Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

This was Luis’s favorite part. “In 1511 a Spanish ship hit the reef and sank. Most survivors were sacrificed or died of disease. One Spaniard married a Maya woman, fathered three children, and commanded Maya troops who drove off the next Spanish foray in 1517. Hernán Cortez, no fool, sailed north and took on the Aztecs instead.”

“Human sacrifice,” a man said. “You Mayans still do that?”

This group was pleasant and playful if not generous. With a straight face, Luis said, “Not regularly.”

The laughter was hearty and just slightly nervous.

Outside the wall, in a seedy bazaar offering everything from T-shirts to postcards to ice cream, Luis recounted his money. Eight people, seven U.S. one-dollar bills. There was always a deadbeat in a crowd that size.

But Luis was not complaining. It was June, the beginning of summer. North Americans could stay home and lie on their own beaches and burn under their own sun. Many, many did. With the rabid competition amongst guides for those who came to Cancún, he had been fortunate to snag this cluster of eight. He conceded an edge, though, his resemblance to the “upside down guy.” Most of the others were mestizo, mixed European and native ancestry. He could think of no other advantage a full-blooded Indian had over a mainstream Mexican.

“Excuse me. You got a minute?” said a jowly, florid man.

He was in his fifties. His wispy, straw-colored hair was slicked straight back. He had been in the group, studiously anonymous, staying in the rear as if shy, smoking cigarette after cigarette. “I have a minute.”

The man extended a beefy, freckled hand. “Bud Lamm, Mr. Balam. I’ve got me one helluva problem, and I’ve been told you’re the best.”

Bud Lamm’s stomach protruded as if he were concealing a helmet under the chartreuse pullover that complimented tan plaid shorts. The quarry of a Cancún shop catering to golfers, Luis guessed.

“The best at what?”

“Investigating and getting to the bottom of things around here. I also toured Tulum with you day before yesterday. Remember?”

Luis remembered. He was the sort who endured cultural enrichment on his wife’s leash. “You were with a woman. She asked intelligent questions.”

“Helen. She’s my wife. This archaeology, that’s her thing. That and birdwatching. Me, I came for the sun and the margaritas and the golf. We’re from up by Chicago. We’re renting a condo up the coast a ways, which is what I need to see you about. Yesterday, I was checking you out. Making snap decisions got me in this mess.”

“Checking me out?”

Bud Lamm cocked his head, requesting privacy. They walked to the parking area. A line of tour buses howled at fast idle, to run air conditioners for absent passengers.

“You used to be a topnotch cop. That’s what your lawyer buddy Ricardo Martinez said.”

The engines were deafening, the air foul. Luis nodded an impatient yes.

“What I need is for you to find a guy who flimflammed me and get me my money back.”

“Did you go to the police?”

Lamm smirked. “I went in that little station in Tulum City. Three cops were sitting around playing with their handcuffs. They didn’t speak English. I got the hell out of there.”

Probably a wise retreat, Luis thought. “Swindled by whom, when, and for what?”

“Two days ago. This condo we’re in, it’s a beauty, right on the beach. The whole building’s for sale. This salesman was by with a couple who loved it, but they couldn’t agree on price. I bought it out from under them, on the spot. I’m close to retirement. I’d been looking to invest. I should of known better. I’m service manager at a car dealership. I ought to know a phony pitch by now.”

“How much money?”

“Sixty grand.”

Luis had to think a moment. Sixty thousand pesos was only twenty dollars. “Sixty thousand U.S.?”

Bud Lamm looked at his feet, then said, “Yeah, cashed in my pension fund. Thought I’d surprise Helen.”

“Does she know?”

“God, no!”

“How did you meet Martinez?”

“I was up in Cancún City, kind of crying in my beer in this bar. His office is up above it. Funny place for a law office. Will you help me?”

“I’ll talk to Martinez,” Luis said noncommittally.

“I owe you a buck,” Bud Lamm said. “For the tour. Didn’t mean to stiff you but, well, finances are tight. You can tack it on your bill.”

Eight kilometers north on the coastal highway was BLACK CORAL. It shared its generic name with others along Highway 307. This “black coral” was a large tent, a hand-lettered sign, and, inside, tables of hematite, silver, lapis, and, yes, black coral jewelry. Luis Balam was the proprietor.

Business was slow. Tour buses drove the local economy. Luis and fellow merchants bribed drivers to stop. But in the off season buses were scarce. Between his shop and Tulum, Luis was hanging on by his fingernails until winter. Investigative work for Ricky Martinez helped some, although his assignments were often like rainbows, dazzling but ethereal.