glass, then a brief pause, and the further burble of booze. Antonio had a very generous pour.

  “Thanks, Antonio.” A pause, then the thud of a glass on the bar. “I love you, man. You’re . . . you’re . . . like . . . amazing.” A belch. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “It’s a nice night, Mr. Cooper. Why don’t you go for a walk and clear your head? Take the bottle with you. On the house.”

  “Hey . . . thas . . . that’s a great idea.”

  Glass slid against wood, a cork popped. “A doast!” Ben could almost hear himself swaying on unsteady feet. He wished they’d recorded him trying to steal the sombrero instead. “What should we doast to?”

  “To dreams coming true.”

  “To the teams drumming crew.”

  Ben closed his eyes as he listened to himself stagger off across the tiled floor.

  “I must have—” he began.

  Miguel held up a finger, shushing him. There were a few seconds of silence, then a series of faint tones. Someone dialing a cell phone. Antonio started speaking Spanish. Miguel translated, “ ‘Hello.’ ‘It’s Antonio.’ ‘Never mind that. I need to return some bottles. Quickly.’ ‘Tonight.’ ‘No.’ ‘Not rum or gin. This is different. Trust me, it’s worth your time.’ ‘Fifteen.’ ‘Your place in an hour?’ ‘See you then.’ ”

  Miguel stopped the replay. “Ana returns to the bar a few minutes after the call and the recording cuts off. I think your battery died.” He looked grim. “I hate to say it, but Vasquez could be right.”

  “About what?” Ben raised an eyebrow. “That the cartel is branching out into bottle returns?”

  “ ‘Bottles’ sounds like a code word,” Miguel said. “I think Antonio was trying to unload drugs or stolen goods. Maybe even weapons. It wasn’t the first time, either. ‘Rum’ and ‘gin’ were whatever he usually sold. Whatever these ‘bottles’ were, they were different.”

  “And ‘fifteen?’ ” Victoria asked.

  “I don’t know. It could have been the number of bottles, or something to do with the price. Either way, I think he was trying to clear out those goods as fast as possible.”

  It was bad enough if the murder was a robbery gone wrong; far worse if it involved a far-reaching crime syndicate. “So much for Antonio steering clear of the cartel and pushing out the drug dealers,” Ben said. “It so
unds like he was more concerned with keeping the competition at bay than with keeping drugs out of his bar.”

  “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Miguel said. “I have no proof of any of this, only my gut feeling.”

  “Perhaps Antonio loved recycling?” Victoria turned to Ben. “Whatever his plans, it’s clear he wanted you out of the bar as quickly as possible.”

  Ben hadn’t considered that. He was still coming to terms with how different the Antonio on the recording was from the man he had imagined, or the uncle Ana had described.

  Inspiration struck. “Did you find anything on the phone about what I want to be when I grow up?”

  “What?” Miguel asked.

  “Never mind,” Ben said. “Did Chris make any calls with it?”

  Miguel shook his head. “Nothing from Chris, but Tara called last night. She left you a voicemail message. I don’t think it’s the first one, either.”

  Ben had checked his voicemail for the first few days after his phone was stolen, but forgot about it entirely when the cantina started to take off. “I’ll deal with that later.” He coughed. “I’d rather face the cartel right now, to be honest. Any other thoughts about the recording?”

  “Toby the Dancing Sloth? Really?” Victoria asked.

  “Any other other thoughts about the recording?”

  “Only the obvious one—whatever Antonio was selling, it’s still here.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Perfect in every way, but she has flamethrowers for hands.”

  “I don’t think that is the way the game works, Enrico,” Ana said, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge.

  She held the bottle up for Miguel, who retrieved it without looking. He passed back a dampened margarita glass, which she rimmed with salt and filled with tequila moments before he poured the rest of the mix inside. No wonder the two barely spoke to one another. They didn’t have to. And they still did the work of five bartenders.

  Leaving Ben free to entertain Enrico.

  “Well, Mr. Cooper?”

  “No, Enrico,” Ben replied automatically, having already rejected almost-perfect women with robot husbands, scurvy, and “laser skin,” whatever that was. “She’d have a hard time bathing our future children, for one.”

  “But not drying them off afterwards,” Enrico pointed out.

  He had Ben there. “Perfect in every way, but she only has eyes for her knight in shining armor,” he said. “Literally.”

  “A difficult proposition for a drummer,” Enrico mused. “On the other hand, a fine set of chain mail can be quite practical in day-to-day life. Back when I was working at an archery club in Sacramento . . .”

  Ben zoned out as Enrico debated the relative merits of different types of gauntlets. It had proven a quiet day at the cantina, giving them time enough to clean up the rest of the mess from last night’s unwanted guest. And consider the implications of the recording on Ben’s phone.

  He’d wanted to go to the police. Then Victoria had explained how much money they’d lose if they closed the cantina while Tamarindo’s finest tore the place apart looking for whatever it was Antonio had hidden.

  Assuming it was still here. Those officers could go through a lot more drywall before they decided it wasn’t.

  On the bright side, Enrico’s drink experiment had been a success. So he claimed, at least. He’d sealed up the mixture and placed it in the storeroom to allow for “secondary fermentation.” Ben didn’t like the sound of it—neither the words themselves nor the angry burbling emanating from inside the jug—but Miguel had assured him the experiment was unlikely to cause a fire. Mass blindness, on the other hand . . .

  Ben’s phone buzzed once as a reminder. 6:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes until Enrico’s next pretend-ownership experience kicked off. He let out a measured breath, readying himself for what lay ahead.

  Enrico continued, “. . . and then there are the practical matters of romance to consider. If the suit of armor must always be complete, for instance . . .”

  A lanky Latino in a plain white T-shirt walked into the bar. He gazed about, searching, then caught Luis’s eye. The two exchanged a few words before Luis once again vanished into the dining area to collect the plates from a recently deserted table.

  That was their man.

  Grateful for an excuse to interrupt, Ben turned to Enrico. “The crow flies at dusk. His white-tipped wings do not disturb the leaves.”

  Enrico froze. Ben wondered if he’d somehow garbled the secret phrase. He bloody better well not have, after all the time he’d spent practicing in the men’s room, much to the confusion of the customers.

  Enrico spotted the man in the white T-shirt and replied, “The eagle sees the crow and readies himself to plummet through the clouds.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Morales, I need to go fold some napkins.”

  Ben seated himself at a nearby table and waited for their man to approach Enrico. White T-Shirt studied the menu pinned by the entrance as though—

  A hand touched his shoulder. Ben spun and found himself face-to-face with Jenni. “Is everything okay?”

  “Just fine, thanks,” he said, eyes twitching back toward the drama ready to unfold. “How are you?”

  “Parched,” she said with feeling. “Can I get a drink?” She took a step toward the bar as White T-Shirt made his approach.

  “No,” Ben said, louder than intended. They’d warned their other patrons, but Jenni must’ve arrived after Miguel made his rounds. “I mean, it’s a nice night. Why don’t we just enjoy . . . this table?”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked. “You’re acting really odd.”

  White T-Shirt said a few words to Enrico, then reached into his pocket.

  “You might want to stand back a bit,” Ben said.

  Enrico wasted no time. He leaned forward and grabbed White T-Shirt by both shoulders, dragging him across the bar and plunging his head into a sink full of ice. Angry Spanish filled the air and, for once, Ben understood a few words. Mainly the swearing, but it was a start.

  “Nobody move, this is a robbery,” someone shouted. Another man in a white T-shirt stood near the bar, clutching what was obviously a rubber knife.

  Uh-oh.

  The bar went silent, but for the clatter of ice sliding into a head-shaped void.

  “Oh, the hell with it,” Enrico said, vaulting over the counter and onto the second man’s shoulders.

  Jenni really had disappeared this time. Ben wasn’t sure exactly when. Sometime after their table was upended, but before Enrico conked two brawlers’ heads together like coconuts.

  Ben had made peace with her departure. Then he barricaded himself in his office in the hope that he might, for once, enjoy a quiet night.

  There was a knock on the door. He considered playing dead, then relented and muttered a greeting.

  Ana pushed inside and sat in one of the visitor chairs, beer in hand.

  “Everything all right?” Ben asked.

  She nodded. “I just want a few minutes’ break.”

  “Here?”

  “I use the storeroom, before. Now all of you know to look for me there.”

  Point taken. Besides, there was room enough here for two to escape the outside world.

  “I thought Luis’s business partner was a good sport, all things considered,” Ben said. Marking their faux robber with a plain white T-shirt wasn’t the best idea they’d ever had, even if it was Enrico who’d ultimately jumped the gun. Jumped the knife?

  “Luis and Ramon have a fashion show in a few weeks. The word-of-mouth advertising alone is worth a few bruises,” Ana said. “Besides, I think Enrico will buy some of their line-up. So there are no hard feelings.”

  That might be for the best. If any man could use a wardrobe makeover, it was Enrico. Even his undershirts were beige. Ben just hoped Luis’s slacks wouldn’t burst a seam in the middle of the next bongo performance. No one wanted to see that.

  Not that it was much of
a bar fight. Even when a few unruly sorts decided to get in on the action, Miguel and Enrico ended the kerfuffle before it got out of hand. Amazing what a sink full of ice could do to cool tempers.

  “It’s a shame the fight scared Jenni away,” Ben said.

  “Scare Jenni away?” Ana said. “I thought that was why you hide in the office. She is looking all over the cantina for you.”

  “I’m not hiding—” Ben said, annoyed. “Wait, what? Jenni’s still here?”

  “I think you need more than a little bar fight to get rid of her.” Ana took a swig from her Imperial.

  “Why would I . . . ?” Ben stopped, remembering the awkward conversation earlier that morning and her warning the night before. “I don’t get it, Ana. You went to all that trouble to set up a romantic date for me and Jenni, then you warn me off. What are you worried about?”

  “You are a good guy, Ben,” Ana said. “But I am not as nice as you think I am. Jenni paid good money to arrange the Tiki torches and everything.”

  This was a new one on Ben. “That actually sounds kind of sweet,” he said.

  “You didn’t see the look in her eyes when she ask,” Ana replied. “She—”

  Miguel burst into the office. “There’s someone out behind the cantina,” he said. “Stay here.”

  “The hell with that.” Ben rose to his feet. “Where’s Victoria?”

  “Looking for Enrico.”

  Bloody marvelous. “Ana, can you mind the bar?”

  She nodded and slipped out the door.

  He fell into step beside Miguel, and they marched down the hallway toward the metal door leading out to the dumpster. “Any idea what’s going on out there?”

  “None. But I know when someone’s trying not to make noise.”

  That seemed like trying to imagine the sound of one hand clapping, but Ben trusted Miguel. If nothing else, Ben knew that if he’d been the one to investigate last night’s disturbance, the intruder would probably still be there, playing pool and sipping a mai tai.

  Miguel reached for the switch and plunged the hallway into darkness. The heavy steel door creaked and groaned as he eased it open. A razor of light from an outdoor bulb cut into the darkened corridor, widening as Miguel made his way outside.