T. Parker - The Jaguar

“You shouldn’t rip off the artists you love so much.”

He eyed her. The lugubrious expression returned immediately. “Business always must be first.”

“Make it second and you’ll be happier.”

“I will be happy?”

She shrugged and looked out at the gorgeous Yamaha shining in the studio lights. “It’s possible that was a stupid thing to say.”

“Do you know how many people are trying to kill me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Thousands.”

“Truly?”

“Very truly. There are soldiers and police and hired assassins and enemies and even mere boys who would kill me without one thought. There are people who would kill me just to have a corrido written about it. Yet this is all a part of business. So, as you see, it must come first or I will die. You must comprehend that your world is not my world.”

“You’re right, Senor Armenta, this is not my world. And you’re also right about Flaco Jimenez. He’s one robust accordion player.”

“Yes. Music. I will tell you about my son someday.”

“He frightens me.”

“Not Saturnino. Gustavo. I will tell you about Gustavo. He was the beautiful one.”

Up on the fourth floor she recognized her hallway and room door. This level spread out logically at right angles, all hallways and guest rooms, like a hotel. Some of the doors were open and Erin saw that the rooms were beautifully furnished and decorated, like hers. Some were closed. They came to seating alcoves with high windows and heavy rancho sofas in leather and cowhide and grand recliners arranged around rustic trunks piled with books and periodicals. Monkeys peered down on them from the curtain rods. Parrots and macaws lined the landing rail and the banister that zigzagged down four floors as Erin looked over. A black man wearing white pants and a white shirt used a step ladder to remove various excretions from the drapery. The bucket on the floor beside him gave up the smell of lavender and Erin saw that a portion of the tile pavers was clean and still wet from the mop.

“In the daylight there are excellent views from these windows. You can see the ruins and the laguna.”

“I don’t think I’ll be free to enjoy views.”

He regarded her with a mild shrug. “No. This would not be practical.”

The top floor-Erin was fairly sure it was floor five-housed an observatory, a home theater the size of a multiplex, a recital hall, and a game room with billiards, table tennis, Foosball, scores of arcade games from “Cabela’s Big Game Hunter” to “Daytona Challenge” to “Kandahar Killers.” Father Edgar Ciel sat cramped but splendidly upright in the Daytona car, hands clutching the wheel, blazing his way through the competition while the novitiates watched on.

Back in the elevator Armenta pressed the second button from the top, which let them out on the second story, where they had seen the recording studio.

“The buttons and floors don’t match,” she said. “They are driving me crazy.”

“Driving? As a car?”

“Making me crazy. I mean, how many floors does this place have, anyway?”

Armenta looked at her as if he didn’t understand, then let Erin into a gallery. It was spacious and well lit by a network of halogen mini-bulbs. The floor was bird’s-eye maple and the walls were white plaster. They were hung with paintings and there were dozens of marble floor pedestals for sculpture from the Americas, some of it pre-Columbian and some of it contemporary. A man with a large black weapon stood in one corner, feet apart, arms cradling the gun.

“These are only a small part.”

“Of what?”

“My accomplishments.”

Armenta once again turned his back on her to talk into his phone. This time he spoke longer. His voice rose in volume and he cursed happily. In the corner the sicario uncradled his gun, lay a finger against the trigger guard and pointed the muzzle to the floor.

Suddenly, Saturnino burst into the gallery. His white Guayabera was drenched in sweat and streaked with blood and his eyes were wild with what looked like glee. There was a gun jammed into the waist of his jeans. He marched right up to Erin but stopped short and orbited her one full rotation, as in a dance, facing her and smiling wild-eyed. “You will be enjoying this!” While looking at her lips he kissed the air and spun off and loped over to his father who stood waiting, the phone still in his hand.

“Felix, papa!”

“Felix, el reportero?” asked Armenta.

“Si, Padre. Felix! El reportero! El traidor!”

Now the zoo was filled with people. Marimba music came from big speakers hung from the walls and sitting on the cobblestones. Erin was wedged in hard between Armenta on her left and Saturnino on her right. Heriberto stood in front of her. She saw the other gunmen who had kidnapped her and beaten Bradley, and the gentle boy who had served her dinner and poured her wine. There were soldiers and uniformed police and scores of what had to be cartel henchmen, a dozen of the elegant black domestic staff both men and women, and there were Mayans who must have come from the villages nearby. A group of four women and four men stood apart from the others. The women were dressed in white dresses and their heads were covered with the white rebozos, as the women Erin had seen coming from the third floor. The men were dressed in white also, long-sleeved shirts untucked and baggy pants, and their heads were covered not by rebozos but by loose white balaclavas that appeared to be made of a light material. Some of the men and women wore white cloth gloves.

In a row of seats up close to the cages sat the elders, some Indian and some Mexican and others indeterminate. To their left a man screwed a small video recorder to a tripod. Someone turned off the marimba and now a ranchero song blasted from the speakers. The music was festive and loose with up-tempo accordions and guitars strummed on the back-beat and powerful tenors in harmony. She looked through the bars of the cages but saw no cats. The grates were all down and she suspected that the animals were lost to their runs. All this commotion would certainly send them running. No monkeys or sloth or coatimundi. The compound yard was filled with vehicles. The pigeons in the aviary flapped and flitted and cocked their heads toward the ruckus.

Then she saw a beautiful woman making her way through the crowd toward them. She wore a peach-colored dress that was both modest and flattering. Her hair was dark and lustrous. It took Erin a moment to recognize her but when the woman was within ten feet she knew for certain it was Owens Finnegan. It was jarring to see Owens so far from her context of California, but somehow, Erin thought, in some inexplicable way, she fit right in here.

Owens smiled at Benjamin Armenta, then came to him, and when they embraced, Owens looked over his shoulder into Erin’s eyes and raised a finger to her own red lips. Her wide sterling silver bracelets slid away and Erin saw the ropy scars that ringed her wrists. They unnerved her as they always had. Then Owens disengaged from Armenta, pecked him on the cheek, glanced at Erin, then settled on the other side of him. Erin watched him put a stout arm around her, lightly and with affection.

Mike Finnegan’s “daughter,” Erin thought. The Finnegans. Vague, pointless people, in her opinion. They had materialized at one of their Los Angeles gigs one winter, listened to a set, then occasionally shown up to see her perform, club to club, ever since. Friendly enough, maybe too friendly. They always bought the drinks. She could tell their true interest was in Bradley and she distrusted them. Charlie Hood was searching the world for Mike, Erin knew, although she didn’t really know why. Or why Charlie was having such trouble finding him. Mike was always turning up, with his laughter-red face and lively blue eyes and his flagrant nosiness about all things.