Rodrigo looked up. “If you go to Tulum, you keep away from the temples. You stay in the town. You don’t stand near nobody you don’t know like your own cock. Then you watch the skies and the jungle and your back. Death is out there. A hard death.”
Hunter palmed another Ben, put his hand on the table so that only Rodrigo could see the money. “You hear of anyone called El Maya?”
Rodrigo wanted the money enough to sweat, but he shook his head. “I don’t hear nothing.”
For a moment Hunter thought of pushing hard. But he’d known Rodrigo long enough to know when he would talk and when he wouldn’t. Apparently the subject of El Maya was taboo here as well as in Padre.
Yet it wasn’t a name in his uncles’ files. Since most narco types thrived on notoriety, the usual sources of information were coming up dry.
“What else can you tell me about Tulum?” Hunter asked finally.
Rodrigo took the bill and sagged back in his chair, looking haunted. “You ought to talk to that pretty lady so lonesome a few tables over. The one you came in just behind. She has that Tulum look about her. The eyes. See the regal shape? And the cheekbones. She’s a queen among peasants.”
“You’re drunk.”
Abruptly Rodrigo’s eyes sharpened, making Hunter wonder if he’d really worked his way through a bottle of tequila after all.
“You believe what you want to,” Rodrigo said clearly yet very softly. “Maybe I see you again sometime. Maybe you die on the twenty-first. Bet you wish you believed me then.”
“Did your buddies get anything out of the temple sites?”
“A hard way to die.”
“No artifacts?”
“Not a peso,” Rodrigo said bitterly. “That’s why I waited for you. Need money to fly. Another three, and you can have my pistol. Clip is full.”
“Two. If I like what I see, and you throw in your boot knife, I’ll give you another hundred.”
Rodrigo started to protest, then decided he wanted money more than an argument. He reached beneath his loose shirt and pulled out a flat black pistol, square and chunky. He passed it under the table to Hunter.
A casual look, plus the feel of the gun itself, was all it took for Hunter to know what was for sale.
H and K Mark 23, SOCOM variant. Nice piece.
“Is it hot?” he asked quietly.
Rodrigo gave a liquid shrug. “Isn’t it always? But I never fired it. I never had a chance to. They were dead when I got there.”
Under the table, the pistol and another hundred changed hands. Hunter concealed the weapon the same way Rodrigo had, under his shirt at the small of his back. The gun felt hard, heavy with potential death. Slowly Hunter’s body adjusted to the presence of the weapon. It wasn’t the first time he’d worn gunmetal under his shirt, but he’d never learned to like it.
“Knife,” Hunter said softly.
Rodrigo bent, pulled the knife out of its boot sheath, and gave it to Hunter. A flick of his thumb tested the edge. Clean, hard, sharp. Hunter passed over another hundred.
“Two hundred more if you talk about El Maya,” Hunter said very softly.
“If you get out now,” Rodrigo said, “I’ll see you again.”
“Three hundred.”
“Vaya con Dios.”
With that, Rodrigo stood and walked out the back door, staggering just enough to make any watchers believe he’d been drinking hard.
No one looked up as he passed. No one seemed to care.
After a few more minutes of watching, Hunter went to Lina’s table.
“Your ‘friend’ is a drunk,” Lina said.
“That’s what he wants you to think,” Hunter said softly as he sat near her. “You try to roll him, you get a nasty surprise. Being tricky is how he survives.”
The waitress came over and put down a huge bowl of pibil. Steam that smelled of lime and orange and pork rose up. Bowls of corn tortillas and various condiments followed. She put plates and silverware along one edge of the table, smiled, and left.
Lina took a big bite of pibil and looked around as she chewed.
“See anyone you know?” he asked. “Tulum isn’t that far away.”
“No. I just can tell by the faces that I’m in the Yucatan. Undoubtedly, our workers have relatives here, but I don’t know them by name.”
“But they could know you.”
“Recognize me, yes,” Lina said. “Knowing me is a lot different.”
“How does your neck feel?”
“Calm,” she said, licking up a stray bit of spicy sauce.
“Let me know when that changes.” He looked at the piles of food. “You mind sharing?”
“I was thinking of you when I ordered. The sauce in the green bowl will eat through steel. You should love it.”
Hunter smiled and went to work. He ate with excellent manners, and quickly enough so that if something interrupted the meal, he wouldn’t leave the table hungry. After a few minutes, he looked up. Lina was watching him, smiling in a way that said she liked seeing him enjoy the Yucatec food she loved.
“You really do feel at home in Mexico,” she murmured.
“As long as I don’t have to eat the worms at the bottom of the mescal bottle.”
She laughed and relaxed.
Hunter ate and kept an eye on the patrons.
He didn’t want any nasty surprises. But so far, so good. The café was filled mostly with chattering people, laughter, and the occasional off-color toast from a table of five young men. Their clothes labeled them as workers, not narcos.
“Rodrigo called you a queen among peasants,” Hunter said.
“Now I know he was drunk.”
Hunter looked at Lina’s strong, high cheekbones and large, almost almond eyes. She had an extraordinary face. Haunting. Timeless.
“Rodrigo has seen more than his share of Maya ruins,” Hunter said. “He lives well over the line between angels and devils. If I hadn’t saved his life a few years back, he wouldn’t even talk to me now. He’s a hard man to frighten. Yet he’s running scared, heading for the airport and the hell away from Tulum.”
Lina paused just before she took a bite. “Why?”
“Some tomb robbers he knows got themselves killed.” He took a big bite and watched her.
She chewed, swallowed, prepared another bite. “If I don’t think of their families, I can say they had it coming.”
But her dark eyes said she was thinking of wives and children, parents and siblings and cousins who would have holes torn out of their lives.
“They died the old-fashioned way,” Hunter said, swallowing the pibil, which was as savory as it was nuclear. “As a sacrifice. Body paint, no hearts, sacred glyphs on the skin. You know of anyone local who might take ancient history a little too seriously?”
“There are many full-blooded Maya here,” Lina said. She really wanted to eat more, but wasn’t sure her stomach had room. “And out in the small villages…well, you saw the cross of corn and the like. Catholic sure, but only on Sundays. The rest of the time, they live with the gods of their ancestors.”
“All the Maya are pagans underneath?”
“No. They’re like every other people. When it comes to any religion, they have fanatics and unbelievers and everything in between. But as a rule, the closer the jungle, the closer the old gods.”
Hunter nodded. He’d noticed the same thing himself.
“What’s next?” Lina asked, giving up on the savory food.
“De la Poole. You sure you don’t want to call him?”
“I’d rather surprise him.”
“What if he isn’t there?” Hunter asked.
“Someone at the museum will know where he is.”
Without appearing to, Hunter took another look around the café. Nothing had changed. The locals might admire Lina’s royal looks, but they weren’t groupies.