Tangolunda Bay, Oaxaca
August 2022
1
The dawn of Harlan Quist’s forty-fifth birthday broke gray and heavy without so much as a promise of a breeze. The water on the bay lie flat as glass, its surface welded to the low hanging, slate-colored sky. For the past two days, the weather report had predicted that much of Mexico’s Pacific coast would be becalmed by a high pressure system that seemed in no hurry to relinquish its grip. Subsequently, there would be no fishing charter today. The day before, a group of Texans had cancelled their reservation at the last moment, marking the third such cancellation already this week. Not that Harlan really much cared.
He had passed the night before in a fitful sleep, his thoughts plagued by misgivings that had little to do with concerns over the current lack of bookings for his charter boat. For weeks, he had been gripped by a vague edginess bordering on foreboding that defied any clarity as to its source. His unease was nothing like the mood he used to experience before setting out on a new assignment or when anticipating an encounter or situation that might prove risky.
Instead, his midnight musings aroused something more akin to an ill-defined ennui. It occurred to him that it might be nothing more than his ambivalence regarding his upcoming birthday. He also considered the culprit might be simple boredom; a notion that his life had perhaps become too staid and routine. On the one hand, he couldn’t deny his relief that he no longer slept with a Glock under his pillow or a knife within easy reach. But he also had to admit that there were moments when he missed the edge of his old life. It was in these moments of retrospection that he found himself revisiting the past, reclaiming memories from the shelf of his mind, often examining them with the same curious detachment one might use when coming across a mismatched pair of socks.
That had been his state of mind when Roy had roused him from twilight sleep and whispered Happy Birthday in his ear before she tiptoed out of their bedroom and out into the predawn darkness. He lay awake for another hour before kicking free of the sheet twisted around his ankles and sitting up on the edge of the bed. It was only the smell of the coffee Roy had left for him that finally prompted him to his feet.
After slipping on a pair of shorts, he studied himself in the bedroom mirror. Did he really look forty-five, he asked himself giving into vanity. Thanks to five years of mostly outdoor living and working on his boat, his tanned, creased face surely looked forty-five, perhaps even older. It had also resulted in a well-muscled physique resembling that of someone at least ten years younger. He still retained his thick, black hair, although it had receded leaving him with a widow’s peak.
He stepped closer to the mirror and stared into his eyes for a couple of seconds before turning away in mild discomfort. His mother often reminded him that the eyes were the windows to your soul. Maybe she was right. His eyes had always seemed to reflect a wariness that was a throwback to a time when caution served as his second skin. While Roy had grown accustomed to this, those that didn’t really know Harlan found his piercing gaze to be off-putting, if not threatening.
He went into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of black coffee, and stared out the window at the monochrome dawn. Roy had promised to take him to dinner later that evening at Rocoto, one of their favorite restaurants in Hualtulco. She wouldn’t be home until at least six, thus leaving him with most of the day to kill.
He prepared a chorizo and egg omelet along with a fruit salad of mango and papaya. Afterwards, he filled a thermos with what remained of the coffee and assembled a simple lunch of bread and a can of tuna. Thus equipped, he made his way down the steep hillside to the dock, a journey of five minutes along a path shrouded by palms interspersed with thick stands of stunted banana trees. The air felt unnaturally still, the quietness unsettling, for absent was the usual cacophony of birdsong and the rustling of the palm fronds overhead. The eerie calm only seemed to add to his uneasiness.
His boat, a forty-two foot Boston Whaler Outrage, was modest in size and luxury compared to many of the other charter sport-fishing boats, but its relatively simple utility translated to less overhead, and if the truth be told, allowed him to cater to a more casual, laid-back clientele than the tourists that sought out the larger, more expensive charters that sailed out of Huatulco.
Soon after he and Roy had decided to settle on the Oaxacan coast, he had liquidated all of his savings other than his anemic IRA, and purchased the boat and a small hilltop casita overlooking the bay. What remained, he gifted to Roy as a start up for the women’s health clinic she had established in the small, nearby village.
They had been living together as a couple for going on five years. What started as carnal chemistry and the need to seek temporary shelter from the fall out of a bloody debacle in Oaxaca City had evolved into a liaison marked by a true connection and affection, but also by their mutual need to put aside a host of painful memories, some of them shared, others predating their time together.
Thus, they had stumbled into a life of ambiguous commitment, and until recently, seeming contentment, cocooning themselves from their past and the outside world. At times, this isolation seemed to hold their demons at bay and draw them closer; other times their seclusion only exacerbated an uneasiness rooted in tragedies.
With his mood mirroring the gray day, he spent most of the morning cleaning the bait tubs and ice lockers before scrubbing down the Whaler’s deck. Once the heat grew too oppressive, he moved below into the cabin for a quick lunch before continuing with some much needed housekeeping. It was approaching late afternoon before he decided to call it quits.
He no sooner had stepped out onto the pier when he heard the sound of an outboard motor drawing down onto the end of the dock. It appeared to be a Zodiac carrying a pilot and a lone passenger. He watched with casual interest as the Zodiac pulled alongside the dock and quickly disgorged its passenger before peeling off in the direction of Huatulco.
The passenger had displayed a degree of difficulty climbing out of the boat, and as he made his way down the dock, Harlan noted the man’s obvious limp. Something about his long-limbed gait and gangly physique tugged at Harlan’s memory. The man wore a white guayabera and a pair of bright red Bermuda shorts that accentuated his spindly, pale legs. His face was obscured by a long-billed baseball cap, aviator sunglasses and his rust-colored beard. It wasn’t until the man was ten paces away before Harlan recognized him.
“Davey Crockett. As I live and breathe,” Harlan said, shaking his head in disbelief.
The other man broke into a grin. “In the flesh,” he said simply. “Good to see you, Harlan.”
There was no mistaking the gravelly voice and the way he drew out the two syllables in Harlan’s name.
“I guess I should’ve called first and made a reservation on that fancy, big ass bass boat of yours. Please tell me it has a bar,” Crockett said, extending his hand as he drew near.
“What’s it been, Davey? Ten years at least.”
“That sounds about right,” he replied, pumping Harlan’s hand. “I believe it was the Derby at Churchill Downs. It might’ve been maybe 2012.”
“As I recall you lost your shirt that afternoon betting on a chestnut mare.”
Crockett grinned. ”Two divorces should’ve taught me not to place too much trust in anything of the female persuasion. As I recall, back then you didn’t look like you were doing so poorly. All tan and relaxed like.”
Harlan laughed. “The only reason I looked tan was I had just spent the better part of a month licking my wounds in this bush hospital in Liberia. You mistook my look of relaxation for simple fucking fatigue.”
“Yeah, your African fiasco. You gotta realize the Bureau didn’t have much choice but to cut you loose.”
“I just wanted to get my man.”
“Well I respect your dedication, but you did screw the pooch. As I recall, you had this good looking young blonde on your arm. So whatever became of her?”
“God, I can’t recall her name. Susan, maybe. She was an ace at picking the ponies. I do remember that. We took her winnings and shacked up in Miami for a week. I never saw her again after that.”
“Whoever she was, she wore a great hat.” Crockett said, looking past him at the Whaler “Hot out here.”
“And I suppose you’re wanting a beer. Step aboard and I’ll crack us a couple.”
Harlan watched Crockett step awkwardly over the gunwale. The older man must’ve noticed Harlan’s appraisal.
“I took one in the leg a few years back,” Crockett said in way of explanation. “We were raiding this double wide full of hopped up crackers in this trailer park outside of Muscle Shoals. They were tipped off we were coming, not that it did them any good.”
Harlan nodded and led Crockett down below into the cabin. He took a couple of Coronas from the fridge and handed a bottle to Crockett who clicked it against Harlan’s before taking a long pull and dropping heavily onto a bench. The two men studied each other for a long moment. Crockett always reminded Harlan of a Muppet’s puppet character with his prow of a nose, toothy grin, unkempt red hair, and bulging eyes.
“So, how did you find me?” Harlan asked, finally breaking the silence.
“It wasn’t so hard. Hell, these days I probably could’ve watched you scratching your ass on one of those spy satellites. I admit I did have to do a little leg work and grease some palms in Oaxaca City. By the way, a guy named Zenner wanted me to give you his regards.”
When Harlan didn’t comment, Crockett went on. “I had to do some serious persuading to get that guy to tell me about that little incident with those cartel pistoleros. I guess you still have nine lives, though the way I figure it, you’re down to maybe four by now. Maybe it’s good you settled down and dropped off the radar.” He allowed his eyes to take in the cabin. “You’ve got a nice setup here. This fancy little rig. A woman. Royale Aucoin,” he said, letting her name roll off his tongue in a way that Harlan found irksome. “I have to say she’s had an interesting past.”
“Careful where you go with that, Davey.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, holding up his hands in apology. “I just had to do my homework. She must be a winner. From what I can gather she runs some kind of clinic for women.”
Harlan tilted back his bottle but didn’t reply at first.
“You found me, Davey,” he said finally. “Which begs the question why. You surely didn’t go to all this trouble just to shoot the shit over a beer.”
Crockett took another swig of his beer and leaned forward to set it on the table between them. “Did you ever find yourself wondering about some of what went down up in Idaho?”
“Jesus, Davey That’s ancient history.”
“You know Uncle Sam’s seed money never did show up. Thirty grand all total. From what you told us, McClaren had at least another hundred grand, maybe even twice that, stashed in that compound of his. We never found that either. The best we could figure is someone absconded with it. The thing is, our bills were marked, and every once in a while some of them would turn up. We never could really trace where it came from though. Laundered is my guess.”
“I know where you’re going with this. And it’s bullshit. The Bureau investigated me and cleared me. They said the shooting was justified. They confiscated that shipment of guns. They made their convictions. If it’s a matter of showing you where I got the money to buy this boat…”
“Hold on. Don’t get your panties in a wad. I never thought you took that money. I told them that.”
“So why are you bringing this up? All right,” he said when Crockett didn’t reply. “I haven’t seen or heard from her in all this time if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Crockett picked up his beer and took another swallow before replying. “You know I did my share of undercover assignments. And one thing I always ppreciated is that when you do undercover, you have to be allowed a certain amount of wiggle room. Right? Whatever it was you and DeFranco had going fell under wiggle room. That is up until that point where all that cash… . Hold on,” he said when Harlan held up his hand in protest. “The cash disappears and so does Lilly DeFranco. That there was the wrinkle.”
“I didn’t help her escape.”
“No, but I figure you let her go.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment, their eyes locked on each other.
“You know it took us a long time to find her,” Crockett said finally. “And the only reason we did was because she starting making mistakes. My guess is she must’ve run out of money.”
Harlan stared at Crockett but again held his silence.
“After Idaho, she fell off the radar. Then we get a tip she was right up the road from here. Culiacán. From what we could figure, she lived there for five years. Next thing you know she shows up stateside. Took up robbing banks. That sounds sorta desperate, don’t it? Sad even.”
“Lilly. A bank robber,” Harlan muttered, unable to stop himself.
“The first job was in San Jose. Then Reno. Always running with the same partner. This big moke by the name of Gus Solomon. A real piece of work. He liked to pistol whip the bank guards. The third heist was in Bakersfield and it was then we were able to make her with a pretty solid ID. We had a good surveillance shot and a print off an abandoned getaway car. A month later, their luck ran out when they got ambitious and hit an armored car in Phoenix. Her partner shot one of the guards. Fortunately for her, the guard survived. The cops caught up with her the next day, but this Solomon guy got away.”
Harlan wondered where this was going.
“She never did give him up, although we managed to finally ID him without her help. She ended up with a ten to fifteen year sentence at the Arizona women’s prison in Perryville. She’s five years into it.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
Crockett smiled. “We’d like you to be her sponsor, so to speak.”
Harlan paused, his bottle halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean her sponsor?”
“We want you to run her once she escapes and goes on the lam.”