Steve Martini - The Arraignment

I walk over and look at Harry. His eyes are closed. I touch his arm. He opens his eyes and looks at me.

“How are you feeling?”

“Great.” Gravely voice. “Maybe they’ll gimme a prescription for whatever they pumped in my arm. Right now I’m feelin’ just fine. What happened?”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“Who are you?” he says.

He reads my eyes. “Just kidding. Last thing I remember is a shadow on the water, just before the mountain fell on me. What was it?”

“We’ll talk about it later. You rest. They’ll be coming to take you upstairs to a room in a couple of minutes.”

“No. No. I want to go with you.” He starts to get up off the gurney.

“Harry!”

“Oh shit.” Hand to his head, he settles back down on the gurney. “My head feels like it’s gonna come off.”

“If you don’t lie still, it probably will. The doctor says you’re going to be feeling some pain when the medications wear off. For the time being, you rest. I’ll stop by again later tonight.” I squeeze his arm and head to the door.

“Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Adam and Julio?”

“That’s a good question.”

I flag a cab in front of the hospital and head back to the hotel. By the time we get to the intersection leading to the driveway up to the Casa Turquesa, the crowd out in front is gone. A motorcycle cop is standing at the driveway entrance, screening traffic in and out.

The sun is searing. I glance at my watch. It’s nearly two o’clock. I’m feeling nauseous. I have a headache. I haven’t eaten since last night. The blood from my ear is dried and caked, but the sweat running down my face in the cab, which has no air-conditioning, causes the salt to burn in the wound.

The cop at the gate will see the blood all over the front of my shirt as soon as we pull in, and the inquisition will start before I can get out of the cab.

Rather than go up to the hotel, I have the driver go past the entrance and take a left behind Kukulcan Plaza.

Up on the bluff behind the shopping center, overlooking the beach, are apartments and condos. Julio’s firm has rented space in one of the less expensive condos so that they could park the big Surburbans in the underground garage. The rest of Julio’s team, when not on duty, has slept in the condo upstairs. Herman pointed it out to me on one of our trips.

I have the cab driver drop me off in front of the place.

The two-story building houses a half dozen units with stairs out in front leading to the units on the second story. Each of the units look the same.

As we drive up, I see the driveway to the garage, a concrete ramp at the side of the building leading down underneath. So I head toward it and down the ramp.

I am looking for Julio’s man, the one who’s supposed to be watching the cars, hoping he has a radio to contact his boss. If not, maybe there is a phone in the condo upstairs. I can call Adam and find out what’s happening in the hotel, have them bring me some clean clothes. If I’m lucky, by now Adam and Julio will have answered most of their questions. I can fill in a few blanks, get a meal in my room, and nap before we meet with Pablo Ibarra; that is, assuming the meeting is still on.

After the events of this morning, I’ve become a convert to Harry’s way of thinking. As soon as I button Adam, I plan to lay heavy hands. When Harry is ready to travel, we should hop on the plane and hightail it home. It’s one thing to look for answers as to who killed Nick. It’s another to meet them.

Even though it’s dug into the earth like a bunker, the underground garage is warm and humid.

I turn the corner and see the cars. Two of the Surburbans are there. One is out. The one on the right has its engine running, fouling the garage with fumes.

The man watching them is sitting inside, listening to music, with the air conditioner running. I hear the muted vibrations of low notes, pounding out a bass in a monotone. I’m waiting for the car to sprout hydraulics and start jumping in place.

As I slide up along side, I see the familiar five o’clock shadow in the side-view mirror. I’ve been looking at it for two days in the car. Julio sitting behind the wheel. I tap on the glass of the window behind him, but he doesn’t hear me. I open the driver’s door.

“Where were your people…” The words aren’t out of my mouth when I see the splatter on the windshield like rust-colored stucco. Spider-legged fissures in the windshield fan out from a crater in the glass a few inches above the steering wheel.

The side of Julio’s face is an ashen shade of blue, cyanotic. His eyes are half closed in a death daze. In the center of his forehead is the exit wound the size of a quarter, the edges swollen, already congealed with blood. This has run down his face in rivulets around his nose, covering large areas of his shirt and pants.

I stand there with my mouth open, the sweet metallic taste of monoxide in my throat. The mind-numbing music and the fact that I’m standing inches from a dead body in a foreign county tends to focus the mind. Quickly I scan the garage to make sure I’m alone.

I search through the pockets of my shorts for a piece of cloth, paper, anything. I find a folded cash register receipt still damp. I open it up and using it between my thumb and forefinger, I carefully reach under the steering column, find the key, and turn off the ignition. The deafening silence causes me to flinch, look around, make sure I’m still alone. Then I close the car door, wiping the handle with the tail of my shirt.

It takes me five minutes to make my way back up the hill. I cross the empty street behind the plaza, take off my shirt, and drop it into a trash can at the curb on the other side. I enter the shopping center through a door on the back side. The cool, dry atmosphere of the air-conditioned plaza washes over me as I catch my breath inside. Except for the blood on my ear, I look like a tourist who forgot his shirt back at the pool, shoes without socks and beads of sweat.

Against the wall just inside the door is a pay phone. I fumble with Mexican coins, trying to figure which one to use for a local call. I end up dropping a ten peso piece, then dial the hotel. A few seconds later, I get the front desk.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Adam Tolt. He’s a guest.”

“One moment.”

I hear voices. The clerk speaking in Spanish to someone else. I hear him say ‘Senor Tolt,’ a rubbing sound, his hand covering the mouthpiece, the word Ingles. Then another voice comes on the line. “Hello, who is this?”

“I’m trying to reach Mr. Tolt. Adam Tolt. He’s a guest at the hotel.”

“Who is this?” The voice speaks with the tone of authority.

A half hour ago, before finding Julio’s body, I would have given him my name, crossed the street, and talked to the cops. Instead I don’t say another word. I hang up.

The hotel has a small desk with a single phone. If I call again, the clerk will recognize my voice.

At a counter a few feet away, there’s a young girl offering sample scents of perfume from some atomizers. I step over and tell her I’ve had a little accident, pointing to my ear. I ask her if she wouldn’t mind placing a phone call for me in Spanish. It would only take a moment.

She smiles and steps around the counter. I drop another coin in the phone and dial again.

“I want to talk to one of their guests. An African-American gentleman. A black man. His name is Herman. I’m afraid I don’t remember his last name, but there are only a few guests at the hotel.”

When the clerk answers, the girl speaks in rapid-fire Spanish. They go back and forth a couple of times. Finally she hands me the phone and smiles. “His last name is Diggs. Herman Diggs. They are ringing his room now.”