Ask for Me Tomorrow

“I stayed around to pick up some loose ends.”

“Loose ends is what we got plenty of. Take your pick.”

“You lied to me, Mitchell.”

“I lie a lot,” Mitchell said. “I took a course.”

“How much were you paid?”

“What for? Who by?”

“The American with Jenkins last night. How much did he pay you to forget he was here?”

“Nobody has to pay me to forget. I took a course in that, too. It’s called Elementary Survival. I recommend it to you.”

“Maybe I could hire you as a tutor. What do you charge?”

“Don’t waste your money. You’d flunk the first lesson, how not to ask questions. The second lesson’s even harder — how to spot a rat fink, get rid of him and stay in business. Adios, amigo, nice knowing you. Don’t hurry back.”

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?”