Hardware salesman and friends track killers to a Mayan temple.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Back in the 1960’s, the Paso del Norte Hotel in El Paso, Texas, was one of the great cattlemen gathering places in the American West. Their lobby, cavernous, dimly lighted, filled with huge leather sofas and armchairs, and decorated with fine oil paintings of western scenery was the centerpiece of the hotel. It was also the social center of the West Texas cattle industry. Under the Tiffany glass dome and the great columns in that lobby, multi million dollar deals done on a handshake were commonplace. I loved to stay at the Paso del Norte, not because I am a cattleman (I’m a hardware salesman) but because of that wondrous lobby and its exotic inhabitants. I always arranged my business trips to El Paso to end on Friday evening so I could spend the full weekend at the Paso del Norte. In the evenings, when it cooled down a bit, I’d join the crowds and walk across the bridge into Ciudad Juarez, have a few beers and then a leisurely dinner at the Florida Bar and Grill.
Back at the hotel, I could sink down into one of those gigantic leather overstuffed chairs, sip on a drink from the bar, and listen (eavesdrop) on a world that was very different from my own. Television’s central casting couldn’t hold a candle to the collection of characters in the Paso del Norte lobby.
On this particular visit, I had been very successful with sales of our new hand tool line. The tools were guaranteed for “life” and if they failed during “life” they would be replaced. Never once was I asked to define whose, or what’s “life” was the measuring stick. So, I sold lots of tools to lots of local hardware stores and, come Monday, I would be on my way home; or so I thought.
The magazine vendor’s alarm clock indicated that it was ten thirty, p.m. I spied an empty easy chair and sank down into its big green leather cushions, stretched out my legs, closed my eyes and let my mind drift.
As usual, the lobby was crowded with large men in large hats speaking in large voices to equally large men with large hats and voices.
I was half asleep when I became aware of the conversation coming from the circle of chairs behind mine.
“Give me one more look at that map of yours.” The voice, male, did not have the semi-nasal West Texas twang one expects to hear in this lobby. That may explain why I started actively eavesdropping.
“Of course, but handle it with great care, Señor. As you can tell, it is very old and very fragile and there are no other copies.” This came from a different male voice, soft and distinctly south of the border accented.
“By gawd there better not be any more copies! Tell me again where this amigo of yours is in the jailhouse.”
“In the Department named Solola. It is in Guatemala, senor. It is high in the mountains in the land of the Maya. He has been held there on an open charge without trial for over a year. Surely you can understand how desperate he is to gain his freedom.”
A new voice, with only a trace of Spanish accent, chimed in. “It is only because of this great desperation that he sent us to your country to find someone to help him.”
“Well why the hell didn’t you Jaspers just bail him out? Why spend a big wad of money to come up here?” The tone of his voice suggested that he has asked the same questions before and hadn’t understood the answers.
“Señor, I stole rides on trucks and busses across Mexico to come to your country. I have eaten only enough to keep me alive. I have spent all the money I had to get here. And, Señor, all the money I had multiplied, ten times over and over again would not begin to accomplish what must be done. Be realistic, Señor, only someone as rich as yourself has enough money to liberate my friend and then to help recover his prize.”
“Well, OK then, but answer this – why didn’t he give you the whole map and let you go get the goods for him? Why come up here and bug me for money if you have what you claim to have in this prize?”
“Two reasons, Señor. First, it would take more resources and more skill than I can command to recover the prize. Second, this must be obvious to you when you think about the temptation such a prize involves, he does not trust anyone, even me, to return for him once they have their hands on the prize. I will share in the prize, but only when he is free and only when, with your help, we recover it.”
“I don’t know why the hell I should trust you. You must think I’m the world’s biggest sucker if you think I’m going to turn a big wad of money over to some Greaser – pardon the expression - some person I have just met.”
“It is as I have said. The half map in your hand represents wealth beyond any man’s wildest dreams – even yours, Señor. It is absolutely worthless without the other half. My friend has that other half and he will produce it only when he is freed from that stinking prison. To free him, we must gather together enough money to persuade – you would say ‘to bribe’ – his captors to turn their backs while he makes his escape. When he is freed, there must still be more money to assemble the equipment and the people necessary to recover the prize. If you cannot help, Señor, I will seek out someone with money who is not so timid.”
“Timid! Well you son-of-a-bitch, nobody calls me ‘Timid’. Hells bells, I’m not ‘timid’. I just don’t know whether or not to trust you. I’ve got to think it over, boys. I need more time. Wait until Monday morning and then we’ll see.”
“No! We cannot. I will give you until ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If you do not wish to deal by then, we will seek help elsewhere. Give me back the map, Señor. I will return in the morning for your answer.”
Read more about Professor Thief and Karl Warden HERE.
Copyright 2008 Karl Warden. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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