Take the Money: Romantic Suspense in Costa Rica (6 page)

Julie studied the people on the streets, trying to figure out the best way to blend in.  There was no hope of looking like a Costa Rican, since she was tall and her skin-- although darker than her mother’s--was certainly not the lovely hue of the Spanish descendants who inhabited the city. Most everyone wore black leather shoes or sandals.  Even tennis shoes were black with white trim. If she’d been wearing white Reeboks, she might as well have been wearing a badge that proclaimed Made in the USA.

The Gran Hotel was the focal point of the city, overlooking the Plaza de Cultura and in full view of the rococo National Theater.  The driver pulled into a circular drive leading to a five-story, ocher building with white-canopied windows and rounded archways.  Before reaching the entrance they went through a courtyard filled with white umbrella tables and tall palm trees.  At this hour of the morning, the chairs were empty.  Several uniformed doormen rushed forward to open the taxi door and look for her bags.

Julie said, “No, I have no luggage,” then stepped up to a veranda where food was being served at small rattan tables. Beyond was a registration desk and another casino--this one larger than the one at the Cariari--f of customers who seemed to prefer gaming tables and neon lights in a darkened room to basking in the sunlight.

She decided against registering for a room and went back outside, knowing she could order a drink and nurse it for hours in this laid-back environment. She chose a corner seat and parked the precious backpack under the table where she could use it as a footrest.

The crowd seemed more cosmopolitan than the bunch at the Cariari.  She picked up snatches of conversations in German and French, in addition to Asian dialects and languages she couldn’t decipher. Many of the patrons lingered over late breakfasts accompanied by tall glasses of dark beer or frosty pina colodas.  From the gray stone piazza came the wail of ocarinas being peddled by wandering Nicaraguans. Tourists and old ladies sat on stainless steel circular benches watching the midday promenade while dodging pigeon droppings.

“Hello, again.” Julie heard a familiar voice and saw Bud sitting in the shadows of a palm tree at the table across the aisle.

‘Whoa,” she said, “what are you doing here? Why aren’t you on the golf course at the Cariari?”

“Time enough for that,” he said.  “It’s always fun to come here and people watch.  Care if I join you?”

She did, actually.  If he asked her name, she’d have to decide whether she was Julie Lawson or Stephanie Talbot, and she was new to the practice of deception.  “Of course not,” she lied.

When the waiter came, Bud ordered an Amstel Light, and she surprised herself by joining him.  The beer tasted bitter against her tongue, but went down smoothly as she sat back and enjoyed its gentle buzz.  The headache pounding in her temples began to ease.

“Now tell me the truth,” Bud said, lowering his head and looking directly into her eyes. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Again Julie found herself trying to assess his strange combination of features.    He was a large man with a square, compact body that veered toward overweight, yet he wasn’t flabby.  His dress was still casual and unaffected: faded yellow cotton golf shirt, wrinkled chinos, and brown leather sandals.

Julie looked out across the square, avoiding his scrutiny. “I told you before, I’m on a vacation.”

“Alone?”

“Sure.  What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing, really.  It’s just that a lone female in this country is viewed with a little skepticism.  Women’s roles are more traditional here.”

“I can see that, so many young girls with babies in their arms.  They’re everywhere.”

“It’s a Catholic country, Planned Parenthood isn’t exactly flourishing.   Half the births are illegitimate, and a third of the kids haven’t a clue who Daddy is.”

“It sounds like you’ve been here before,” she said.  “Do you come often?”

“Actually, yes.  I do business down here.”

“What business?”

A street vendor interrupted their conversation.  A rail-thin man stopped at their table and crouched low, producing a thin wooden box.  “Cuban cigars?” he asked, his eyes shifting from left to right.

“
Quanto
?”

“Cinco
.”

Bud hesitated, then looked up at Julie.  “Mind if I smoke?”

“Not while we’re here, outside.”

Bud paid the man, lit the cigar, leaned against the wall and inhaled.

Julie said, “Your Spanish is excellent, but you sound like a Hoosier when you speak English. What’s the deal?”

“The deal is that I’m a half-breed,” he said, carefully blowing a cloud of smoke that drifted across the empty tables outside.  Julie wasn’t sure whether she detected bitterness or amusement in his narrowed eyes.  Perhaps a bit of both.

“A half breed?  That sounds rather quaint. Also, harsh.”

“It’s a harsh thing to be.”

“Oh, come on.  You don’t appear to have suffered. Anyway, I think ‘mixed race’
is the modern term.”

“Try growing up in Indianapolis with a name like Armando Jiminez.   But it doesn’t matter.  In the end, I’ve benefited from dual citizenship.”

“Your folks live in Indy?”

He leaned forward, seeming to choke on something.  “Folks?  I don’t have folks.”

“Well, what do you have then?”

“I have a father in Mexico who’s on his third wife.  I have a mother who lives in a group home on the north side in Indy.”

“Why a group home?”

“I believe the euphemism for her condition is referred to as
chemical
imbalance
.  Is there anything else you need to know about my pedigree?”  His joking manner belied the pained expression on his face.

“Welcome to the club,” Julie said, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “My dad has the same problem.”

Bud took a swallow of beer. “I take it your parents are split?”

“Yeah. My dad’s bumming around in Florida, and my mom got herself a new husband.”

“How do you fit in?”

“Not too well, actually.  I made the mistake of thinking I could go home again and hang out until I decided what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.  Jed--that’s my stepfather--decided I was some kind of slacker.  Insisted I get a job.”

“What’s your field?”

“Good question.  I graduated in engineering and worked out in New York for GE.  Made a good salary.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“I couldn’t get too enthusiastic about spending my life figuring out how to design bigger and better ways to produce and sell products that people don’t really need.  Besides, I wasn’t into all the corporate game playing.  Being promoted because you knew how to suck up to the boss instead of doing a great job.”

“So you just up and left?”

“Yep.  Cashed in my stock options and bummed around Europe for a couple of years.”

“Then went back to Lewiston?”  Bud seemed incredulous.  “What a come-down.” He lowered his head and spoke softly.  “So, I guess you needed money fast, right?”

“If I did, I looked in the wrong place.  As a waitress, I was clearing about as much per night as I used to make an hour at GE.” 

“So how did you pay your way down here?”

Julie took a deep breath.  The beer had loosened her tongue, and she had told Bud more than she wanted him to know.  That dimpled grin and folksy manner had a way of making a person feel at ease.  Maybe too much so.

“I was able to save enough,” she said.

“So what are you doing?  Still trying to figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life?  Planning to bum around a bit more?”

“I don’t know, I might try and get a job down here.”

“Very difficult,” he said.  “And if you think the pay was low back in Lewiston, try two bucks an hour.”

“Do you think an American could actually find work?”

He pressed his fingertips together and studied her closely. “If you’re serious about wanting a job, you might check with a friend of mine. Her name's Nellie Compton, and she just bought a new bar, Memphis South.  It’s an American hangout, and I think she’s a bit in over her head, especially since she can’t speak much Spanish.”

“Where is this place?”

“A few blocks down the street.  Go down to the International Arts building. You can see it from here.  Then turn left a couple of blocks, and you’ll come to a little dive where rock and roll music blares from a loudspeaker on the street.”

Julie stood up and put her bag on her back.  Bud seemed disappointed.  “You leaving already?  They have a great lunch menu.”

“Sorry, I had enough breakfast to last me all day, I think.  But thanks for the tip.”

Julie began digging in her pocket, but he waved his hand. 

“This one’s on me,” Bud said. “And by the way, you haven’t told me your name.”

Julie’s heart skipped a beat, and she bit her lip before answering. “Stephanie Talbot.”  Her voice sounded strange to her own ears: high and false.

“Stephanie.”  His eyes went up and down her body. “Good luck,
Stephanie
.”

“Well, thanks.”  Julie walked into the sunlight and joined the tourists milling about with guidebooks. She wanted to look back, see if he was watching her, but she didn’t want him to think she cared. Why had he appeared out of the blue? Was it just a coincidence, or was he following her? And if he was a golfer, why didn’t he have a suntan? It wouldn’t do for him to see her floundering in the street, so she’d best pretend she was going to the Memphis South to look for a job, which was the last thing she wanted, right now.    She needed to spend her time finding a way out of this mess.

* * *

Willie Nelson’s twangy version of
Rose Colored Glasses,
was Julie’s first clue that she was approaching the Memphis South.  It looked like one of those dingy pubs common to seedy neighborhoods in the U.S--the kind frequented by day laborers and out-of-work strays.

Although it had a narrow storefront window, Julie was surprised when she stepped into the gloom to see how deep the musky room tunneled back to an area filled with wooden tables and chairs arranged around a small dance floor.  Crooked steps led to another level with twenty or so more tables.

A couple of men at the bar wearing cut-offs and ponytails squinted at her then turned back to their drinks.  There was a palpable feeling of expectancy in the damp heavy air that reeked of rum and tobacco.  It was easy to visualize the place swarming with humanity as the searing late afternoon sun softened into twilight.

Julie’s eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when a frosted blonde came out from behind the large wooden bar and sang out, “Welcome to Memphis South.”  Her attempt at friendliness seemed forced, almost desperate, as she grasped Julie’s hand.

“Thanks.” Julie returned the handshake, liking the strength and warmth she felt in the woman’s fingers.  “You must be Nellie Compton.”

“Why, how did you know that?”  Nellie blinked and stepped back enabling Julie to get a better look. She was one of those women who never really lose their looks, even though her face was lined, and her features had lost the softness of youth.  She wore a pair of jeans that hugged her small waist and a silver silver-studded fringed white cowboy shirt clung to her generous bosom.  Her deep tan didn’t hide the small pouches that rimmed her cornflower blue eyes, but they were pretty eyes, turned down at the corners and fringed with long eyelashes coated with mascara.   Julie estimated she might be in her mid forties.

“A fellow I met on the plane told me to look you up,” Julie told her. “His name is Bud Jimenez.” 

“Oh, Bud.”  Nellie’s throaty voice deepened. “Bless his ole' heart.”

Julie’s antenna usually went up when she got around southern women and their gushy talk.  But after the trauma of last night and the meeting at the bank, such effusiveness was like a balm to her jagged nerves.

“Is it all right if I sit at the bar and have a Coke?” she asked. She didn’t want another beer, but knew a customer ordering a soft drink wouldn’t be too profitable.

“Sure can, honey.” Nellie went behind the bar, got a can from the refrigerator, popped open the lid and set the Coke in front of Julie. “You’re from the U.S, right?”

“That’s right.” 

“What part?”

“Midwest.  Indiana, to be exact.” Julie was bracing herself for the next logical question.  She was going to be asked her name and she needed to decide what it was.  Instead, a young girl rushed out from the kitchen and began speaking rapidly in Spanish.  Nellie leaned forward to listen. From the puzzled look that came across her face, Julie knew Nellie was struggling to understand what the girl was saying. Without thinking, Julie said, “I can speak Spanish, if that would help.”

Nellie shot Julie an exasperated look. “Tell her she can’t be off tonight, even if it is her nephew’s birthday.  I’ll never be able to serve the dinner crowd if she doesn’t stay.”

“Don’t you have anyone else to call in?”