Mexico way, p.18
Mexico Way, page 18
Oh, God. The diamond and ruby necklace. The one that had belonged to Raúl's mother. She had been planning to wear it to Placido Domingo's opening. How could she have left it in the room?
She called the hotel manager in a rage of anger and frustration, knowing that even though he promised to get his security men on the case, ahorita, it wouldn't do any good. She slammed down the phone, tears welling over her cheeks. Raúl was bound to notice that the necklace was gone. He would be angry and upset, but he would forgive her. It wasn't so much that. It was the sense of violation.
Shelley stopped by the American Embassy just before ten to see about getting a new passport. There were police barriers all around the building. The cops watched passively as a small crowd of demonstrators chanted anti-U.S. slogans.
"If a sparrow falls in Mexico," the woman in the consular section commented, "the United States is blamed."
Lois Compton reached for a cigarette, and offered the pack to Shelley, who surprised herself by accepting one. She rarely smoked.
Shelley took one puff, and started coughing. "This is serious weed."
Lois chuckled. "Oh, yeah. Turkish. A bad habit I picked up in Westwood, in the fun times."
The chanting in the street was audible even in here.
"How long have the demonstrators been out there?" Shelley asked.
"Every day since Ramírez stepped down. They turn up at nine in the morning, like they were punching a time clock. Some of them are. Some of those guys are cops out of uniform."
"Really?"
"Oh, sure. The PRI hasn't stayed in power all this time without learning a few tricks. When people get riled up, you sic them onto the gringos."
For the first time in a very long while, Shelley found herself liking another woman. Lois's worldliness, her tart running commentary on Mexico, on men, on life in general, was all very refreshing. The two women had obvious things in common: They were no longer Girl Scouts, they had kept their looks, and they had been knocked around by men. From the minute she first stepped inside Lois's office, Shelley felt she had found a friend, something she needed very much right now.
Lois stacked papers. "This is no big deal. I can do it by this time tomorrow."
"Thank you, that's great." Shelley rose to leave, then asked impulsively, "May I treat you to dinner tonight? That is, unless you're already busy."
Kreeger's Cl section chief said, "Why, I'd love to. Only I was thinking of asking you, so let's make it Dutch."
4
Shelley decided to have a long soak in the hotel tub before she dressed for dinner. She put the new Anita Baker CD in the player, and relaxed into the bubbles, a glass of champagne on the rim of the tub. She wondered why she felt so strongly drawn to this Embassy woman, as though she had found a soul mate. Shelley did not believe in chance. There was a reason for everything in life, however difficult—or unpalatable—it proved to be. She consoled herself with the thought that the theft of her valuables might have brought her a friend.
She was washing her hair when she heard the doorbell chime. She ignored it at first, but it went on ringing. Then came a persistent hammering, as if someone were trying to break the door down.
Shelley swore and rinsed her hair under the shower-head. Wrapped in a terry cloth robe, dripping water and suds over the living room carpet, she hurried to the door and squinted through the peep-hole. Several Mexicans in suits were standing around in the corridor. She recognized one as the hotel manager.
"What is it?" she called out.
"There is a gentleman who wishes to talk to you about the theft."
Shelley cursed them under her breath. The men with the manager were undoubtedly cops. In Mexico, if you have a problem, the worst place to take it is to the police. Shelley guessed that the cops in the hall had come to demand money up front before they made their investigation, which would result in the inevitable report that regrettably, the necklace could not be found. They could at least have had the decency to call up ahead.
"Just a minute!"
She pulled on a skirt and blouse, and wrapped her hair in a towel.
When she opened the door, the manager, who was all smiles and apologies, remained in the hallway. Only one of the men came in.
She noticed that his muted pinstripe suit fitted him very well, and she liked his Gucci tie: orchids blossoming in a field of scarlet. She did not, however, like the way his eyes walked over her.
"Who are you?" she asked curtly.
"My name is García. It is my privilege to be of assistance."
He did not produce a badge. He gave her an elegantly engraved card. It bore only his name, and a telephone number that had been added in pencil. He had one of those literary first names that Mexicans of all social classes inflict on their children.
"Are you some kind of cop?"
"Certainly."
"Well, are you doing anything about my necklace? I already gave the manager a description."
"It was an excellent description. You are a lady of rare perception."
He didn't talk like a Mexico City cop, or any other kind of cop she had encountered. Shelley wondered if she should pay him now so he would go away. She started to reach for her pocketbook, then hesitated.
"I don't suppose I'm going to see my jewels again, am I? The fact of the matter is—"
"Facts," he interrupted her, "are often the enemies of the truth."
She stared at him in unconcealed astonishment.
"That is my observation," he continued. "It was also the observation of Don Quixote de la Mancha. Now—" he removed a long buff envelope from an inside pocket " —I wonder if you would be so kind as to verify the contents, Señora Hayes?"
Shelley opened the envelope. The ruby and diamond necklace slid out into her hand.
She blushed. Her color deepened when she realized that, without makeup, her embarrassment was completely exposed to him. How could she have been so rude to him? But how could she have guessed that they would find the stolen necklace—and return it? The necklace was worth at least fifty thousand dollars. In Mexico, you could buy and sell whole police departments for that sort of money.
She opened her pocketbook. She mumbled something about wanting to show her appreciation, about the expenses of police work, the trouble she had caused Señor García.
He stopped her with a smile. "I think you mistake me, Señora. For me, duty is its own reward. I am happy to serve the public morals. There is just one little favor I would ask."
"Name it."
"If you will permit me." He took the necklace out of her hand, unclasped it, and draped it around her neck. She felt the brush of his hands against her shoulders.
"Ah." He stood away from her. "That is what I wanted to see. It is plain that the necklace belongs to you, Señora. Only an exceptional woman—a woman of extraordinary beauty and character—can dare to wear jewels like that. You have not disappointed me."
He inclined his head—it was a gesture somewhere between a nod and a bow—and seemed ready to leave.
"Wait," Shelley said. "Won't you tell me how you recovered the necklace?"
"Ah, that is a most intriguing story. But I am afraid that, for now, my business is pressing. If you would care to be my guest for dinner, we could discuss it."
"Dinner?" The unpredictable twists in this conversation made Shelley feel a touch light-headed. "No. I'm afraid that's not possible."
"A pity." He did not press. His eyes met hers briefly. He said, from the doorway, "I must hope for another opportunity."
5
Shelley took Lois Compton to Del Lago. As the name suggested, the fashionable restaurant was on the lake, in Chapultepec Park. Through the vast picture windows, Shelley could see her hotel on the far side of the pewter-gray water.
At nine-twenty, when the maitre d' led them to a table by the water, Shelley and Lois were the only diners at the restaurant. By ten-thirty, when Lois was on her second manhattan—she shared her boss's tastes in cocktails—and her third or fourth story about her ex-husband's infidelities, Del Lago was starting to hum. The clientele was expensively dressed. The women's hair was either blond or silver, and even the bottle blondes had complexions fair enough to match their coiffures.
"They look like the people on Mexican TV commercials," Lois observed. Brunettes are rarely in television ads in Mexico. Whether the product is diet soda or a hemorrhoid treatment, the radiant people giving thanks for it are güeros and güeras—blondies. The implied message to the Mexican in the street—a dark-skinned mestizo—is not encouraging.
Lois, who had never been to Del Lago before, found the dinner crowd a fascinating study. An aspen-lean grande dame, dripping jewels, took her place at a booth above them. When she started gossiping with her female companion, her eyes darted like knitting needles.
"Look at him," Lois whispered. An elaborately tailored figure sailed past. "He looks like he's wearing a four-piece suit. I guess this is as close to old money as you get in Mexico."
"No." Shelley was confident of her ground. "It's not. You'll have to visit the north."
"Tell me about him. About your—significant other."
The euphemism sounded so silly that they burst out laughing at the same moment. The arrival of the main course—red snapper in a red sauce—spared Shelley from having to make an instant decision on how much she should tell Lois Compton about Raúl.
She was still savoring the first mouthful when there was a stir in the dining room. Captains and waiters gathered by the entrance, like leaves blown along by a gust of wind. The man in the four-piece suit sailed back, his mouth distorted by an exaggerated grin.
All the commotion was over a man of middling height in a dark suit and a bold Gucci tie. The staff fawned over him as if he were a movie idol. He rewarded his reception committee with handshakes and backslaps, reserving a leisurely abrazo for the four-piece suit.
"I don't believe it," said Shelley. "It's him."
"Who do you mean?"
"It's the cop I told you about. The one who found I my necklace and refused a tip."
Lois swiveled her head to see, then looked away . quickly. The four-piece suit was conducting the new arrival to his usual table on the upper level, against the wall, where he had a commanding view over the whole restaurant.
"That's your cop?"
Shelley nodded.
Lois put her hand over her mouth, "What's so funny?"
"I thought you were supposed to be the authority on Mexicans. You don't know who that is? My dear, that is Fausto García Medina."
This time, the name registered. Shelley had heard
Raúl mention Fausto in the same breath as his boss, Fernando Ramírez , the archenemy of all Carvajals.
'The head of SIN," Shelley said quietly.
"My dear," Lois said confidentially, "there are those who hold that Fausto is sin incarnate. But he got you your necklace back."
"Yes."
"By the way, did you figure out how Fausto pulled that off?"
"I've been thinking about that."
"Seems to me," Lois said as she rotated her wine glass, "that Fausto would never have found your necklace unless he arranged for it to be stolen in the first place."
Shelley felt a slight shiver run up her spine. Why was Fausto interested in her? Why had he arranged such a devious manner of introduction?
"Con permiso, señoras." The sommelier appeared, carrying a silver ice bucket and a bottle of Dom Pérignon . There was no note. The wine waiter merely said, "The gentleman insists."
Shelley glanced up at him.
Fausto raised his own glass, only a few inches, and gave a sardonic smile.
Shelley was unsure how to rank her emotions. Fear and anticipation were among them, but at that moment ! she could not say which was uppermost.
6
Lois was eager to tell her boss about the evening's encounter, though she was not aware that Kreeger was already making inquiries about Shelley Hayes.
In the morning, she found Kreeger in a foul temper. The Director had pitched a new demand. He wanted
Kreeger to revise his comments on the Mexico Estimate from his report. In fact, he wanted the report to reflect that Mexico was on the edge of revolution, and that the republic could break apart at any moment.
Lois had barely settled herself on Kreeger's club chair when Eddie O'Brien stuck his head around the door.
"Am I interrupting something?"
Lois blew smoke at him.
Kreeger said, "What have you got?"
"You remember Shelley Hayes? Raúl Carvajal's kept lady?"
Lois tilted her nose at a steep angle, plainly suggesting that she was fed up with the language of male chauvinism. She was also a little miffed that her new discovery was not news to the two men.
"Uh-huh," Kreeger grunted.
"We finally got a response from Washington."
"They sent it to you?" Kreeger stared at him. "How did you get your paw marks on the request?"
"I've got a sister in document processing. A GS-7. That's where the power is."
"How many O'Briens are there?" asked Lois.
"Only eight of us, this time around. Strictly Police and Fire Department. Except for my sister and me. We're the black sheep of the family."
"Can we leave this ethnic crap and get to the point?" growled Kreeger.
"He's not in a good mood," Lois said to Eddie. "The Director wants to know when the revolution's coming."
"So who is she?" Kreeger demanded. "Don't tell me. Shelley Hayes is a hooker who picked up Carvajal on a slow night at the Golden Nugget."
"You don't think much of women, do you?" Lois was in a fighting mood. "Do you have a picture of this Shelley?" Some mischievous instinct was telling her to withhold the fact that she had met Shelley the day before.
Grudgingly, Kreeger retrieved the photo of the blonde with the Bentley. He had been keeping it in a locked drawer of his desk, which was so unlike his normal procedure that Lois raised her eyebrows.
'That's no hooker," she pronounced, after a quick look at the photograph. "Or if she is—I'm sorry to say this, Jim—she's way outside your league."
Kreeger glowered, and was about to say something highly profane when Eddie silenced him by commenting, "I guess President Butler agrees with Lois."
"What did you say?"
"Raúl's girlfriend was on Butler's staff for a few years, when he was the junior senator from Texas." Eddie now had Kreeger's full attention. "She was on Harry Butler's staff, listed as an administrative assistant."
"How long?"
"Four years, according to the employment records. She was pulling down nearly forty grand a year."
"On her back?"
Lois stubbed out her cigarette savagely and said, "I don't know how I can work with you guys."
"Look," Kreeger defended himself. "This woman is shacked up with Raúl Carvajal. A goddamn Mexican! She has a Jasper Johns on her fucking wall! She drives around in a Bentley! What does that make her? Carvajal's administrative assistant?"
"For an intelligent man—a professional—you miss one hell of a lot," Lois responded. "And by the way, I'm glad that your prejudice is not confined to women."
Kreeger ran his fingers through his hair. He felt under fire on all sides. The Director was telling him his reporting stank, and now Lois—one of his proteges—was in open mutiny.
"Why don't you fill in the gaps for me," he suggested to Lois, very quietly, sensing that she knew more about all this than he might have suspected.
"A man as rich as Carvajal—or as powerful as Harry Butler—doesn't keep a woman like that just so he can screw her when he feels like it. He keeps her because he needs brains and instinct and trust. Because he needs a confidante. Even a nursemaid."
"So you feel you know this Shelley Hayes?"
"I know her better than you guys. All you see is the boobs and the hair. How do you know she slept with the President, anyway? That's one hell of an assumption."
"I merely asked a question." Kreeger looked at Eddie. "What else do we know about Ms. Hayes?"
"She went to art school. Worked in a New York gallery for a couple of years. She was arrested twice. Once for driving while intoxicated, once for soliciting."
Kreeger avoided looking at Lois, but could feel her discomfort.
"The latter charge was quashed," Eddie proceeded. "It seems she picked up some Saudi prince in Dallas—or, excuse me, the other way around—who turned out not to be much of a prince. At least, his checks bounced."
"Interesting," Kreeger said mildly. "I think one of us should talk to this Shelley Hayes."
With a wicked grin, Eddie raised his hand to shoulder height. Lois, on seeing this, shot hers straight up into the air.
"Thanks for volunteering," said Kreeger.."I may just reserve this case for myself. Anyway, Lois, Shelley doesn't exactly come under the category of a Cl subject."
"You'd be making a big mistake," said Lois. "Shelley has been through the wringer with men. She'll never trust a man the way she might trust a woman."
"You mean, like those hookers who turn lesbian?" asked Eddie, with genuine interest.
Lois turned, ready for attack.
"Before we start fighting over this one," Kreeger interrupted, "we have to decide how to make contact."
"That's not going to be much of a problem," said Lois. "As it happens, I had dinner with Shelley last night."
Both men stared at her.
"You've got a helluva problem with communication." Kreeger groused.
"You two seemed to need to share your hang-ups about women. I didn't want to interrupt."
Kreeger let the rebuke pass. He nodded at Lois and said, "Your case."
"There is one more thing I'd better tell you," Lois went on. "Fausto got there first."
FOURTEEN
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1
Kreeger's survival instinct was not entirely dormant. He was fully aware that making a recruitment pitch to a former aide—and possibly a former mistress—to the President of the United States could set off a lot of alarm buzzers in Washington.
