Closely Akin to Murder (5 page)

“I understand the Hotel Las Floritas was very popular in its day,” I said to Manuel.

He kept his eyes on the road, but relaxed enough to say, “Many famous movie stars like John Wayne and Johnny Weissmuller stayed there often. Your President Kennedy and his wife had dinner there while on their honeymoon. Richard Burton drank in the bar while he was making
Night of the Iguana.
My brother-in-law has told me that the parking lot was always crowded with limousines. There were wild parties that lasted all night.”

“Did your brother-in-law tell you about the Hollywood director who was murdered at the hotel?”

“A very bad thing, very bad. It happened long before I was born, but . . .” He glanced at me. “Is that why you're here, Señora?”

I wasn't prepared to trust him—or anyone else. “I'm writing an article about it.”

“Why?”

“At that time, the details were kept confidential. I want to do the article on the thirtieth anniversary of
Oliver Pickett's death, if I can find adequate material. If not, I will have had an enjoyable vacation.”

Manuel drove through a gate and stopped in an empty parking lot. “Are you sure it is a good thing to bring alive this old scandal?”

“Yes,” I said mendaciously.

The Hotel Las Floritas no longer lived up to its name. The banyan trees were massive, but there were few flowers along the flagstone path to what I assumed was the lobby. Weeds flourished in cracked stone planters. The vine on the wall in front of us was withered. What had been an open-air restaurant contained three or four tables beneath a rotting thatched roof; the shelves behind the bar were empty.

Yet it was easy to imagine the hotel as Ronnie remembered it. Beautiful people in the restaurant, laughing and drinking as the sun set across the bay. Waiters moving unobtrusively, a mariachi band roving among the tables, butterflies drifting over profuse clumps of orange and pink bougainvilleas.

“Shall I accompany you?” asked Manuel.

I reluctantly returned to the less impressive present. “I'd appreciate it if you help me locate Mr. Santiago. If he speaks English, you can come back here and wait for me. I shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes.”

Manuel was radiating disapproval as he got out of the car. “Very well, Señora, but please be careful. This is not a place for ladies.”

I allowed him to lead the way up the path to a long one-story building with a covered porch. Autographed photos of movie stars hung on the wall; some of the faces were familiar, others not. A beaming man appeared in so many of them that I suspected he was the innkeeper, Santiago.

Manuel knocked on a door. “Señor Santiago?” When there was no response, he knocked again, then looked at me. “He's not here.”

“Or he's not in the mood for company,” I said as I banged my fist on the door. “Mr. Santiago, please open the door! I can pay you for your time.”

“He never creeps out of his grotto before noon,” said a man as he stepped onto the end of the porch. “If the morning sunshine ever caught him, he'd turn to ashes. The afternoon sunlight suits him much better. He takes a bottle and a glass up to his favorite roost and whiles away the remainder of the day getting sloshed.”

“You're American,” I said. I could tell little else about him as he stood silhouetted against the sunlight.

“Once upon a time.”

Manuel touched my arm. “We should leave, Señora. If you wish, we will come back this afternoon.”

“In a moment,” I said, then went down to the end of the porch. The man was less imposing at close range; I'd seen more robust specimens coming out of commercial blood banks. He was over six feet tall, but I could have pushed him off the porch with one jab. Greasy gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and an unkempt mustache obscured his mouth. He wore a dingy t-shirt, torn jeans belted with a rope, and plastic sandals. “Once upon a time?” I repeated.

“Just like in the fairy tales,” he said as he flashed stained teeth. “Who are you and why do you want to talk to the despicable Santiago? He's not your type.”

“I have some personal business with him. My name is Claire Malloy.” I waited for a moment, then added, “And yours?”

“Chico will do. Have you ever noticed that no one in any fairy tale has a last name?”

I tried to come up with a contradictory illustration, but at last gave up. “I suppose you're right. Do you live here, Chico?”

“In the honeymoon bungalow, although the mirror on the ceiling fell years ago and the mice have gnawed the stuffing out of the mattress. In bygone days, Santiago charged a hundred dollars a night; I pay less than that a month, so I really shouldn't belittle the accommodations, should I?” He stepped back into a neglected flower bed and lifted his hand in a mock salute. “
Adiós
, Claire Malloy.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“And I would like to write a novel that is not only critically acclaimed, but also stays at the top of the bestseller list for a year. We don't always get our way, do we?”

“I'm on assignment for a magazine, and am authorized to pay for information—within reason. Will I get my way for twenty dollars?”

He scratched his chin. “Fifty might be more persuasive.”

After some further dickering, we agreed on forty dollars and walked up crumbling concrete stairs to what had been the restaurant. Manuel had taken sanctuary in the Cadillac and was glaring at me through the windshield. I'd never seen a barracuda in an aquarium, but I presumed the effect would be similar.

“I'm afraid the bar is closed,” Chico said as he sat down in a rickety chair and propped his feet on a table. “The residents of Hotel Las Floritas are indulgent, as a
rule, and would never complain to the management. Disagreements among ourselves are settled with broken bottles. There was a young chap with a fondness for crack who had the impertinence to pull out a gun upon discovering that his backpack had been emptied. Santiago was so offended that he bashed the chap over the head with a crowbar.”

I watched an enormous black bug meandering across the floor and decided to remain standing. “How long have you lived here, Chico?”

“As long as I can remember. A wicked witch named Vino Rojo cast an evil spell over me, and I have no memory of my life before Las Floritas. Well, that's not true. Before I moved here, I slept in the streets and panhandled on the beaches. When my economic situation improved, I was able to join Santiago's little community of bottom-feeders.”

“Did Santiago tell you about the Hollywood director who was killed here?”

Chico waggled a grimy finger at me. “But not in the honeymoon bungalow. That took place in the bungalow presently occupied by two hookers from Honduras. When they've had a profitable night, they often invite me over for a bowl of black bean soup.”

I counted out forty dollars and flapped them at him. “What exactly did Santiago tell you?”

“He's very bitter about it,” he said, gazing out at the ocean and shaking his head. “His hotel was a revered destination for the jet set; in the high season, no one could get a room without a referral from a favored guest. The restaurant was one of the most expensive in Acapulco. Santiago ordered champagne from France, Beluga caviar from the black market, and
marijuana from Oaxaca. Although there was very little publicity about the case, the word was spread and his beloved movie stars and politicians transferred their allegiance to the Ritz and the Hilton. His wife transferred hers to one of the gardeners. He himself had some sort of mishap that shattered one of his kneecaps, leaving him with a pronounced limp. These days poor old Santiago sits at one of these tables, drinking mescal and staring at the names in the old guest registers. When they fade into nothingness, so will Santiago.”

Manuel was probably close to wetting his pants, but I wanted Ronnie's money's worth. “What did he tell you about the crime itself?” I persisted.

“When the body was found, Santiago was more than willing to accept it as an accident. In fact, he paid substantial bribes to the police to convince them to agree with him. But then a bloody shirt was discovered in a garbage can. The police examined the suite more thoroughly and found bloodstains on the rug and the stone floor of the balcony. After they found the girl's diary, she confessed—and that was that.”

He hadn't said anything I didn't already know, but I put the cash in his outstretched hand. “If you remember anything else Santiago told you that might be significant, call me at the Acapulco Plaza.”

“How deep are your pockets, Claire Malloy?”

“That depends on your information,” I said, easing toward the stairs as the black bug veered toward my foot.

“As a reporter, you can protect your sources?”

“Reporters cannot be forced to reveal their sources,” I said vaguely. I would have cited the pertinent
amendment, but I couldn't think of it and I didn't want to blow my cover with misinformation.

Chico stood up and came across the room, scarcely looking down as the bug crunched under his sandal. “I might be able to provide more information,” he said. “I was there.”

Other than promising to call me
at the hotel, Chico refused to say anything more and went out the gate to the street. It was still too early to attempt to awaken the somnolent Santiago, so I went to the Cadillac and waited, sweltering and slapping at flies, until Manuel unlocked the door.

Once he was satisfied that I'd locked the door before we were set upon by thugs and bugs, he said, “That is the kind of person I warned you about, Señora Malloy. There are many American expatriates in Mexico because the cost of living is low and they can afford their vices. That man should not be trusted. He would steal his grandmother's wheelchair for enough pesos to buy a bottle of cheap wine.”

“He knows something, though,” I said.

“He knows who he mugged on the beach last night.”

“How old would you say he is?”

Manuel maneuvered out of the parking lot and drove down a curving road that, between onslaughts of trucks, provided a magnificent view of the ocean. “I cannot say. Where are you wishing to go now? Would you like to see La Quebrada, where the young men have been diving into the ocean since 1934? It is very
exciting and dangerous. When the surf recedes, the water is only twelve feet deep, so they must time their dives in order—”

“Let's go to the newspaper office,” I said. “Perhaps they'll have back copies from the time of the murder. It will be interesting to see if any of the other guests are named.”

Once again I was treated to grumbles as we careened down the hill, bouncing over potholes and barely avoiding parked cars and children playing in the road. Manuel was beginning to remind me of Peter, with his stony expression and belligerent attitude. The charming difference was that Peter was in a position to hinder my virtuous, civic-minded attempts to assist the CID; in the past he'd gone so far as to order my car impounded, and, at his most heinous, had me dragged to the police station in the middle of the night for impeding his investigation. Manuel was in no such position.

“You speak English well,” I said, feeling magnanimous.

“I worked on a California-based cruise ship for six years.”

“How long have you worked for your brother-in-law?”

“For a year. He has the largest tourist agency in Acapulco, with many employees and luxurious cars such as this one. At first I washed cars and delivered our brochures to hotels, then I was given the job of driving the van to the airport. This is my first time to escort someone, which is why it is so important that nothing bad happens to you and the señorita. My brother-in-law has the temper of a bear. If you saw him, you might think he looks like one, too. He is very big and furry.”

“Nothing bad is going to happen to us, Manuel. All I'm doing is asking questions about something that took place so long ago that most people have forgotten about it.” I paused, thinking about the anonymous call. “When you phoned the people on the list I gave you yesterday, did you mention my name or where I'm staying?”

“No, I said only that you were an American reporter. The daughter of Emilio Zamora told me of his death and ended the conversation very abruptly. The man I spoke to in the prosecutor's office concerning Ruiz was not interested, nor was the
cabo
who told me when to call back to speak to the
comandante.
In the case of Pedro Benavides, I gave his secretary your name, but my office number in case the appointment must be canceled.”

“What about the limousine driver named Jorge?”

“Señora, that is a very common first name in Mexico. When I was in school, I had many friends named Jorge. One of my cabin mates on the cruise ship was named Jorge. My landlady's dog is named Jorge. It is impossible to find this man, especially after thirty years.”

“Nothing's impossible,” I said. “Ask your brother-in-law what limousine companies were in business then, and I'll ask the same of Santiago. He may even remember which one Oliver Pickett preferred.”

“As you wish,” Manuel said darkly as he parked in front of a red and white building. “Here is the office of
Los Navedades de Acapulco
.”

“You'd better come with me in case I need a translator.”

Manuel trailed behind me as I went into a small lobby. A few people sat on a bench, laboriously filling
out forms. A receptionist in the rear glanced up at me, then resumed talking on a telephone. Behind a window was a larger room with desks, computers, and listless employees. The newsroom and presses were likely to be in the back of the building.

“Now what?” whispered Manuel.

“I want to know if they have a storage facility with newspapers from the first part of the year 1966. If they do, I'd like to look through them and make photocopies of relevant stories.”