T. Parker - The Jaguar

“I see the unhappiness on your face.”

“This was one of the worst days of my life. I’ve had several of them since I met you.”

He nodded tersely. “Why did you run? Where were you trying to go?”

“Away, away and away.”

“Mexico can be dangerous.”

She actually laughed.

He glanced down distractedly at the courtyard, then turned his attention back to her. “Father Ciel found his key. He had misplaced it. Apparently. Maybe your escape was one of opportunity and not planning.”

“Either way is just fine with me.”

“Do you hate this place very strongly?”

“I’m going to be a mother soon. I can’t describe to you how genuinely awful it is to be a prisoner here. Can’t you imagine what Anya would have felt like if she were going to give birth to Gustavo and your enemies were holding her thousands of miles from home? Planning to skin her alive? How can you not understand this? Is your heart that small?”

He looked down and away. The waiter set out bowls of ceviche and guacamole and chips, and refreshed the glasses of wine. “I hope not to remove your skin.”

“Saturnino will actually do it. So, no worries for you.”

“I never wanted to skin you, of course.”

She choked down the mouthful of wine and coughed into her napkin. “From the beginning? A bluff?”

“Oh, no bluff. No, no. I kidnapped you for business and to punish an enemy. And because I wanted to meet you. I was a fan. I love musical talent and skill. I intended to skin you only if necessary. But when I met you my perceptions changed. There is more in you than musical talent and skill. There is something that you have and it is only you. I see it. I understand it. My heart sees it. So I want now very much not to skin you although I have given my word and my word is who I am. I want my money. But I want you to write. And go free. And have your child.”

“But you will skin me?”

“I must, if Charlie Bravo fails you.”

“You…Saturnino has done this to other people?”

Armenta raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat softly and continued to look out the window.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she said.

“H?”

“It’s a saying.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning can you just please fly me out of Chetumal tomorrow? Can you let me go home?”

“Impossible.”

“Why is it impossible? You’re the most powerful man in Quintana Roo. Aren’t you?”

He looked at her again, nodded and smiled proudly, then his face fell into a scowl. He unbuttoned his jacket, brought a phone to his ear and listened for a long time.

Erin looked down at the loggia colonnade melting into the darkness. The driveway was a pale swatch through the black of the jungle. The sicarios were just dabs in the background now, difficult to see but not quite invisible. Her mind was alive with images of the day and she wondered if it was possible to unsee the seen or forget the unforgettable.

Finally Armenta said bueno and reclipped the phone to his belt with an apologetic shrug.

“I think you’re lying about Charlie Bravo,” she said. “You’ve misled him. He won’t be here with the money tomorrow because you don’t want him here. Right?”

He shrugged and looked at her, then abandoned his pretense and nodded.

“Or have you killed him?”

“No. He is alive, but not here. He is off course but he has my money.”

“How long do you propose to keep me prisoner?”

“I have given this thought. My wish is to own a collection of songs that you have written and recorded for me. Enough to form a body of work, on compact disc. The recordings will of course be basic vocal tracks and you will accompany yourself on guitar and piano. Let us say, twelve songs in all. It will not be sold. This is not commercialism. It is for me only to possess.”

“Then you’ll fly me home?”

“You have my word.”

“But your word isn’t true. You’ve sent Charlie miles from here, haven’t you? You’ve gone back on your own deal.”

He looked morose at his honor being doubted. “But you are compelled to believe me. Charlie Bravo and his one million dollars are not here. Your weak and fearful husband remains hiding in California, useless to you. These are factual truths. Twelve songs.”

Twelve songs, she thought. Time. Time for the baby inside me to grow. Time for Bradley and Hood. I could write the songs and lay down the vocals in a week. A week! Earn my own freedom.

“You already have one of my songs.”

“But you must record it.”

“Then you mean eleven.”

“Eleven more written, twelve recorded.”

“They could not all be epic corridos .”

“They will be what you want them to be. I do not have to be the subject. Write whatever you want to write.”

She sipped the wine and studied his hopeful face. An idea presented itself to her, and although she had no time to examine it, she felt confident that it was good and workable.

“I know you,” she said. “You’ll take the million dollars from Charlie Bravo whenever you want to take it. After seeing the treasures in this place, I know this is true. To you, this million dollars is only filthy paper. But it means a lot to me. It belongs to me and my husband and the baby inside me. I earned some of it. So I want it back. I will not write the songs unless you send me home with Charlie Bravo and the money.”

His frown broke into a smile. It was the first smile she had seen on him and it was wide and robust and genuine. “Would you like to be a part of my organization? I will give you cocaine and mota distribution in Los Angeles. The plaza will be yours. The money is very tremendous. And with your contacts, all of the musicians in L.A. will remain high forever and produce wonderful works.”

“How about no? No works for me.”

“I am kidding you. A joke for you.”

“That’s very funny, Mr. Armenta.”

“I agree, then. And you agree to eleven more songs to be written and twelve recorded. At the end you will be flown home with one million dollars, and this Charlie…what is his last name?”

“Bravo.”

“Brave. Of course. Very brave when he killed my Gustavo. I had forgotten his bravery. But I now promise I will send him home with you.”

“Not to the tigers?”

He shrugged and avoided her eyes.

“You ordered your people not to feed them.”

“Agreed. Not to the tigers.”

“I will be finished in one week. I believe in you as a man of your word.”

Now he seemed to vet her like a taste of product, a pleased look spreading across his face.

“Also,” she said. “I need the freedom to leave my room when I want to. With no one to watch me. I need to be free to walk around in your Castle and on your property. Except the third floor, of course. I won’t run away again. I give my word on this, and it is every bit as good as yours, and you know it is.”

He smiled again but this time there was something amused in it, as if he’d just been told a good joke. “Of course this is impossible!”

“Impossible why?”

“Because I don’t trust you. Now the truth is exposed. Neither one of us trusts the other but we are making deals like powerful capitalists in the back room! No. You may have limited freedom but only when Owens is with you. Or you will run away. I can see this happening very clearly.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay.”

Looking down through the last rays of daylight she could see that the outside gunmen were gone now, having vanished as they sometimes did to places unseen, and for reasons not apparent.

The waiter brought a tray heavy with plates of seafood and beef, and another piled with tamales and Yucatecan mango-topped enchiladas. He set out dishes of hot sauce and wedges of lime and baskets of tortillas.