Are the kids in bed? Pour yourself a drink and let me me begin a story you'll never forget.
CHAPTER
1
Tragedy
in Dubai, Poppy’s Return to Mexico
Puerto Vallarta International Airport
12:40
AM
Puerto
Vallarta had not experienced a violent, tropical storm like this one
since 2002 when the ocean surged into hotel lobbies on the Malecon.
The
Gulfstream 550G made a third failed attempt to land, as a fierce
crosswind hammered the aircraft. Nose up, its silver skin sequined in
dancing rain, it climbed out of the turbulence and banked around the
sheer face of the Sierra Madre Mountains. The lone passenger sat in
the opulent cabin staring out into the black abyss, seeing not
dangerous weather, but the sudden, dark turn of her life.
Just
as the tower prepared to abort the landing a break in weather brought
the plane down safely, taxing away from the terminal to the far
corner of the tarmac where the black Hummer waited. From her window
Poppy recognized the tall, thin man, silhouetted in the wet glare of
the high beams. He stood erect under a black umbrella that threatened
to collapse in the gusting wind. Parked to his left, in the shadow of
a windowless hangar, was a silver SUV.
The
aircraft door swung open to the sultry perfume of the tropics
startling Poppy’s sleeping memories, the ones left behind a decade
earlier when a life of splendor whispered her name. But this wasn’t
the hour for looking back. She must pay close attention to what
waited in the driving rain. Rising to leave, she felt the stabbing
effects of the tragedy which had brought her here from the other side
of the world.
The
flight crew awkwardly assembled for their passenger's departure. In a
few minutes they would refuel and depart. Scattered thoughts played
in the recesses of Poppy’s mind as she walked to the front of the
cabin; the countless trips shared, circling the globe, sampling food,
drink and exotic cultures. More than employees the crew had become
friends. Their lives, like hers, had been consumed by one man’s
power, money, and daring adventures.
A
haggard Captain Dougherty stood next to Evan, his co-pilot. At the
open door was Michelle, the flight attendant. “I just want to say
that John was, well... that,” The captain’s stammer trailed off
into a whisper. “If there’s anything I can do…”
Poppy
noticed shock and disbelief etched on their faces. “It’s out of
our hands now, Frank.” She struggled to express so much more but
the words were locked away. “Thank you,” she added, and then
simply walked down the stairs and out of their lives.
The
man, patiently waiting on the wet tarmac, held the umbrella as Poppy
descended. She placed her hand in his and felt the reassuring grip of
her Godfather, Demetrio Mendoza.
“Bienvenida
a casa a la Princesa,” he said as
if their separation had been 10 days, and not 10 years. He offered
his arm tilting the umbrella to her favor and motioned toward the
mystery vehicle where two men stood watching.
“My
apology, but you must relinquish your passports now.” He saw the
dark circles that dimmed the youthful face he remembered.
“Nobody
said anything about that. Why?”
Demetrio
nodded toward the strangers. “The United States and Dubai have
requested it until they prepare an investigation. It’s…” He
shook his head at the foibles of mankind. “Fear insights over
reaction,” he added, thinking it unnecessary to reveal the
confiscation of her passports had been more than a request.
Poppy
reached into her leather brief and extracted the documents. He handed
off the umbrella. “Remain here. I will take care of this." He
gently caressed her cheek. "And then I will take you home.”
He
walked to the Mexican Immigration Officers and surrendered the
evidence of her privileged life. Both men looked beyond him, to
Poppy, while examining the photos and official stamps. With solemn
authority, one of them announced that Poppy Duprey, being a Mexican
citizen, should anticipate an indefinite delay in the return of her
documents.
The
shorter of the two, a mestizo, reeking of cologne, with a large,
government emblem on his baseball hat, added with a hint of
arrogance, “We will tell Señorita Duprey ourselves so there is no
misunderstanding.”
Demetrio
sensed their male curiosity about the tall, young woman; the kind of
woman, men like these only dream about. They knew that she was the
famous image of Night of the Iguana Tequila, a taste so exquisite and
expensive that it would never touch their lips. They could make out
the silhouette of the ‘Goddess of the Nectar’, the famous, long
legs that appeared in glossy ads along with yachts and villas.
Tonight, these uniforms were in the presence of the emerald green
eyes, a few feet away on the slick tarmac. Rich, famous, and powerful
men sipped Night of the Iguana Tequila and had their way with a woman
like that, while these Latinos, standing in the wet wind, had to
settle for being the minor authority dispatched to confiscate
Señorita Duprey’s important papers. Men chosen to declare, in a
menacing tone, that she was no longer on top of the world and the
mistress of a billionaire gringo.
Now, she was just a puta mestizo
after all.
It
had been cleared with a higher command that Señorita Duprey should
not be exposed to any inconvenience, but Demetrio figured these guys
could push their miniscule power beyond its limits. Hombres like
these, with government insignias and automatic weapons, bathed in
cheap cologne, accrued cantina collateral, free beer from their mano
y mano amigos, in exchange for their
bloated stories; testosterone-laced tales about how they forced the
famous Tequila Goddess to suck their dicks on the tarmac because she
showed them disrespect, and they had to show who was boss now, remind
her that she was not in Paris or New York City, but back home in
Mexico where bitches know their place. Yes, Demetrio knew their game
and responded with a courteous smile, masking his disdain.
“I
assure you, there will be no misunderstanding if you will allow me.”
And then Demetrio added, “Señor Rodriquez is a respected friend. I
would do nothing to embarrass him.” Rodriquez was their boss and
the mention of his name was all it took.
The
shorter of the two men shifted his weight one foot to the other while
his compadre closed his eyes with the orgasmic pleasure of
decision-making. Together they peered once more over Demetrio’s
shoulder at the female. “No hay
problema. Just so there is no
misunderstanding.”
Demetrio
thanked them, returned to the Hummer and buckled Poppy safely into
the passenger's seat. Driving away he checked the rear view mirror to
see the men still watching. Except for the meditative slap of the
windshield wipers, he allowed silence to cushion their ride.
Unfortunately, the tragedy responsible for Poppy's return was only a
part of what was unfolding. Demetrio, with a heavy heart, glanced
over at his passenger who barely resembled the young girl he
remembered.
Loretta
Duprey, tented in the sweet smoke of a cohiba cigar, waited for her
daughter on the covered veranda of Hacienda Iguana. “Que
hora es?"
The
Mexican woman, sitting on the far end of the massive table, looked
beyond the hurricane candles, through the doorway to the ancient
clock. “Two thirty five,” came her answer in Spanish.
“I’ll
have another.” Loretta slid the slender glass caballito,'
etched with the Night of the Iguana logo, to Angelina, her longtime
friend and housekeeper, who lifted the exquisite bottle and poured
for them both.
“You
think Demetrio ran into trouble?” Loretta squinted into the black
hole where rain fell. “My baby girl doesn’t need any more of
that.” She knocked back the tequila and tucked a strand of waist
long hair behind the silver iguanas dangling from her pierced ears.
The women sat listening to the swollen river swirl toward the open
sea while the flames flickered in the open fireplace and the silver
lizards shimmied with Loretta’s impatience. “I sure as hell hope
he didn’t run into trouble,” she repeated.
“Demetrio
is friends with trouble,” Angelina said as she picked up her
tequila with a well-worn hand. “He knows. Don’t worry.”
After
all the years Loretta had lived in Mismaloya, Mexico she still
marveled at the simple remedy Mexicans had for their problems. ‘He
knows' meant, ‘leave it to God.' Until recently, Loretta hadn’t
personally given God much thought, although now she realized what a
brilliant antidote ‘He’ was for a hard, Mexican life.
Suddenly
the familiar sound of the Hummer caught their attention as it pitched
and rocked on a ribbon of mud through the sentinel of palm trees.
Angelina stood and peered into the dark morning. “Alli,
she comes!”
Loretta
rose up, tequila in one hand and the thin cigar in the other. “If I
cry kick me in the ass, Angelina.”
Angelina's
eyes glistened in tears. “This is a happy time. God’s will...”
“Oh,
Christ Almighty!” Loretta interrupted. “Don’t give me any more
of that. Just kick me in the ass.” With that she stepped down on
bare feet, feeling the sting of rain and tears, and then the thought
of him swept over her. John Madison, the man responsible for Poppy
leaving, and now for her sudden return, was blown to smithereens.
Without warning, a man like no other, had stepped across the
threshold of her life changing everything. Now he was gone and the
hour was late, maybe too late.
The
Iguana Compound gates yawned wide to her daughter's return, and for
the first time in her unapologetic life Loretta stood on the
precipice of raw fear.
