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

Corky’s and Beth’s lower jaws dropped and their suntans momentarily faded.

“Now wait a sec,” Corky said, “we were hired as cheerleaders. If a deal turns kinky, we can’t be held liable.”

“Accessories, before and during and after the fact,” Ricky pronounced.

“My partner is taking over my clients,” Corky said. “We love the Yucatan. We never want to leave, but it’s expensive.”

“Live in Mexico for ever,” Luis said. “On the beach. Or if you continue lying, in prison.”

Corky puffed his chest in defense of his mate’s honor. “She didn’t lie. We do our thing for Chet Cross exclusively.”

“Ralph Taggert,” Luis said.

“Same difference,” Corky said. “Ralph used to sell for Chet. They’re still associated somehow.”

Beth and Corky gave them the address of a cement block apartment house in Cancún City. After repeated knocking, Hector rattled the doorknob and said, “Deadbolt.”

“We must obtain a search warrant,” Ricky advised.

“Article 16 of the constitution of the Mexican United States permits officials to enter private homes for the sole purpose of ascertaining whether health regulations have been complied with,” Hector said.

Luis sniffed. “I smell rotten food, too.”

“For the record, I am elsewhere,” Ricky said.

Hector kicked the door. “Ow!”

Luis grasped the knob with both hands, pulled, then slammed a shoulder into the door. It opened, splintered jamb and all. Luis said, “You loosened it for me, Hector.”

Nowhere in the three cramped rooms was spoiled food or Ralph Taggert. Clothing hung in the closet; suitcases were stacked on the shelf above. Travel brochures on Hawaii and the Mexican West Coast were scattered on a rickety dining table. Ralph Taggert’s wallet was in a drawer. It contained California and Quintana Roo driver’s licenses and a little cash. There was no other money in the apartment, not sixty thousand dollars, not a peso.

“Why would a person walk out without his wallet?” Ricky wondered.

“You’re forgetful when you’re in a hurry,” Luis said.

“He heard our footsteps or he made a recent transaction,” Hector said. “It became time to go.”

“Either path,” Luis said, “leads to the airport.”

In excess of a million people per year fly in and out of Cancún Airport. They tend to congregate in clumps, herded by flight schedules and the demands of Immigration and Customs bureaucracies.

The trio concentrated on the outgoing clumps, checking the identification of men who fit Ralph Taggert’s appearance. Given Bud Lamm’s “average Joe” description and the fact that they had never seen Taggert, it was a despairing task. They were about to send Ricky for Lamm when Luis pointed out a man and woman.

Hector muttered a curse and quickstepped toward them, parting the crowds as if he were a vehicle. They reached Chester Call-Me-Chet Cross and the beauteous Hortencia as they were handing their boarding passes to a Mexicana Airlines flight attendant.

“What gives?” Cross demanded. “My assistant and I are going to a PIPA management seminar at Mazatlan. There’ll be hell to pay if we miss our plane.”

“Your airplane flies to Mexico City,” Hector said.

“We were going to catch a connecting flight at Mexico City.”

“From Mexico City you can catch a connecting flight to anywhere in the world,” Hector said, taking his arm. “You will talk now, fly later.”

They escorted Cross and Hortencia to seats and asked people in adjacent seats to please move. Travelers sensing a real life Mexican drug bust obeyed promptly. At a safe distance they removed cameras from carryon luggage and recorded the drama.

“Talk to us about Ralph Taggert,” Hector said.

Cross shrugged, sighed, and said, “That topic’s getting old, guys. I’d love to help but—”

“We’ve talked to Beth and Corky,” Luis said. “What did Taggert buy from you with the Lamms’ money?”

“Okay, I didn’t tell you the complete story. Taggert worked for me. I fired him. He was lazy and dishonest.”

“Taggert’s dishonesty offends you?” Luis said. “Ironic.”

Cross lunged out of his chair. Luis blocked his path. Cross swung. Luis ducked, assumed a crouch, and took a solid blow to a shoulder. He drove a fist into a midsection softer than it looked. Cross made a noise like an airlock in a science fiction movie and slumped into his chair.

Shutters clicked. Film-advance motors whirred.

Cross was momentarily speechless. Hector spoke gently to Hortencia, “Your lover boy is foolish, and you are too lovely to languish in my filthy jail.”

“Ask me anything,” Hortencia said.

“He bought Hawaii,” Luis said.

“How did you know?”

“It is farther from Cancún than any other resort Paradise Investment Properties Associates sells.”

“A Maui condo. Taggert was coming by to sign papers today, but he didn’t show.” She canted her head at the hyperventilating Cross and wrinkled her nose. “My hero. He panicked. He said there would be trouble and that we had to leave. He was right. The old gringo lady, Helen, she worried him.”

“Why?”