Rum Luck Page 7

  Ben slid behind the massive wooden desk. He’d managed to clear room enough for a notebook and a pen, but no more. Ana had taken down the photos of Antonio grinning, leaving the walls bare and lifeless.

  Victoria sat down on one of the wicker chairs, still clutching her glass of liquor.

  “Any change in our financial situation?” Ben slid the cap off his lone pen.

  “Don’t start with the money.” Victoria gazed into her near-empty glass. “That conversation has a three-drink minimum.”

  Ben laughed mirthlessly. He grabbed a bottle of rum from the desk drawer and poured a healthy splash into her tumbler. “Is it really that bad?”

  She shrugged. “No worse than it was this morning, but that’s bad enough.” She took a sip. “There’s something else. I asked the firm to look into the price of property in Tamarindo. Ana’s right—sixty thousand is less than the bar is worth. It should have been ninety thousand. Not quite the hundred grand Antonio wanted, but more than you paid for it. And that’s in its current state of disrepair.”

  “So, Antonio decided to sell the place cheap,” Ben said. “I think he knew someone was coming for him.”

  Victoria wasn’t convinced. “Or someone wants it to look that way.”

  “You still think Ana might be involved?”

  “I had the firm run a credit check on her. She’s heavily in debt to her bank. More than fifty thousand dollars, in fact.”

  “How on earth did she dig herself that deep in the hole?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. The credit report didn’t say. My guess is that someone co-signed her loan.”

  “Antonio?”

  “Could have been. Or someone who knew they could get the money from her—one way or another.”

  Ben scratched his nose, resisting the urge to reach for the bottle resting on his blotter. He could hear the faint sound of Ana’s laughter.

  “You need to talk to Miguel. He’s getting too close,” Victoria said.

  “I will. It’s only . . . never mind. I’ll talk to him. Soon.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Victoria tugged at her wool skirt.

  “What time’s your flight tomorrow?” Ben asked.

  She gave him a sad smile. “Ten in the morning. I’ll have to leave at dawn to make it back to Liberia in time to clear security.”

  Ben ran his hand over his empty pocket, in case his passport had magically reappeared. Oh, for the days when he could complain about an early departure. As it stood now, he had a better chance of boarding a ski lift in Hades than next week’s return flight.

  But that was his problem, not hers. “Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it,” he said.

  “I wish I didn’t have to leave. Or that I’d at least found another lawyer for you,” she said. “I hate leaving this unfinished.”

  “You’re only a phone call away. Even a thousand miles from here, you’re still twice as much lawyer as anyone in Tamarindo.”

  “Thanks, Ben. I’ll fly back in a week or so if this mess hasn’t sorted itself out by then. Otherwise, I’ll take my next holiday here.” She swallowed the last of her rum. “Maybe I’ll sign on as one of your clients.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Ben smiled thinly. How many years would it take Victoria to slot him in between trips to New York and Saint-Tropez? “Shall we head back out?”

  “Sure.” Victoria glanced at her watch, then down at her business attire. “No sense in going back to change. I’ll need to call it a night in a few hours, anyway.”

  The din bombarded Ben’s ears the moment he opened the door. The locals were out in force, mingling with surfers, tourists, and weekend boaters. Some of the regulars even recognized Ben and Miguel as the new owners. A few complimented Ben on the new sign, and he told them about the pretend-ownership scheme. Most said it was a great idea. No one asked the price.

  He was chatting up a surfer girl from Maui when Miguel grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him into a corner. “Ben, there’s a drug dealer in the bar.”

  “Bloody hell. Did Ana point him out?” Ben glanced at the bar, only to find it untended. “Wait, where’s Ana?”

  “She stepped out for a few minutes. I’m covering for her.” Miguel took a deep breath. “As for the dealer, I saw him hand over a bag of white powder to some tourista in exchange for a wad of bills.”

  Ben followed Miguel’s gaze. In the middle of the bar area a short, wiry expat with long dreadlocks and a smirking, stubbled face slipped through the crowd, slapping backs and shaking hands, eyes searching for the next customer. Another baggie left his hands. Hard to get more conclusive than that.

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” Ben said. “Get Victoria to cover the bar for you. Bring the dealer to my office in five minutes. Ask nicely, but make it clear you won’t take no for an answer. Get Oscar to watch your back. Questions?”

  Miguel shook his head once. “See you in five.”

  Ben slapped him on the shoulder and strode back to the office, the glimmer of an idea forming in his head.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The office door flew open and banged against the wall. The dealer swaggered in, surveying the room. Miguel shoved him toward a wicker chair. The man settled himself as though there of his own accord.

  Ben said nothing as Miguel slung his massive frame onto a low filing cabinet behind the dealer, who turned sharply at the creak of metal bending. Miguel loomed over him like a scowling Colombian gargoyle. The dealer turned back into Ben’s stare.

  “Yeah?” he asked. A thin bead of sweat trickled down his jawline.

  Ben leaned back in his chair, and put his feet up on the desk. He smiled. “Hey buddy, good to see you again. How’s it going? How’s business?” he asked. Then he abruptly swung his feet down.

  “Do I know you, man?” The dealer glanced back at Miguel and again at Ben.

  “Oh, I certainly hope so,” Ben replied cheerfully. His voice turned to gravel. “Otherwise, you would be a complete stranger doing business in my bar without permission. I’d hate to think anyone is that stupid.”

  Miguel growled for emphasis.

  The dealer flinched. “I’m Chris. You’re Ben, right?”

  Ben gave a single nod. So, word was getting around.

  “I believe you’ve already met my friend. He’s an excellent bartender, but not many people know he’s also great at trivia,” he said. “Miguel, tell us an interesting fact about the human body.”

  “The pain caused by a single strike to the liver is a crippling, burning sensation, followed by dry heaving and complete loss of breath.” Miguel’s voice was flat, as though quoting a medical textbook.

  “Now we’re all introduced. That’s a good start,” Ben said.

  Chris swallowed weakly.

  “Listen carefully, Chris. I have an offer for you, and I’m not going to repeat myself.” He planted his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “You can continue to visit this bar, but on one condition: you don’t do business here. I won’t have you harassing my customers, and I don’t want to see another baggie leave your hands while you’re in my establishment. Do we have an agreement?”

  Chris licked his lips. Finally he said, “Okay, we have a deal.”

  “Good.” Ben took Chris’s hand and shook it. He opened the bottom drawer of the desk and brought out a bottle and a pair of glasses. “Rum?”

  Chris nodded, surprised. Ben poured two healthy measures of the amber spirit and handed one over. Miguel glared daggers, which Ben ignored.

  “Listen, man. I was sorry to hear about Antonio,” Chris said. “I’m sure you heard there was no love lost between us, but I didn’t want to see him clock out like that.”

  “Bad for business?” Miguel asked sarcastically.

  Chris looked over his shoulder. “Anything that scares tourists away is bad for business. I know people who are pretty pissed that Antonio went down without their say-so. They expect to be told about jobs like that.”

  “Any
rumors about what happened?” Ben asked.

  “Maybe. Depends on whether you believe in supervillains,” Chris said. “One of my regulars says he saw something weird, like a guy in a cape walking out the front door right before the police arrived. Says the Caped Avenger killed Antonio.” Chris smiled into his rum. “Not exactly a solid source, but that’s what he told me.”

  “Did your source see his face?” Ben said.

  “Nah, dude. Even if he did, that guy’s pretty fried. He’d pick his own mother out of a line-up if it would score him some rock.”

  Ben exhaled heavily. Apart from the death threats and a murderer on the loose, he had crack addicts hanging around outside his bar. Wonderful.

  Chris continued, “Said it was too dark to make anything out. Thought the guy was carrying a bundle or something, but that’s it.”

  “Thanks, Chris. Let me know if you hear anything else. I’m sure we can find some way to show our appreciation.” Ben ignored Miguel’s growl.

  “Yeah, dude.” Chris drained his glass and set it down. “Thanks for the drink. I should head out.” He bent his fingers into imaginary guns, which he shot at Ben with a cluck of his tongue. “It’s been real.”

  Miguel rose from the filing cabinet and opened the door. Chris shuffled out of the office. Ben and Miguel followed a few paces behind, back to the bar.

  Where they came face to face with Detective Vasquez.

  Chris grabbed Ben’s hand and pulled him in for a buddy hug. “Good talk, man. Glad we reached an agreement. See you real soon.”

  Behind Chris, Ben caught a glimpse of Vasquez’s stony gaze. This looked bad. The drug dealer clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave.

  “Making friends already, Mr. Cooper?”

  Chris gave Vasquez a smirk on his way past. The detective glared back, but remained planted in Ben’s path.

  “Detective,” Ben said. “How can I be of service?”

  “You can start by not entertaining known narcotics traffickers in your office,” Detective Vasquez growled, leaning in close. His breath reeked of coffee and tobacco.

  Ben opened his mouth to explain, then shut it. He’d never make the detective understand. He shrugged instead. “Anything else?”

  “Your safe. Open it.”

  “What?”

  “Not so helpful after all, are you?” Vasquez snarled, “It is a simple request. Open your safe.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Are you refusing to cooperate?”

  “I need to talk to my lawyer before—”

  “So, you are refusing the request.”

  “She’s right there.” He pointed at Victoria, who was busy muddling mint for a mojito. “It’ll only take a minute—”

  Vasquez cut him off again. “I have had enough of your games, Mr. Cooper. You will be hearing from me.” He pushed a meaty finger into Ben’s chest. “Given the company you keep, you are fortunate I do not shut you down right now.”

  Ben considered passing along what Chris said earlier about the murder: Detective, an anonymous crackhead claims he saw the Masked Marvel leave the bar immediately after the murder. On second thought, perhaps he’d keep that to himself for now.

  “I’ll see you soon, Detective. Best of luck with your investigation.”

  “Watch yourself, Mr. Cooper.” Vasquez stalked off, disappearing into the crowd.

  Ben exhaled. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. What was that about? Until moments earlier, he’d thought of the massive office safe as any other piece of furniture. He shook his head and went behind the bar, Miguel in tow.

  “Thanks, guys,” Victoria said, tossing them each a dish towel. “This is exactly how I wanted to spend my last few hours in Costa Rica—doing the work of three bartenders while learning some of Tamarindo’s finest pickup lines.” She tilted her head. “I think my favorite was, ‘I wish I could rearrange the alphabet, so I could put you and me together.’ That guy paid five bucks for a glass of soda water.”

  “Where’s Ana?” Ben asked.

  “I’ll look for her.” Miguel slunk off to escape Victoria’s glare.

  “Why was Vasquez here? I’d have come over, but the bar fridge would’ve been stripped bare by the time I returned.” She poured a pint and handed it to a customer.

  “He wanted to see inside the safe. Without a warrant.”

  “That’s strange. What’s he looking for?”

  “I’ve no idea. He was so busy accusing me of running a drug ring and threatening to shut down the bar, he forgot to tell me. What’s in there, anyway?”

  She leaned forward to take the next order, then opened the fridge to fetch a bottle of white wine. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I had it open earlier today. All I saw was a stack of legal documents and a box of cash.”

  “Anything to suggest Antonio might have been involved in something shady?”

  “Not that I saw. It looked like a normal cash box, filled mainly with US bills. There’s perhaps a few thousand dollars there, at most. Seems about right for a bar this size.”

  “What about the legal documents?”

  “Standard bar bumf. Health reports, tax returns, that sort of thing.”

  Ben ran a hand through his hair. None of it made any sense.

  Luis interrupted his reverie. “Ben, can we talk for a minute?” The busboy wore an immaculate white shirt beneath a stiffly pressed black apron, already splattered with grease. He held a tray full of dirty dishes in his hands.

  “This isn’t a good time. Can we talk later?”

  Luis started to say something, only to be interrupted by the sound of a pint glass shattering. He disappeared around the corner to fetch the dustpan from the kitchen.

  “He seems like a good kid,” Ben said.

  “He’s certainly the most enthusiastic fashion designer-cum-busboy I’ve ever met.”

  Ben laughed. “I don’t know what we’ll do without you, Victoria,” he said. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. Of course, you have to go.”

  “Relax, Ben.” She rested a hand on his arm. “You’ve had a rough couple of days. I don’t expect you to be fair right now.”

  He opened his mouth to say . . . to say . . .

  Victoria looked over his shoulder, where Miguel was returning to the bar with Ana. She drew her hand back. Ben’s skin tingled where her fingertips had been.

  “Where were you?” Ben demanded.

  “Sorry, Ben.” Ana avoided his glare. “I had something to look after.”

  “Apologize to Victoria, not me. She covered the bar while you were gone.”

  Ana started to speak. “Ben, I need to—”

  He cut her off with a glare.

  “Sorry, Victoria.”

  “Apology accepted,” Victoria said. She handed Ana her damp dish towel and poured herself another glass of rum.

  Ben went to take the next order, but the counter was barren. He looked across the cantina. It had thinned out since last he’d checked, minutes earlier. He watched a group of customers leave half-finished drinks on a table and head for the exit, muttering.

  Suddenly, Ben knew what was wrong. “What happened to the music? Where’s the DJ?”

  Ana sighed. “That is what I was trying to tell you. The DJ cancelled at the last minute.”

  “What? Why?”

  Ana muttered something.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Ben said.

  “He thinks the bar is haunted.”

  “We have no choice, then. We’ll stick with the old speakers and the CD player until tomorrow, at least.”

  “It’s Saturday night in Tamarindo, Ben. Everyone is out tonight, looking for the best scene. If we do not have a DJ, we will not have a crowd. And if we don’t have a crowd, we do not make any money,” Ana said. “Besides, those old speakers are done for. It is like going to a concert with a diving helmet on your head.”

  Ben had to admit the speakers were horrible. Yesterday, he’d asked Ana where she’d found that song
with all the humming. She’d given Ben an odd look and told him that’s how the speakers sounded when they weren’t playing music.

  Victoria downed the rum she’d poured herself and slammed the glass on the bar. “I’ve got this.” She passed her hands over her hips, vainly trying to smooth out her wrinkled skirt.

  “The new speakers are still covered in an inch of bubble wrap, Victoria. Getting it all hooked up is going to take hours. You barely have time to sleep tonight, as it is.” He stopped himself from adding that a single bad connection could blow the entire system.

  Victoria drew herself up to her full height. In heels, she stood nose to nose with Ben. “I’ve. Got. This.” She spun around, snatched up her briefcase, and stomped across the dance floor.

  What on earth . . . ?

  Miguel whistled. “I didn’t know you could stomp in high heels.”

  “I think that’s something they teach you in law school,” Ben said.

  “Should I help her?” Ana asked.

  Ben thought for a moment, then agreed. Ana was the only one of them who could tell the outlets that produced electricity from those that started fires. She tossed her towel to Miguel and followed Victoria across the deserted dance floor.

  Ben grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap off, and offered it to his friend. “Thanks for having my back in there, Miguel.”

  Miguel looked at the beer with distaste. “Brother, you’re lucky you didn’t tell me the plan before we kicked off. If I’d known you were going to ply him with rum and give him the run of the bar, I’d have tossed him out by his dreadlocks when I had the chance.” He took the bottle from Ben’s hand. “What the hell were you thinking, anyway?”

  Ben opened a bottle for himself. “Antonio tried to keep out the drug dealers, and all it got him was a cold slab in the coroner’s office. We don’t need any more trouble in our lives than we already have. Besides, it’s not like I gave him a foot massage. I spent as much time threatening him as I did plying him with rum. More, even.”

  “Those were empty threats. I don’t mind looming over punks like Chris—I’m good at looming—but I don’t hurt people. Not . . .” Anymore hung in the air, unspoken.