Tequila Blue by Rolo Diez

Author:Rolo Diez [Diez, Rolo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781908524195
Publisher: Bitter Lemon Press

Chapter thirteen

I called Lourdes and what I could sense from her voice was a good omen. I know that woman the way you know someone after eighteen years of sharing life’s ups and downs with them. We talked about the kids, about work, about the house. I didn’t ask her to come back – there was no need, because that’s what I had been doing from the moment she crossed the threshold on her way out. I invited her for a coffee that evening, and she accepted. I told her I’d pick her up at seven. We said a fond goodbye.

I dialled the office number and was in luck: Silver Bullet answered the phone. He started speaking, and that was the end of my luck.

“I went to the Buenos Aires,” he said. “Everything went fine. But that might be the last time, because they’re closing down.”

“All right. We’ll talk about it later,” I replied. I didn’t have a lot to say, it’s not the sort of thing to talk about, especially given the number of microphones there are waving about everywhere, just waiting to pick up some audible indiscretion.

“I didn’t have the same success with the other business,” James Bond went on.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t find him. I got tired of phoning, so I went to his apartment. He’s not there any more. He’s gone.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“A woman neighbour saw him leaving with two suitcases and getting into a taxi.”

“Aha . . . and what about the caretaker?”

“He wasn’t there either. I only found two young children. When I questioned them they stated that their mother would be back in half an hour, but I couldn’t wait, and the kids didn’t know anything anyway.”

“OK,” I said, and just as I do whenever I say that word, I felt a cretin. “Give me his number and his address.”

I called Valadez’s apartment. Nobody answered. He’d flown the coop. With my holiday bookings for Cancun.

*

I rang the bell at the Rio Atoyac apartment several times. No reply. A Spaniard with bushy eyebrows came out of the caretaker’s cubbyhole. He told me: “Senor Valadez left on a trip yesterday morning.” I showed him my credentials and learned that the trip was to Miami and that the declared reason for it was business. Clever son of a bitch! Who could find a democratic Mafioso Cuban in a city where nearly all the foreigners are Mafiosi and democratic! I asked when he would be back, and the Spaniard said: “Senor Valadez will be gone three or four weeks.” The apartment was empty, and Senor Olmedo – that was Bushybrows’ name – was to collect any mail. That was all. The caretaker did not get mixed up in the lives of people living in the building. He did his job and was paid his wages. He was so full of the importance of his job that I felt like teaching him a lesson or two, but then I thought I might well be back in a month.

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