Ask for Me Tomorrow

Fifteen

The American consulate was located in one of the older sections of the city, the Colonia Maciza. The formidable stone building reminded Aragon of the Quarry and he soon discovered another similarity. The consul and the assistant consul, like the warden and his assistant, believed in long weekends. They had, he was told by a receptionist, gone on a deep-sea fishing trip and wouldn’t return until Monday afternoon. Possibly Tuesday. If there was a storm at sea, Wednesday. If the boat sank, never.

The consul’s executive secretary sat behind a large mahogany desk with a name plate identifying her as Miss Eckert. She was fat as a robin, and she held her head on one side as if she were listening for a worm. Aragon did his best to provide a substitute by giving her his card, Tomas Aragon, Attorney-at-Law, Smedler, Downs, Castleberg, McFee and Powell.

Miss Eckert put on a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, glanced at the card and then dropped it quickly into the wastebasket as though she’d detected a lethal fungus somewhere between Smedler and Powell.

“Is this a confidential matter, Mr. Aragon?”

“Yes.”

“Then close the door. A man has been hanging around the corridor all week. I suspect he may be CIA. You’re not by any chance CIA?”

“Now, would I tell you if I were?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never asked anyone before.”

“The answer is no. But I may be lying.”

Miss Eckert was not amused. She leaned back in her chair with a little sigh. “I gather your business concerns an American citizen in Baja.”

“He came to Baja eight years ago. I’m not certain he’s still here or if he’s still alive. His family would like to find out.”

“Name, please?”

“Byron James Lockwood.”

“Last reported address?”

“The Quarry.”

“The Quarry. That’s the penitentiary.”

“Lockwood was arrested on a charge of fraud involving some real estate in Bahía de Ballenas. I wasn’t allowed access to the files at the Quarry. I was assured, however, that they contain no record of Lockwood’s arrest or release.”

“Are you sure he was taken there?”

“Positive. His partner in the fraud, Harry Jenkins, served time with him. I talked to Jenkins on Monday and again on Tuesday. On Wednesday I attended his funeral.”

“Was he sick? — I refer to Monday and Tuesday, of course.”

“No.”

“This is beginning to sound,” Miss Eckert said carefully, “like the kind of thing I would rather not hear.”

“Better listen anyway. Jenkins told me — and this was confirmed by someone still in the jail — that Lockwood was ill and frequently disturbed and the guards used drugs to keep him from making trouble. Maybe in the beginning they gave him something like paregoric or laudanum to quiet him, but he eventually became drug dependent. He was wearing quite a bit of expensive jewelry when he left Bahía de Ballenas. He probably used it to purchase narcotics from, or through, the guards at the jail.”

“Narcotics?” The word brought Miss Eckert’s chair upright with a squawk of dismay. “What kind of narcotics?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Oh, I knew, I knew this was going to be a rotten day. My horoscope said, stay home and attend to family affairs. I thought it couldn’t apply to me because I don’t have a family. I should have taken the advice. It meant me, all right — me.”

“What’s your sign?”

“Scorpio.”

“That’s the sign of a person who always copes, no matter how difficult the situation.”

“I thought Scorpios were supposed to be creative.”

“When they’re not coping, they’re creative.”

“If you’re trying to be funny,” Miss Eckert said, “I may as well warn you that I have a very poor sense of humor. Especially when certain subjects are brought up. Poppies. Back home in Bakersfield I used to love poppies. Here it’s a dirty word, and of course, a different kind of poppy, or Papaver somniferum.”

“Why? I mean, why is it a dirty word?”

“We — meaning all the U.S. government employees in this country — are in quite a delicate position right now. There are diplomatic negotiations going on between the two governments. Our government is well aware that illegal poppy fields are sprouting up all over the Sierra Madre, particularly the slopes on the Pacific side. It wants them destroyed. The Mexican government has pledged its cooperation and has actually burned off a few of the fields. But we’re asking for more widespread and more complete destruction, such as Army helicopters spraying the fields with herbicides. Certainly we know that something must be done quickly. The last samplings of heroin picked up in L. A. showed that all of it, one hundred percent, came from Mexico. And the last New York samplings were eighty-five percent Mexican. The stuff which is grown in Turkey and processed in Marseilles has been drawing everyone’s attention, while the Mexican stuff has been taking over the market. It’s processed in mobile labs around Culiacan, north of Mazatlan. Law enforcement officials refer to Culiacan as the new Marseilles. You see the problem?”

“Clearly.”

“Now the question is, what do we do about it? Obviously we can’t tell the Mexican government officials to spray the fields or else. We must ask. Politely. That’s called negotiating.”

“And while these negotiations are taking place you want to avoid any international incidents.”

“Yes.”

“Such as might be caused by a prominent American citizen becoming a narcotics addict while confined in a Mexican jail unfairly if not illegally.”

Miss Eckert looked grim. “That’s what we want to avoid. Exactly.”

“So let’s you and I do a little negotiating of our own.”

“I would rather not.”

“The Mexican government would rather not destroy the poppy fields, and the United States government would rather they did.”

“Which government am I supposed to be?”

“Take your pick.”

“Swiss.”

“Ah, you do have a sense of humor, Miss Eckert. Swiss. Ha ha.”

“Ha ha,” Miss Eckert said. “What are your terms?”

“I’ll keep quiet about Lockwood, and you use some of your consular clout to find out if and when he was released from jail. Somebody must have a record of him — the state or local police, the jail officials, the immigration department, the coroner. You can open doors that are closed to me. So you open doors, I shut my mouth.” Aragon took another card from his wallet and printed on it the address of his office and the telephone number. “You can write to me here, or if you want to phone, leave a message for me any time. There’s an answering service after business hours.”

“The consul should be here instead of out chasing fish or whatever. I can’t decide something like this alone.”

“Scorpios usually make quick decisions.”

“That’s what you want, is it — a quick decision? All right, here it is. I’m not going to break down doors trying to find traces of some junkie.”

“You’re not negotiating, Miss Eckert.”

“I don’t have to,” Miss Eckert said. “I’m Swiss.”

He flew back to Santa Felicia that afternoon. He found his car at the airport where he’d left it, the hubcaps and radio antenna still in place, the windows and tires undamaged. Even the battery was in working order: the engine turned over after only three attempts. He took all this as a good omen.

He picked up a quarter-pounder and fries at a McDonald’s near the airport and ate them on the way home. It was ten o’clock when he called Gilly’s house.

Violet Smith answered. “Good evening. Praise the Lord.”

“Praise the Lord.”

“Who’s this?”

“Tom Aragon.”

“Oh. Wait till I get a pencil and paper. She’s not here. I’m supposed to write down whatever you say.”

“But I haven’t anything that important to—”

“Okay, I’m ready. You can say something.”

“Where is she?”

“Where... is... she.”

“You don’t have to write that down, for Pete’s sake. This is personal, between you and me, like ‘How are you.’ ”

“Asked... regarding... health.”

“Knock it off. All you have to write down is that I’m back in town and I’ll talk to her tomorrow morning. There’s nothing further to report, anyway.”

“You didn’t find Mr. Lockwood?”

“No.”

“I must admit that’s a load off my mind.”

“Why must you admit that?”

Violet Smith made a number of small peculiar noises that sounded as though she might be wrestling with her conscience. “I just better not speak too freely over the telephone. You never know who might be listening in.”

“Who else is there to listen in?”

“A new nurse, for one, Mrs. Morrison. She was hired so Reed could take a couple of days off this week, and Mrs. Decker decided to keep her on for a while until Reed’s disposition improves. She’s a nasty old thing, all starch and steel, not a human bone in her body.”

“If she’s listening in, she’s certainly getting an earful.”

“It won’t come as a surprise. I made my feelings toward her quite clear, especially after they gave her the guest room. It’s the best room in the house, a view of the ocean, a Beautyrest mattress and a pink velvet chaise. Pink velvet, and her an ordinary nurse.”

Aragon said, “Where did Mrs. Decker go?”

“To the movies with Reed. Reed told her if she didn’t get out of this house once in a while, she’d have a nervous breakdown. I felt like saying, maybe she already has one. But I didn’t. My car’s not paid for and my left back molar needs a new crown. There are also spiritual considerations.”

“What kind of spiritual considerations?”

“The church needs money. Did you hear a click on the line just then?”

“I accidentally touched the phone with my glass.”

“Your glass. What are you drinking?”

He lied a little. “Soda water.”

“Reed has been drinking hard liquor lately and far too much of it. His eyes get all bleary and he talks fresh to Mrs. Decker. If I talked fresh to her with bleary eyes, I wouldn’t get away with it, no sir. She’d up and—”

“Violet Smith.”

“—fire me like a shot. She allows Reed to—”

“Violet Smith, I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

“What time is it?”

“A quarter after ten.”

“Went... to... bed... ten fifteen.”