Rum Luck Page 8

  Ben patted his shoulder. “I know, man.”

  Miguel nodded, his eyes unfocused.

  “All I want is a fresh start,” Ben said.

  “Try telling that to Vasquez. He’s not going to leave us alone until he puts the murderer behind bars.” Miguel poured a round of tequila shots for a group of sun-scorched golfers, then turned back to Ben. “What if the dealer killed Antonio himself?”

  “Why would Chris murder Antonio?” Ben asked. “The man has clearly sniffed too much sunscreen, but he’s right—murder is bad for business.”

  “How do you think someone like that moves up the chain?” Miguel eyed him sidelong as he mopped up a spilled rye and ginger. “It’s not for selling the most mint chocolate cookies, that’s for damned sure.”

  “You think Chris killed Antonio to get a promotion?”

  “You say that like it’s the first time it’s ever happened.”

  “But what about the witness? If Chris was going to invent a story, don’t you think he’d come up with something better than a man in a cape?”

  Miguel scoffed. “The main suspect’s buddy claims he saw a caped crusader, and we spend the rest of the week chasing our own tails—sounds pretty convenient to me.”

  “It’s not like Chris is the only suspect.”

  “Who else is there?”

  Ben took a deep breath. He couldn’t put it off any longer. “Ana.”

  “So much for a fresh start,” Miguel muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben said, anger creeping into his voice.

  “Nothing, man. Forget it.”

  “No, seriously. What does that mean?”

  Miguel turned to face him. “It means you’re still a mess from what Tara did to you. You can’t look at another woman without thinking of all the ways she could stab you in the heart. Ana’s a good person, man. She’s helping us get our bar off the ground, and this is how you repay her? By accusing her of murdering her own uncle? That’s cold. Even for you.”

  “Damn it, Miguel. How hard is it to keep your pants zipped for a week?”

  “For your sake, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “Victoria told me—”

  Miguel cut him off. “Victoria? Her idea of true love is finding shoes that match her briefcase.” He shook his head. “No wonder you have trust issues—you’re taking notes from a woman with a childish nickname for her own father.”

  The new sound system suddenly crackled to life, sending feedback screaming across the bar. The screech was followed by Victoria’s equally awful cursing.

  Ben continued, “I’m only saying . . .”

  “You’ve said enough.”

  Ben took a deep breath, and pushed his anger down. He considered telling Miguel the rest of what Victoria had told him, but he’d be talking to a brick wall. Who knew the great Colombian heartbreaker would feel so strongly about some girl he’d just met?

  Ben turned to say something—anything—to cut through the frigid silence that had descended between him and his best friend.

  Then the lights went out.

  He felt the music before he heard it. An unseen force reached inside him and seized him by the bones. The air in the bar seemed to jump two inches to the side. Then it leapt back, pushed off again, and stopped.

  A single, pitch-perfect note washed over the cantina, gripping the heads of the remaining bargoers and spinning them toward the dance floor. Beams of blue light shone out, casting the lone figure behind the equipment in silhouette and sweeping across the bar, before splintering into a dozen rays that played across the crowd. The lone note became a simple, beautiful melody. The deep, booming bass rose up. Beams of pure white light started to flash in perfect time to the beat. One melody became two, which then fused in exquisite harmony. The hairs on Ben’s arms stood on end.

  He blinked twice. The dance floor was getting crowded, and if the counter hadn’t been in his way, Ben’s feet would have taken him there of their own accord. The tempo picked up speed, and the tune became irresistible. Ben had stayed off dance floors most of his adult life, but he found himself dancing behind the bar, head nodding and feet sliding to every note.

  The stage lit up, and Ben was astonished to see it was Victoria up there, gliding between two massive turntables. She bobbed and weaved in time with the music, her wrinkled jacket undone, strands of hair spilling from her normally perfect bun. Her face was glowing, and she looked entirely unlike he’d ever seen her before. A wave of excitement crackled through the crowd as it danced and flowed as one. Complete strangers were smiling at each other in their euphoria.

  People came pouring in from the street and up from the beach, summoned by the rhythm of the music. Within minutes, the cantina was bulging at the seams.

  Ben collapsed on the beach, almost within reach of the lounge chair, and pressed the back of his neck into the blissful coolness of the sand. Hot air wafted from the cantina as the bar exhaled the steam of the hundreds of patrons who’d left moments ago.

  He could hear a sizzle of damp leaves and wrinkled his nose at the scent of pungent, earthy smoke. The glowing red ember of a cigar burned through the darkness. Victoria lay in a lounge chair, savoring a thick robusto and swinging a shoe from one toe to a tune only she could hear. She blew a single smoke ring into the air, then exhaled with satisfaction.

  “Hell of a night,” she said, staring out over the ocean. The waves gleamed in the dim glow of the fading moon.

  It was an understatement of Biblical proportions. Ben’s body ached more than it had when he woke up in the holding cell. Even after they cut the music at three in the morning, it had taken another hour to herd the last of the dancers out the door. By the end, Miguel and Ana could barely stand. Ben had offered to close up so they could go home and sleep. It was an offer he was now regretting. He had personally served over a thousand drinks in the past twelve hours. By the end of the night, all they had left to work with was vermouth, grenadine, and soda water. Miguel mixed the three together, dubbing it The After Party. They’d sold dozens.

  Victoria’s show had brought half of Tamarindo to their door. The melodies she played glided from one to the next seamlessly, moving across every era and genre of music. Their only common denominator was the ability to grip you, touch you, hold you, shake you. Sometimes all at once. Time simply vanished.

  “I never knew DJs could do . . . that,” Ben said, words failing him. “I’ve always enjoyed live concerts, but that . . . tonight . . .”

  “It’s the crowd,” Victoria said. “The music is just a gateway to becoming part of something bigger than yourself.”

  Ben nodded, though wasn’t sure he entirely understood. Perhaps it was the hour. Which was what? A golden glow was slowly lighting the horizon. Dawn would be upon them in minutes.

  “You’re going to miss your flight,” he said. “There’s barely time for you to pack.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “What about—?”

  “There’s no about, Ben,” she said. “No more dockets. No more motions. No more lawsuits and counter-counter lawsuits. No more late-night conference calls and billing by the half-minute. I’m staying here.”

  Ben dragged himself to the lounge chair next to Victoria. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then welcome to paradise,” he said. “Where on earth did you learn to DJ?” It seemed an inadequate term for what she could do, like asking Michelangelo where he’d learned to chip away at rock. He still had to ask, though. They’d been friends for more than a decade, yet Ben had never seen her with as much as a set of headphones.

  “I taught myself, mostly. We traveled a lot when I was younger, particularly in Europe—France, Italy, and Spain. Mansion didn’t much care what I did, so long as I wasn’t underfoot. When he was around, that is. As I grew older, it was mostly Mother and myself.” She took a long pull on the cigar. “After a few glasses of wine, she cared less than he did. I started going to clubs and
I . . . I took an interest, you could say. Bought myself a couple of turntables, a mixer. It was a harmless hobby. Until it wasn’t.

  “I knew enough not to let my grades suffer or to talk about it over dinner. But one day I refused to let them add yet another activity to my already loaded schedule—synchronized needlepoint, Korean gymnastics, something like that. Suddenly, my love of mixing was ‘A Threat to My Future.’ ” The last she said in a singsong voice. “We couldn’t have that, now, could we?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve always thought of you more as a threatener than a threatenee,” Ben said.

  She smiled. “It does, actually.” She looked out over the ocean. “That was the end of it, for a while. I started spinning tracks again in university. I even played a few shows at some of the local clubs. Mansion found out and one day he called, threatening to disown me if I didn’t stop once and for all. I think he had a private investigator following me.” Ben saw tears well in the corner of her eyes. He’d never seen that before, either. “He thought I’d choose my music over his law firm.” She stretched in her lounge chair. “Looks like he had reason to worry, after all.”

  “You’re certainly not out of practice,” Ben said. “I couldn’t believe the crowd. What was that they were chanting at you? Maestro Tequila?”

  When they’d first tried to kill the music, the crowd had started chanting in Spanish until she returned. They erupted into applause every time she set foot back on stage.

  Victoria turned red. “Maestra de escuela.”

  “Oh. What does that mean?”

  She muttered something under her breath.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “DJ School Mistress. Ahem.” She gave the cigar a violent tap, dropping a wad of ash into the sand.

  Ben remembered her dancing behind the sound system in her business suit, the top few buttons of her blouse undone, sweat trickling down her neck, past her collarbone. He shook himself from his reverie. School Mistress, indeed.

  “Brilliant. You even have a secret DJ identity. We can, uh, modify your costume slightly, and—”

  “I won’t join the legion of women who take off every legal scrap of clothing to make it in this business.” Victoria shook her head. “DJ School Mistress is bad enough—if they want a cut of meat, they can visit the butcher.” She tossed the cigar stub onto the beach. “Apart from my new nom de guerre, the only downside of staying in Tamarindo is that I won’t get to see Mansion’s face when he hears the good news. ‘Father, I’m leaving the practice to become a DJ in Costa Rica.’ ”

  “That is tragic,” Ben said.

  “It’s all right. I’ll ask his secretary to capture the special moment on camera.” Victoria buried the cigar stub in the sand. “I’ve always wanted to try a cigar. Never have, until today.”

  “How was it?”

  “Absolutely vile.”

  Ben laughed. “I’m glad you’ll be here to help deal with Vasquez, and whoever wrote that threat.”

  Victoria folded her arms behind her head. “You’ll have to avoid being threatened or imprisoned while I’m spinning, but I’m confident I can find somewhere in my busy schedule to pencil you in.”

  Ben drummed his fingers on the lounge’s armrests. “Would you join as a full partner?”

  A flicker of suspicion crossed her eyes. “I’m not going to solve your money troubles, if that’s what you’re thinking. Even if I wanted to be your sugar momma—which I don’t—my assets aren’t exactly liquid at the moment. I’ll match Miguel’s five thousand dollar buy-in, but not a penny more.”

  “If I’d wanted your money, I would have asked,” Ben said in a weary voice. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve already given us five thousand dollars’ worth of your time alone.”

  “Sorry, Ben. I’m just used to . . . never mind.” She sighed. “I’ve dug myself into a bit of a hole with a real estate investment, and I’ve got a lease to break on a brand-new Range Rover. You know how it is.”

  Ben nodded sympathetically, though he doubted Victoria’s tragic struggle would inspire a breakthrough made-for-TV movie. “So, does that mean you’re in?”

  She was silent for a moment, then held up a single finger. “One condition—you tell me what happened between you and Tara.”

  He groaned. “Really?”

  “Curiosity aside, I need to know what skeletons are in the closet before I hop inside.”

  She would find out one day. Ben might as well tell her and get it over with. “Tara was cheating on me.” He took a deep breath. “With some clown.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ben. Was he someone you knew?”

  “Sorry?” Then he realized, Victoria had misunderstood.

  Halfway to downtown Toronto, Ben had realized he’d left his phone at home. He had turned back onto their street in Oakville only to discover a van blocking his driveway. Beeboo the Clown: Birthdays! Face Painting! Fun! was plastered on its side.

  “No. Not a friend,” he spat. “A real clown. You know, the guys with creepy face paint who make bloody balloon animals at kids’ parties? Tara has a . . . a . . . thing for clowns.”

  He waited for Victoria to make a snide remark. When none was forthcoming, he continued, “I came home early the night of my bachelor party. I walked into the bedroom in time to see Beeboo the Clown step out of the bathroom wearing nothing but face paint, a red nose, and a smile.” And a profoundly disturbing balloon animal. “Tara screamed when she saw me. I froze. Beeboo grabbed his floppy shoes and a bathrobe—my bathrobe— and was halfway to his van before I even knew what had happened.

  “Me and Miguel carried on with my ‘bachelor party’—in the truest sense of both words, much to my liver’s regret—when he suggested we make use of the nonrefundable executive class tickets to Costa Rica that I’d bought for the honeymoon.

  “I figured, why not? It wasn’t as if I had work to worry about. Tara and my job at her uncle’s company were kind of a package deal. So I quit my job, spent a week on Miguel’s couch, flew down to Costa Rica, bought the bar, and landed myself in jail,” Ben said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  A pair of passing surfers gave them a strange look. Apparently, they didn’t often see a schoolmistress and a beating victim enjoying a beachside sunrise together.

  Victoria sounded as if she were choking.

  “Are you okay?”

  She roared with mirth. “Thank heavens! I thought you’d stop telling the story if I started laughing, but . . . Woooo . . .” She wiped tears from her eyes. “Seriously? Clowns?”

  “Yes. Seriously. Clowns.” He glared at her. “Do you need a tissue?”

  “No, no . . . I’m fine . . . You know how it goes with tissues, take one out of your pocket and before you know it, you’re pulling out a whole stream of them, all tied together.” She gave in to a fit of giggles.

  “Have you gotten it out of your system?” he asked after a minute.

  “I think so, yes.” She wheezed. “And do you? Feel better, that is.”

  Ben picked up a handful of sand and let it fall through his fingers. “I can’t say I much liked waking up in prison, and I’m not a fan of the death threats. But, otherwise”—he smiled—“I’m having a really great time.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I didn’t realize it until now,” he said. “We’ve been so busy, I didn’t know I was enjoying myself.”

  “Me too.” She yawned, stretching her arms. “But I’m going to pass out on this lounge chair if I don’t get back to the hotel. Enrico arrives at the cantina at three o’clock, right?”

  “That’s right. See you then.”

  “Good night, Ben.”

  “Good morning, Victoria.”

  As his new partner padded off along the beach, Ben thought about what had happened between him and Tara after Beeboo took off in a billow of bathrobe and tire smoke. The part he hadn’t told Miguel and Victoria.

  The part he wouldn’t ever tell anyone.

  First, th
ere was shock. Tara tried to convince him that he had the wrong idea, that it wasn’t what he thought it was. Ben countered that there was nothing else it could possibly be. She had no answer for that.

  Next came the tears. They ran endlessly down Tara’s face in rivers of mascara. After Ben had packed a suitcase with his most prized belongings, she confessed she had a clown fixation—coulrophilia, as she had put it so clinically—but that it did not change her feelings for him. Ben tried to ignore her, but the rawness of her voice gave him pause.

  His packing slowed, then stopped. He sat beside her on the bed to talk. Twenty minutes later, he was in the bathroom, putting on face paint.

  As he finished, Ben’s eyes locked with those of his reflection. His hand froze as it reached for the oversized novelty bow tie that Tara had produced from her bedside drawer. Ben saw a profound sadness in his reflected eyes. It reminded him of a time long ago, one he thought he’d left behind.

  He scrubbed the clown face off on one of their fine Turkish towels. He stepped out of the bathroom, grabbed his suitcase, and, without a single word to his fiancée, strode out of their bedroom and into the night.

  From his lounge chair in Tamarindo, it seemed to Ben to have happened a lifetime ago. It was the first time he had thought of that evening without feeling ashamed or depressed. He simply felt relieved.

  He walked down to the ocean and let the cool water wash over his toes. He watched the rising tide crash against the dark volcanic rocks that punctuated the soft sand beach. The surf tugged at the shore, a miniature sandstorm whirling beneath the liquid pane. All he could hear were the cries of the seagulls and the cheers of the first surfers to reach the waves. A warm breeze stroked his cheek.

  He couldn’t imagine a better place for a fresh start.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sun sparkled off freshly shattered glass. Miguel could feel the heat from the burning car scorch his back. A lone piece of blood-splattered paper lay before him. He reached for it, but his arms were like lead. No matter how hard he tried, he could not move. This was the end. Because of him, all of them would die.