Rum Luck Page 5

  Victoria clucked her tongue. “Captain, what sort of establishment do you think we are running here? We only have 187 customers at the moment. You are more than welcome to count them yourself, if you’d like.” She gestured at the mob of patrons.

  He smiled. “As you say, Ms. Holmes.”

  “May I ask how your investigation is proceeding?”

  “You may not,” he replied. “I’m sure you appreciate that any information we release would be limited to Mr. Guiterrez’s family until after the investigation is concluded.”

  “Of course.” She looked pointedly at the other side of the bar, where Ana was smiling at something Miguel had said. “Speaking of your investigation, I believe this might be of interest.” She held up the letter so Reyes could get a good look.

  He slid a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and quickly scanned it. “This could be important. Or it could be a rather cruel practical joke.”

  Ben scoffed.

  “I do not mean to seem insensitive, Mr. Cooper. If there is a credible threat against you, we will of course offer you the same protection that we would offer any other resident of Tamarindo,” Reyes said. “I’m sure you understand that this kind of unfortunate incident always draws curiosity-seekers. Some are more curious than others.”

  He produced an evidence bag from a pants pocket and slid the threatening letter inside. “That said, I will certainly enter this into evidence and send an officer to take your statements. We will let you know if we learn anything more.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Victoria said.

  “For future reference, gloves do not always prevent fingerprints from transferring to the paper. At least you had the foresight to hold it by the corner.” He turned to Ben. “Mr. Cooper, how are you this evening?”

  “I’m all right, Captain. Thank you for arranging for the crime scene to be released so quickly.”

  Captain Reyes’s face twisted in annoyance. “Do not consider that a personal favor, Mr. Cooper. There are a great many people in Tamarindo who rely on tourism for their livelihood and who think that police tape anywhere in town is bad for business.” Reyes looked down at his barely touched soda water. “I believe I am no longer thirsty. Good evening to you both.” He slid from his stool and slowly made his way out through the crowd.

  “Well played, Ben,” Victoria said.

  “Do we really have 187 customers?”

  “How on earth would I know?”

  The crowd swelled until it seemed to swallow the bar whole. Ana and Miguel battled back, filling glasses as fast as the patrons could drain them. At one point, Ben saw Miguel spinning a bottle of rum with his right hand while igniting a cloud of cinnamon with his left. He looked like he was having the time of his life. Even Ben and Victoria had the chance to get behind the counter and sling a few drinks. Victoria took to it as if it were second nature and Ben enjoyed it, once he’d picked up a few tricks. Then, after what seemed like both an instant and an eternity, the crowd receded and the four of them were left to close up.

  Ben staggered to the beach and flopped down on a lounge chair beneath the stars. He had no problem leaving the inventory and the accounting to Ana and Miguel; last he’d checked, neither of them had woken up that morning on a concrete prison floor. He would learn how to close up another night. Whenever it was they closed. He was used to the set hours required of Canadian bars. Clearly Costa Rica played by its own rules.

  He lay still, enjoying the murmur of the surf and the cool breeze that tugged gently at his sweat-stained clothes. To his surprise, Miguel sat down on the chair next to him and handed him an ice-cold Imperial, a local beer Ben had favored when their holiday was still a holiday. “Victoria insisted on taking over the accounts,” he explained. “She said she wasn’t willing to entrust vast sums of money to a man who almost set himself on fire with a household spice.”

  “Sage advice,” Ben said.

  Miguel groaned.

  “What sort of vast sums are we talking about here?” Ben asked.

  “I’m not sure, but Ana said it was a solid take. Victoria promised to give us a rundown on the finances tomorrow.”

  “How was your night? It looked like you were having a good time out there.”

  Miguel looked up at the sky. Even with light spilling from the bar onto the sand, countless stars gleamed above their heads.

  “I want to be your partner,” he said.

  “That’s very flattering, Miguel. But I only think of you as a friend.”

  Miguel punched his arm. “In the bar, you idiot.”

  Ben laughed. “I’d like that.” He turned serious. “Why the sudden change of mind? You said buying this shack was a crazy idea.”

  “It is crazy. All of this is crazy. But how can you say no to something like this? The chance to own a bar in the tropics.”

  Ben silently added the other perks that came to mind. Staying up late. No more winters. Swimming in the ocean every morning. No more winters. All the bar nuts he could eat. No more winters. The list went on.

  “I talked to a lot of people at the bar,” Miguel said. “Most are tourists down for a week or two, but some have been here for ages. A few came down for a holiday and stayed for ten years or more. I don’t know. It’s like Tamarindo chooses you.”

  Ben had felt it, too—for an instant, somewhere between Miguel snatching a spinning rum bottle from midair and Victoria dashing Tabasco in the eyes of a customer with more hands than brains. Then reality had sunk back. Tara. The money. Tara and the money. Oh, and the looming criminal charges. He’d almost forgotten about those.

  “Did Ana show you our fan mail?” he asked.

  “I don’t like it. Not one bit. I don’t care what the captain says, that’s no practical joke.”

  “And you still want in on this?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then welcome aboard, partner,” Ben said, extending his hand. Miguel shook it firmly.

  The sun had already peaked by the time Ben returned to the bar the next day. Clearly, he’d needed the sleep. His face and body were still covered in bruises, but the ache had faded from his muscles and he’d finally sweated out the drink.

  Once the last of the lunch crowd left the bar, Ana switched the sign to “Closed” and brought over the large platter that Oscar had left in the pass-through—skewers of blackened shrimp, spicy chicken wings, battered calamari, and bowls overflowing with nachos, cheese, and sour cream. They tucked in.

  “Do we know when the police are coming by?” Ben asked after polishing off the last of the wings.

  “They were here this morning,” Ana said.

  “Do they have any leads on who made the threat?”

  “The officer said he would look into it.” Ana frowned.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Ben said.

  “They sent Constable Andino.”

  “Oh?”

  “I would not trust him to find sand at a beach.”

  “Oh.”

  Ben turned to Victoria and said, “How are the accounts?”

  She wiped her hands, then flipped open a leather notebook. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Let’s start with the bad news.” He looked longingly at the draft tap.

  “You have about three weeks to raise roughly twenty thousand dollars, or you’ll be forced to sell the bar.”

  “Twenty thousand!”

  “Give or take.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “I thought we had a good haul last night.”

  “You did. That’s why you have three weeks instead of two,” she said, flipping pages. “You’re facing a death of a thousand cuts. The bathroom needs to be properly repaired, the roof is going to shred in the next high wind, and Antonio had yet to pay for a new keg fridge due to arrive in a few days.” She flipped another page. “We’re still six weeks from peak season. Based on last year’s figures, the bar will bleed more than a hundred dollars a day until then.”

  Miguel moaned, his massive hand
s covering his face. “Can’t we put some of this off until later?”

  “You could try, but chances are the weather will get wetter and windier before you can make more cash. That could double or even triple the cost of fixing the roof. Even if, by some miracle, the roof isn’t turned into palm confetti, there aren’t many customers who’ll want to sip margaritas to a power tool serenade, especially during the prime season.” She closed the notebook. “Cut your losses in three weeks and you’ll only take a twenty thousand dollar bath.”

  Twenty thousand dollars. That was more than Ben’s entire life savings; far more than his share of the down payment on the house. He’d have nothing. Worse, he’d owe Tara money she hadn’t agreed to lend him.

  “Otherwise, you risk losing it all,” Victoria finished. “Look on the bright side, at least that ancient walk-in freezer is still going strong. If that was shot, you’d be done before you even started. At least you have a fighting chance.”

  “More like a beating, if you ask me,” Ben said.

  “No one will give you a loan right now,” Victoria said. “Not without your kneecaps as collateral. But if we handle these problems, you should be able to get a line of credit from one of the banks.”

  There was silence around the table.

  Finally, Miguel spoke up. “I’m staying on as a partner. I’ve got five thousand in the bank. It’s yours if it will help.”

  “Thanks, man.” Ben was relieved, though a small voice in his head said, Five down, fifteen to go.

  He straightened his back. “Ana, could you give us a tour of the bar? I’d like to see what we’re up against.”

  They gathered up the greasy wicker platters and placed them on the pass-through to the kitchen. Ana walked back into the bar and gestured to the cantina under the leaky roof. “There are four different areas here. The dining area is there.” She pointed to the raised section, where they’d eaten lunch. It held ten round tables, each large enough for four people. “The lounge area is here.” She indicated the stools in front of the bar itself, the pool table to the side, and the collection of low-slung wicker chairs and couches clustered around wooden coffee tables in the middle of the bar. They’d sat there yesterday while Ana recounted the details of her uncle’s murder. The doors to the washrooms were beyond the lounge chairs, on the far wall.

  “The third area is the dance floor.” She waved at the open expanse of tiled floor, one step below the lounge area, which ended at a low stage dominated by massive speakers. The dance floor itself was ringed by high tables and bar stools.

  “And the beach lounge is the fourth.” To the right of the dance floor, an archway built from large wooden logs led to a small section of beach, fenced off and furnished with a collection of faded beanbag chairs and a dozen metal and nylon loungers. Ben assumed the lounge chairs weren’t wooden because they were exposed to the elements. More exposed, he corrected himself, as he peered through one of the holes in the thirty-foot-high dome of palm fronds.

  Ana continued, “Behind the bar, we have a sink and two fridges, one for the beer and wine bottles and the other for the kegs of beer.” Ana pointed at each in turn.

  “Do we really need a new keg fridge?” Miguel asked.

  Ana shrugged. “It is too late now to cancel the order. Even if we could, this fridge is about to die. The beer gets warmer each day, and one tap pours only foam.”

  Ben looked down at the fridge to judge for himself. Until now he hadn’t even noticed the fake wood grain on the fridge door, let alone the compressor that sounded as though it housed a robot wrestling league.

  He looked up at Ana. “I think that’s the right call.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” She pointed at the pass-through to the kitchen. “When a meal is ready, Oscar will leave it there for one of us to pick up and carry out to the table.”

  As if on cue, Oscar’s face appeared in the pass-through. It was caked with fine white powder, and when he smiled, a gold incisor glinted in a stray sunbeam. His long dark hair was tucked in a net. Before Ben could ask whether he was covered in drywall dust or flour, he had disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Now the back area.” Ana ushered them into the back hallway as Oscar stepped out of the first door to the left. He hung his apron on a peg as he pushed through the heavy swinging door, revealing a tool belt underneath. He and Ana chatted in Spanish for a moment, and he went off to fix something. She had told Ben last night what his chef-cum-handyman would be working on for the next few days, but the list was so long that Ben had forgotten the first half by the time they’d reached the end.

  Ana led them through the swinging door into the kitchen and stepped them through the array of fixtures, appliances, and cooking utensils spanning more than four decades. The room was small, but the stainless steel counters, black-and-white tile floor, and the well-worn appliances were all spotless. Particularly the stove, which looked as though it hadn’t been used in months. The deep fryer, on the other hand, seemed to have many miles on it. The massive walk-in freezer was an equally ancient Kelvinator. Some of the chrome letters had fallen off, rechristening the freezer Ke vin.

  Ben opened Ke vin and peered inside. Cold air washed over him as he squinted into the darkness. The freezer smelled clean, if stale, but it was hard to tell its state in the dim light from the kitchen. “I’m guessing this walk-in was invented before the age of automatic lighting?”

  “There should be a candle in there,” Ana said.

  Ben chuckled. “Good one, Ana.”

  “No, really.” Ana reached through the door and took a half-melted candle from a shelf. “The rest of the freezer works fine, but the light is broken.” She pulled a lighter from her pocket and offered both items to Ben.

  “No, thanks. I’ll take your word on it.”

  “Suit yourself.” Ana put the candle back, then pointed at a small metal latch on the inside of the door. “I never lock the freezer, but Oscar and Luis sometimes do. If you are ever inside when that happens, this will unlock the door.”

  So Ben would leave Canadian winters behind to end up inside Ke vin, chiseling out fish sticks by candlelight? He considered that a moment, then made a mental note to delegate anything freezer-related.

  “Good to know,” he said aloud.

  Ana closed the freezer and pushed her way back out through the kitchen door, leading the group farther down the hallway.

  “That’s the office.” Ana pointed at the door opposite the kitchen.

  “Mind if I have a look?” Miguel reached for the doorknob, but stopped when someone inside started pounding a hammer. Oscar was fixing a loose floorboard, if Ben’s memory served. Or building a catapult.

  “Maybe tonight,” Ben said.

  Ana finished the tour by showing them the four storerooms at the end of the hallway. They seemed to store cobwebs and boxes filled with other boxes more than anything else.

  The four of them returned to the bar lounge to plan their next move, where they sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Ben remembered something.

  “Didn’t you say you had some good news?” he asked Victoria.

  “Right. Almost forgot,” she said. “The problem now is that the bar loses money in the off season, and there’s little to lose. Morbid curiosity helped us last night, but that won’t last.” She pulled out her notebook once more. “I did some calculations, and I think your scheme of renting the bar to wanna-be owners could save you from certain financial doom.”

  “I remember that plan,” Ana said. “You should stick to stealing sombreros.”

  He fixed her with a glare, then turned back to Victoria. “What do you mean?”

  “If you can get enough pretend-owners to sign up, you can use their deposits to cover the costs. You’ll still be cutting it close, but it’s either that or try to hold the world’s largest bake sale.”

  Ben rubbed his stubbled cheek. “Where do you even start with something like this?”

  Miguel sat bolt upright. “Bongos!”

  “Wh
at?” Ana asked.

  “My uncle,” Miguel said. “He’s a world-champion bongo drummer.”

  Victoria laughed. “You’re making that up . . .”

  “Seriously,” Miguel said. “Bongos are big business in Costa Rica. Uncle Enrico always said he wanted to own a bar one day, but he’s always been too busy with his bongos.”

  Too busy with his bongos. Ben mouthed the phrase silently. So this was what his life had become.

  Ana’s mouth dropped open. “Enrico Morales is your uncle?”

  Miguel smiled broadly. “He sure is.”

  “What do you think he’d be willing to pay?” Ben asked. He’d tried looking for the business plan he’d scribbled on the cocktail napkin, but he must have used it to staunch his bleeding nose while in prison.

  “Enrico Morales? The Enrico Morales? You want him to pay us?” Ana asked.

  “If we ask nicely, he might perform for us in trade,” Miguel said. “He’s a huge draw. Fans will line up around the block.”

  “It could bring in some extra revenue,” Victoria admitted.

  “Uncle Enrico could get the story out about how much fun it is to pretend-own a bar. We’ll get some reporters out to cover it. For all we know, some tourist could come for the bongo show and sign on as our next client.”

  “It beats waiting for the roof to fall in,” Ana said.

  “Bongos it is,” Ben said. “Call Uncle Enrico.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “A bar owner?”

  “That’s incorrect, sir.”

  “Innocent?”

  “No.”

  “Sober?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You are again locked out of your bank account for the next twenty-four hours.”

  So much for his plan to stop payment on the bar. Ben hung up and dialed another number. The line clicked and went to voicemail. Again.

  He still had no idea where he’d lost his phone. That was the third time he had tried calling his own number, always with the same result. He’d hoped that he left it in his hotel room, but he’d searched every nook and cranny without success.