Merline Lovelace: Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea

“I know the spiel,” Liz interrupted ruthlessly. It was the only way to get through to the man. “You’re obligated to act as a responsible guardian of company funds. Are you going to give me the six hundred or not?”

“All right. All right. I will. But you’ll have to sign a voucher. Let’s go down to my office.”

Liz lifted her bird off the patch a half hour later with a check for the six hundred zippered into her jumpsuit pocket and an exuberant crew strapped into the passenger compartment.

Ahead stretched forty minutes of open sea. Liz had flown the route so many times she could put her conscious mind on autopilot and switch her thoughts to the mess Donny had landed her in.

She thought briefly of hiring a lawyer and going after him. Pride and utter disgust at her own stupidity quashed that idea. She’d just have to tough it out down here in Mexico for a while longer. If she watched her pennies, she should be able to repay the loan she’d taken out for that blasted nonrefundable deposit and get back on her feet within a few months.

Which meant she’d probably ferry Devlin back to shore when he rotated off the patch.

Hell, there he was again! Bouncing around inside her head like a damned yo-yo. She couldn’t seem to get him out. Or his outrageous offer of stud service.

What the heck. If Liz did ferry him back to shore a few weeks from now, maybe she should take him up on the offer. She didn’t quite trust the man. And she wasn’t sure she bought his story about last night’s events. Yet she had to admit the kiss he’d laid on her this morning had curled her toes inside her boots.

Like a DVD played in digital high definition, she saw again the glint in Devlin’s eyes as he bent toward her, felt the heat of his mouth on hers and cursed herself for being a fool.

Dumped less than ten hours ago by one man and here she was, fantasizing about another! How many kinds of an idiot did that make her?

Thoroughly disgusted, Liz skimmed her bird toward the postcard-perfect shoreline.

The men poured out as soon as the skids touched down and Jorge set the chocks. Most clutched e-tickets and were eager to get through customs and onto the bus to La Paz. Once there, they’d board the jets that would carry them to homes scattered from the Azores to the Strait of Malacca. A few intended to head for town and the women who would soon relieve them of a healthy portion of their accumulated pay. First they had to be cleared by the Mexican official who routinely met Liz’s incoming flight.

Today there were two officials. She recognized the bored-looking bureaucrat who usually rubber-stamped the crew’s papers. The other she hadn’t seen before.

“What’s up?” she asked Jorge as she hefted the mail pouch from the empty copilot’s seat. “Why the extra funcionario?

“I do not know.”

Interesting. Maybe Devlin’s story had basis in fact. Maybe a deckhand had stolen some valuable equipment and authorities were now shaking down all crews coming off the rig. Funny Wallace didn’t mention the theft to her, though. The company rep was such a motormouth about everything else.

“Perhaps it has something to do with this,” Jorge said.

He dragged a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his overalls. It was a flier with a Xerox photo of a man Liz didn’t recognize. Her eyes widened as she translated the Spanish under the picture.

“Does this say what I think it does?”

“¡Sí! There is a reward. Fifty thousand pesos for information about whoever shot this man last night.”

“Last night, huh?”

Liz licked suddenly dry lips. The image of a body floating in the surf jumped into her head.

“This is Martín Alvarez,” Jorge said grimly.

The name didn’t register. Her expression must have indicated as much, as Jorge clicked his tongue like a hyperactive cricket.

“Ayyyyy, Lizetta! You do not know him?”

“No.”

“He is the nephew of Eduardo Alvarez. The one known as El Tiburón.”

El Tiburón. The Shark. That registered.

Goose bumps prickled Liz’s skin. Gulping, she stared at the grainy photo of the nephew of one of the biggest, baddest members of the Mexican mafia.

El Tiburón. The nickname echoed in Liz’s head all day. She’d heard about the man from various sources during her months in Mexico, and what she’d heard was not good.

She drove home after work to peel off her sweat-soaked flight suit and to shower. Cool and comfortable in flip-flops, jeans and sleeveless cotton blouse, she got back in the Jeep and navigated the narrow streets to her favorite cantina for dinner. A few tourists wandered through the shops, but most had retreated to the luxury resorts strung along the cliffs for cocktails by the pool.

El Poco Lobo was crowded with shop owners, street vendors and boatmen back from fishing charters and swim or snorkeling tours. The locals jammed elbow to elbow at the smoky bar. Empty Corona bottles filled with red pebbles formed a pyramid against the flyspecked mirror backing the bar. Liz usually ate at one of the rickety tables outside, but the cantina owner waved her inside.

“Hola, Elizabeth.”

“Hola, Anita.”

Avid interest filled the woman’s black eyes. “Is it true what we hear? You were at the beach last night?”

“Yes. What’s the special this evening?”

“Beans and roast pork. I will get you a dish and you will tell us what happens, yes?”

Hunching over her heaping plate of succulent carne asada, Liz did her best to play down her role in the night’s events. Yes, she’d heard the shots, she said in a reprise of her conversation with Subcommandante Rivera. No, she didn’t see who fired them. And no, she didn’t know who’d been shot until Jorge told her this morning.

She managed to dodge most of the more persistent of her questioners. Unfortunately, she couldn’t dodge the two men who were waiting for her when she parked her Jeep in its usual place under the droopy jacaranda tree that shaded the stairs to her apartment.

The two tough-looking strangers stepped from behind the massive, twisted trunk. One was short and squat and walked with a limp. The other wore a lavender shirt, pleated black slacks and black-and-white wingtip shoes. The wingtips were bad enough. The shoulder holster he didn’t bother to conceal was worse.

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