Buena Rosa Chapter Three

Chapter Three
The air in Buena Rosa carried a faint metallic taste the Manuel suspected couldn’t possibly be good for him. He hoped that the impressive heat would bake any impurities out of it, even though the scientist in him knew that wasn’t the way things worked. If anything, it was probably making things worse. He tried not to think about it too hard. With luck, he would be done with this town in only a few days and back to civilization.
It was his first time back in Mexico since leaving to join the police in Cobalt City, and while he hadn’t forgotten the rampant poverty, he had forgotten how some people were so accepting of it. The longer you lived with the status quo, the more calcified the status quo became, until there comes a time when you can’t imagine anything outside of your own experiences. So many people had bought into this dream that working in a factory gave you an opportunity, that industry would solve all their problems, they were willing to overlook the miseries it brought with it.
Manuel had seen the slums. You couldn’t avoid them in Mexico City, the so called la Ciudad de los Palacios, the “City of Palaces”. With the population in the greater metropolitan area estimated anywhere from 18 to 22 million people, the desperation in some neighborhoods was so thick, you could feel it on your skin. Violent crime, kidnappings more often than not, were so prevalent that they were a way of life for everyone in the city.
In Cobalt City, the major concerns were parking and over priced coffee. In Mexico City, it was the knowledge that the next time you got in a cab, the driver could abduct you and force you to empty your bank account with your ATM card, sometimes even holding you overnight to circumvent daily withdraw limitations.
But he hated the perception that everyone in Mexico was some poor dirt farmer or criminal, just looking for some chance to make the midnight crossing into America for a better life. And he hated the admission that he had gone to America, albeit with a valid work visa, for much the same reason. The general perception that all police departments in Mexico were corrupt in some ways was prevalent and while unkind, not untrue. It was difficult to aspire to being a great cop when so often the bar was set so low.
And the fact that Manuel’s father would probably never understood why he became a cop, well, it was even more justification to move far away. The feeling that you had somehow failed your parents, even if unjustified, was made easier by never having to deal with them. But now his experience in the questionable ethics of Mexican law enforcement might be just what his family needed most. And while he was certain Esther would appreciate the help, he couldn’t help but hope that his father would appreciate it as well.
Manuel had arrived in Buena Rosa anonymously, lest he draw attention to himself. He had flown to Midland, Texas by charter plane then been lucky enough to catch a ride to the border with an elderly couple heading south for their granddaughter’s baptism. Dressing casually in a rarely worn denim jacket and jeans, he crossed the border at Ojinaga and caught a bus there to bring him the final 150 or so miles.
The bus had been virtually deserted, with only four other people making the trip to Buena Rosa from the direction of the border. This close to the “American Dream”, most traffic tended to go in the opposite direction. He felt the eyes of the other passengers on him and suspected that they might be sizing him up, weighing the ease of robbing a cripple against the apparent value of what he might be carrying. Manuel kept his dusty duffle bag within an easy arm’s reach and his attention finely tuned for the entire four hour trip, pleasantly surprised that no one decided he was worth the effort.
He had close to 200 pesos in his wallet, amounting to less than $10 American. $2,000, half in dollars, half in pesos had been tucked into two cleverly designed veladoras. One of the glass saint candles featured Our Lady of Guadalupe, and the other had an image of the Virgin of San Juan de los Lagos printed brightly upon it.
While it was a fortune for anyone who shared the bus with him, he doubted they would be able to find the release even if they were to suspect there was money hidden within. And the candles were so common among the largely Catholic Mexican community that no one would think anything of finding them in his bag.
Manuel stood on the cracked sidewalk in front of what appeared to be the only hotel in town two blocks from where he had been deposited by the bus. There were vacancies, of course. There were probably always vacancies. Buena Rosa was not the tourist town it might have once pretended itself to be. The Soledad was a two story building with faded flyers taped up in the windows. Low quality photocopies of old photos and hand drawn faces revealed many of them to be missing person posters.
Nothing official, not put up by the police, of course, but instead posted by loved ones – friends, family perhaps. A lot of people, Manuel thought. And these are just the ones who people think are missing. He wondered again about the vision he had received when touching the postcard – a field of carrion birds. Just how big was this thing he had come to confront?
He slung his dusty duffle bag over his shoulder and pushed into the dim interior of the hotel office. Light from between the posted flyers dappled the small space like a secluded grove. A desk fan was working overtime to circulate the air and having little success doing it. A small man with a pinched face looked up from his tattered paperback with a look of surprise. “Buenos dias! Can I help you with a room?”
“Gracias.”
The desk clerk turned a guests register on the counter around to face Manuel. It didn’t surprise him to see the entire operation running without the use of computers. There was only one other name on the registry that was less than a month old, a sloppily printed “Harry Snow”, who appeared to have checked in just a few days ago.
It was too much of a coincidence. “I’m here to meet my friend, Mr. Snow. Could I get a room next to his, perhaps?”
“Si. There is one across the hall. I give you that one. If I can see your drivers license...” the clerk’s eyes flickered down to the forearm crutches and he barely skipped a beat, “or your ID card or passport?”
Manuel considered the false ID card he had prepared but decided against it. It was still entirely possible that this was nothing more than typical graft and corruption, at which point his being registered under his real name would allow the police to research him if they cared to do so. If that happened, the fact that he was a decorated police officer would give him a little clout. He fished out his wallet and handed over his old Mexican driver’s license. He still had over a year left on it until it expired, and a reputation as a Mexican resident, whether it was true or not, might also be to his advantage. He had so few advantages, he realize, no reason not to exploit them all.
“Have you seen my friend recently?”
“Not since this afternoon. He left a few hours ago.”
Manuel nodded as if that was what he had expected, hoping it would mask his disappointment. “Any idea where he might have gone?”
“Si, senior. He is probably at Dos Padres, down the street. He spends much time there.”
Well, if Dos Padres was a bar, then there was little doubt who Harry Snow was. Manuel thanked the clerk and, after collecting the key, hiked up to his room. It was not as entirely dismal as he had expected. The room was small, but wasn’t used frequently, so other than a little dust, it was clean. And with the possible exception of something living in the mattress, it appeared to be more or less bug free. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed with his bag beside him and considered his options.
A long minute later, he stood with the evening’s course of action firmly in mind. The money-laden candles were placed on the small dresser. He lit them both and left them burning while he went into the bathroom and washed the travel grime from his face and neck with a wet rag. Thus refreshed, he extinguished the candles, leaving the paper book of matches from the lobby downstairs in the ashtray. He retrieved a library card from his wallet and pressed his thumb against the line drawing of the library building on the front until the line drawing flashed brightly twice. His tracking device and communicator now switched on, he tucked the card into his jacket’s breast pocket and left, locking the door behind himself.
The sun was low in the sky when he found Dos Padres, making the sky a brilliant rose color. Manuel figured that the smoke from the factory might have something to do with the vibrancy of it, but had to admit that it was spectacular. The painted window of the bar showed two robed Dominican monks, heads bowed, on either side of a wooden table with a bottle of wine between them. A neon Corona sign hummed next to it on one side, while a neon Tecate sign was on the other. He grunted and pushed open the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness before going deeper into the room.
He figured picking out “Harry” would be easy, but a long look around the room turned up a lot of gringos, none of which looked familiar to him. The neon beer signs out front tipped him off that this was not exactly a “locals” bar. Locals didn’t drink Tecate and Corona, not if they could help it. This was a bar which owed its existence to American drinkers. Since most transnational corporations used their own management teams, it meant a steady supply of gringos with American money and American tastes. The owner of Dos Padres probably couldn’t print his own money faster than he was bound to make it here.
Manuel worked his way deeper into the room towards an empty booth, and saw a heavy-set man with a buzz cut and pale blue windbreaker waving him over to his table. It was no one he knew, but he trusted his instincts and altered his course. “Harry?”
“Surprised to see me, buddy?” came the all-too familiar voice of Snowflake, the panda former driver/mechanic/pilot associate of the Protectorate. This must be the backup and support Katherine sent for him. She must truly hate him for something or other.
“Yeah, surprised is a good word for it. You’re looking, um, good.” Manuel couldn’t help but stare. Snowflake was a panda, albeit a highly evolved one. A Chinese research project several years ago had tried to save the pandas from extinction by altering their genetics, essentially simulating tens of thousands of years of evolution on their test subject. The end result was Snowflake, a crass, rude, trigger happy, and generally surly individual with undeniable mechanical skills. The experiment was considered a failure and not repeated, making the panda-man one of a kind. It was a fact not lost on Snowflake, who frequently claimed that if they had made a female equivalent for him to hang out with, he would have been considerably less surly.
But before Manuel sat, very clearly, a human male in his late forties. He didn’t know what to say, but in a world of super-humans he had gotten somewhat used to being surprised. He took pulled out a seat and sat, staring at Harry who was looking very pleased with himself.
“Barkeep!” Harry waved at a young, long-haired Hispanic man in a cleanly pressed shirt and red vest behind the bar. “Two more, please.”
Manuel watched his friend closely as he retrieved money to pay for the beers, and realized that if he looked closely, there were some subtle indicators of what was going on. “So, let me guess. Kara Sparx did some custom work for you?”
Harry winked while he touched his nose. It suddenly made sense. Kara Sparx had done state of the art holographic work for the Protectorate on a contract basis. As far as Manuel knew, she had never tried to branch out into holographic disguises, but it was a logical extension of some of her other work. “I have to keep an eye on the battery, but as long as I limit physical contact, its pretty freaking foolproof,” Harry confided in a conspiratorial whisper.
A careful examination of the bar showed no one within easy earshot even if they were paying attention. Manuel took a draw on his beer despite not being a particular fan of Corona, then leaned into the table in what he hoped would appear to be a friendly, conversational manner. “So, you’ve been here a few days now. Have you learned anything?”
“Oh yeah. Don’t drink anything that isn’t fermented or distilled, if you catch my drift. I had a spiritual awakening after a tamale plate and glass of water my first night here, and believe me when I say you don’t want to go through that yourself.”
“That’s a lot of help.”
“You know, sarcasm is an ugly, hurtful trait, Manuel.”
“Okay. Have you learned anything else?”
“Well, factory town, which shouldn’t surprise you. Pegasus Motor Company has this place bought and paid for. These poor bastards here are middle management at the factory, and they live in a little gated community in the hills called Perseus Glen. Way I hear it, there are definite benefits to being management here. The actual employees, and by that I mean the local labor force lives in this shantytown between here and the factory itself. I don’t recommend going there.”
“Depressing?”
“Dangerous. They don’t like whitey too much there. And there have been disappearances which only make them more likely to get all riled up.”
Manuel nodded. It fit with the missing person flyers he had seen. He didn’t like the pattern. “Okay. So what about my cousin?”
“Muriel Cruz, one of the shift supervisors at the factory went missing for about a week. Her sister came up from their hometown, were ever the hell that is, and started raising holy hell. Then there was a rain storm, and Muriel’s body turned up in a ditch the next morning. Animals had been at it, but they were still able to make an ID based on a tattoo, if I heard right.”
“And this implicates my cousin how?”
“Your cousin has a reputation for being a trouble maker. She was trying to unionize the workforce and the plant security had her banned from the factory and tried to keep her out of the shantytown as well. Hard to - no - impossible to enforce, but they tried. The theory is that Muriel went to the floor manager about your cousin, and that’s why she was banned. So she was killed in a fit of anger or revenge.”
“That doesn’t sound like Esther.”
Snowflake shrugged, sipping on his beer. “That’s just what I hear, chief. It’s the official party line, and most of the locals seem to buy it too. She signed a confession and everything.”
“Guess I have to talk to the police.”
“I don’t think you heard me.” Snowflake leaned over the table, his shoulders hunched. “She. Signed. A. Confession.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Manuel sighed. Maybe it was easier for Snowflake to see things in black and white because he was a panda, but nothing was black and white south of the border. “This is Mexico. I grease the right palm, and I might be able to make this entire thing go away.”
Snowflake leaned back in his chair and it creaked dangerously under his weight. He pointed at Manuel with his beer bottle. “If you say so. But if you ask me, I think you’re going to need a change of clothes before the nights over.”
“A jacket and tie isn’t going to make a difference here.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Snowflake looked genuinely confused.
“I’m talking about waving money about. What are you talking about?”
Snowflake laughed hard enough to elicit curious looks from several bar patrons who quickly turned back to their own conversations. “I figured her royal kitty-ness would have told you. Damn.”
Manuel got an uncomfortable sinking sensation in his stomach. “Told me what?”
“I brought your leathers. Them and the bike, which is, if I do say so myself, a thing of absolute beauty, are here in Mexico.”
The room started spinning for reasons completely unrelated to the weak beer he had been drinking. It was as if the floor had fallen out from beneath him and he was in a sudden, uncontrollable fall with nothing secure left to hold onto. “The bike, the leathers, they were all destroyed.”
“Yeah. Rebuilding the bike was quite the little project. It hasn’t been field tested, but all the diagnostic tests have been outstanding. I got the Tesla twins to help out. Xander reconfigured the leather body suit, so it should be better than new, and the synthetic muscles in it should more than compensate for your gimpy legs.”
“My gimpy...”
“Congratulations, chief. You’re a hero again.”
Manuel only distantly heard the words. He thought he said something akin to “But I don’t want to be a hero.” The details of that were sketchy, as he was too busy falling to be sure.