The Gold Bugs

The Gold Bugs

by Dennis Powers

Copyright ©2011 by Dennis Powers

Published by: Dennis Powers

www.dennispowersbooks.com

Also written by Dennis Powers at Smashwords.com: A World Within Worlds and The Deadly Seas.

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 1

The small, winged pieces sparkled in the dark, lit up by the beam of light as if a full moon was shining over colored stars on a cloudless night. Two uniformed men stared at the shimmering gold artifacts, a few spinning lazily from suspended, translucent threads. The flashlight’s reflected light partially illuminated the men’s faces, one round and large, the other thin and narrow, small beads of sweat trickling down shadowy, cream-colored skin.

Whata beaut...I love that one. Get it, the larger man whispered harshly in Spanish, directing the light on the iridescent form of a butterfly with thin but long outstretched wings. The other nodded and slowly reached through another gaping hole, careful to avoid touching the still smoldering acid. He snipped the guide wire with metal sheers, and the golden piece dropped silently into a waiting cloth bag.

The men worked over another display that they had etched a hole into, and a surrealistic, glittering scorpion with an upraised stinger disappeared. The one with the flashlight pointed out the golden pieces that he liked, the other compliantly moving the bag into place, and then cutting the attaching wire or picking the artifact up. They took their time and worked the blackened holes, only selecting what appealed to them.

Soon both stopped their movements and looked at each other. That’s the last one...no need to push our luck, grunted the larger man, as he stared at his watch.

Geeze, can’t we get a few more, Ricardo? the other pleaded, wiping sweat from his forehead. They’re cute.

The stream of light swept around the large room in answer, illuminating various large and small-sized glass exhibits, various ones with large holes etched into their sides. Empty guide wires hung in weird contortions, or a space appeared where obviously a small artifact once had been attached.

Ricardo reached into the bag, pulled out a couple of the golden artifacts, and looked down at the small pieces inside the palm of his hand. The first was a tiny bat with a dragon-headed crown; the other was a modernistic-looking spider with outstretched, angled legs. He always liked that one.

I love these bugs, Ricardo said admiringly.

But we have more than just bugs, complained the smaller man. We got pieces like that bat to that jaguar and alligator, he said, pointing around to the displays that they were once in.

Who cares...? All of them are tiny, like bugs, to me.

How ‘bout it...? Do we get more?

Not enough time. The theatre crowd will be coming out soon and don't forget the alarm company, Ricardo finally answered, jiggling the small cloth bag with a gloved hand. We don’t need a lot, as we got the best ones... And keep the noise down, he hissed.

Okay, came the subdued answer.

The men walked gingerly around the modern-looking maze of boxes and partitions with models of pre-Columbian villages. Collections of pots, bowls, and clay statutes were also sealed in plastic. Maps, etchings, and posters with large print hung on laminated wallboards set against partitions. Adorned with gold ornaments on head, earlobes, arms, and neck, a life-sized warrior with loin cloth and spear stood in a menacing pose. He never liked that one.

D’yah think they knew how much their stuff would be worth. You know, the Mayans?

Yes, Luis, Ricardo answered patiently. But only the priests and warlords wore them.

So how did they make them out of pure gold?

Read the stories, Ricardo said, jerking his head towards a poster.

I can’t read; you know that. I only guard the place.

That’s good, real good, he sighed.

The light swept across the large room as they moved to its front, and the two stopped in front of the barred entry that led eventually to the plaza and streets of San Jose, Costa Rica. Ricardo carefully took the pieces from the bag, wrapped them in pieces of cloth from his pocket, and dropped them into a thermos bottle. Once finished, he motioned Luis down to the floor, and the small man readily flopped down, holding his hands up to the other as if in prayer. Ricardo quickly began tying up Luis’s hands and feet.

Remember, Luis, only call them when you get untied, no matter how long it takes. Just like we said. Some men with hoods on their heads caught you outside and forced you to disconnect the security systems. They tied you up, and tell them nothin’ more.

Okay, Ricardo.

And forget my name, he said loudly.

Sorry, Ric…

If you really have to talk with me again, call Juanita and tell her.

You’re back with her again? I thought she took off with your brother.

Luis, he warned.

All right, but don’t get mad.

I’ll take these to the boss, and he’ll be proud, Ricardo said holding up the bag. He doesn’t know I thought this up, all by myself, and I'll get my promotion. He always said he wanted these little beauts.

Luis nodded, saying, And then I’ll get paid?

Yes, then you’ll get paid, he answered and sighed again. Ricardo took his handgun from its holster, saying, I won’t hit you too hard.

I can take it, Luis said. Remember Terrible Roberto—he has to be fooled.

T.R., Ricardo said to himself softly, nodding his head slowly up and down. He shot Luis in the arm almost as a reflex, as the sound cracked inside the room.

Luis howled in pain. Why’d you shoot me, man? Why you do that for?

Ricardo's heart jumped while he scanned the area anxiously, only to look back when he remembered that sound couldn’t travel from this windowless, underground level. Sorry, Luis, he apologized. Really...but I’d rather have you mad at me than him. He’s so bad.

Ricardo wrapped his gun in a cloth and waved it at Luis as he said, Now look the other way. He hit Luis over the head, the man groaning more as he slumped to the floor on his side. Quickly binding the unconscious man’s mouth with tape, Ricardo hurried away through the shadows to the circular walkway that led away from the third floor. He passed the second floor gallery with its art-filled walls, to the first floor and its gift shop and exhibits, then to the locked sliding gates.

Taking out a pass key, Ricardo worked the locks and stepped into the humid air on the well-lit cobblestone walkway, a busy pedestrian thoroughfare with people walking above the sunken entrance. Seeing that the hovering National Theater had not let its hordes of theatergoers out and no one gave him a second look, he felt a tinge of optimism. Putting his thermos with its valuable contents underneath one arm, Ricardo knew he looked like any of the myriads of security guards who were now off duty, although this one was about to make a cell phone call—if it went through—to the Sandman.

As he walked to the stairs leading up to the plaza and theater, Ricardo looked furtively around to be sure no one was around or could see him. He tossed the cloth bag and an unused latex glove behind shrubbery. Ricardo felt proud of himself, as he had taken some hairs from the El Salsacabana's men's room and had carefully inserted them into the plastic glove with tweezers. That place was where a few gangs hung out. T.R. could go after them and with that thought, Ricardo hustled away into the darkness.

It would be two hours before the alarm company would wonder what was happening. They were always having problems with the alarm system, security lasers, and telephones cutting out, thanks primarily to Luis, and at first didn’t think anything about it. However, after another phone call went unanswered, the dispatcher sent someone over to check out the Plaza de la Cultura and its Museo del Oro, or Costa Rica’s Gold Museum. There waited Luis, eyes watered but now wide open.

Chapter 2

Several blocks away, Ceci Dunaway stared out into the bright, expansive lobby of the Americas Hotel, her slender fingers tapping rhythmically on the lamp stand to a combo’s Latin beat. The evening guests strolled gracefully by, brown-skinned women dressed in long, flowing colored dresses, accompanied by men in dark sweaters or suits with flowered ties. A chandelier glittered majestically high above with multi-rings of light, and a blood-red carpet stretched away with well-polished ebony furniture, plush sofas, bell boys in uniforms, and an elaborate buffet on gleaming silver platters.

Silhouetted by the hotel’s nightlights, the less fortunate ones milled outside the large plate-glass window in front. Wearing T-shirts, jeans, and sandals, they hawked their Mayan metal castings, cheap jewelry, and woodcarvings to whoever was walking outside and looked like a tourist. The street vendors stepped nimbly around the brown puddles of lukewarm rainwater left by the day’s rains, pointing their wares at anyone they saw inside the hotel, now looking back at them. Yes, she reflected, the capital city of San Jose was a study in striking contrasts.

She looked for a newspaper and grabbed the one on the nearby lamp stand. Picking up her glasses from its bead-tie around her neck—her one concession to making the Big Five-O, as she said—Ceci put it on and stared down. The paper was written in Spanish. She smiled wryly and looked over to the broad, mahogany front desk.

She stood up immediately when she spotted the well-dressed manager by the counter nod discretely towards her. A small, dark-skinned man in the standard brown-and-white hotel uniform stood next to him. She quickly walked up to the two men.

This is Roberto, said the man in good English. The bellboy I told you about. If anyone can help you, he should be able to. The manager stared straight at the young bellboy, and then smiled politely at her as he strolled away. The young man called Roberto looked at her with small, darting eyes.

Policia? You with the police? he asked in English.

No. Ceci dug into her purse and took out the picture of Angel. I’m trying to find this person. Have you seen her before? she said, trying to sound reassuring, and handed him the photograph.

The bellboy stared at the picture but didn’t respond. A couple hurried around them on their way to the registration desk, chattering with crisp, staccato-like Spanish phrases. Let’s move over here, she said, ushering the bellboy by his elbow to a quieter place. The woman’s name is Angelica, or Angel Moreno, but she might not have gone by that.

Is she in trouble?

Ceci shook her head, saying, Not with me, but she well could be. Ceci reached into her pocket and gathered a few bills of the odd looking currency, Costa Rican colones. She didn’t know how much they exactly totaled, but that the amount probably would buy a dinner for two at a family restaurant. Money went a longer way here. Handing part of the currency to him, she said, You’re the only bellboy I haven’t talked to yet, and this would have been your shift. What you know about Angel could help her.

No muy mucho. I don’t remember her name and the picture looks different. I think she was here two months ago.

I know that. What else?

The señorita didn’t talk much to me. She was at the hotel only a few days, then left. Several days later, I carried her bags back to her room. She was... How you say, 'happy'? She had just seen the tortuga verde, the green turtles by Limon. You might ask the travel agent down the hall.

Then what? Ceci said, coaxing him along.

She stayed, then left two days later. I never saw her again. I don’t know what she did that time, but she asked where she could buy old Spanish or Mayan antiquos and jade. That’s why I remember her. He pointed to his head with a large toothy smile, and then added, But I couldn’t help her.

Where was she going when she left the hotel for good?

I carried her bags out around lunchtime. She said something to the taxi driver, but it was hard to hear, because the traffic is so bad then. I thought she said the San Pacific Inn, but I could be mistaken.

Why?

The bellboy straightened up, as if called to attention. It’s on the other side of the city. That place is repugnante and run down, not like this hotel.

Ceci gave him the remaining bills. She shook her head slightly, as that new hotel sure didn’t sound like Angel, especially given her taste for hotels like this one. Let me know if you remember anything else, she said with a shrug. The bellboy bowed slightly, and then scurried away to pick up the luggage of a waiting female guest. The woman scolded him in an impatient tone, but the bellboy simply smiled back, picked up her luggage, and scampered away. Ceci nodded to him, knowing that he understood the best way to get tips.

She believed the young man, however, and felt she had finally gained some information about Angel that could be helpful; but still nothing pointed to what had happened to the missing woman. It had been difficult to find much since she had arrived two days ago. Ceci had talked with numbers of people, from clerks and waiters to shopkeepers and street vendors. Ceci's big problem was that many of those outside the hotel usually couldn’t understand or speak English. Even with her Spanish/English dictionary, it was usually touch and go. However, the younger set seemed to understand and speak English easier than the older ones, owing to the televised U.S. programs and media.

Noticing the elevator’s continued ping-pinging sound and muffled conversations of strangers moving past, Ceci walked away to another deep sofa and sat down. A few employees had remembered Angel as an attractive, young tica, or their slang for a female Costa Rican, but that was it. She had kept a low profile, made no friends, took the usual tourist trips at first, and then disappeared for several days. The travel clerk had remembered selling Angel the ticket for the Limon boat trip, and Ceci was going to take that trip tomorrow. Then there were the bellboy's tips about Angel looking for antique jade and after the trip to Limon, leaving the hotel for another, although questionable destination.

Ceci still found it hard to believe that Angel hadn’t stumbled upon Teresa Lopez and her antique shop, Teresa’s Tienda de Antiguedades. The old woman had stocked her store with some seemingly exquisite Spanish antiques, some dating back centuries, and displayed a few interesting pre-Columbian jade carvings in a back room. Although the shop was only a fifteen-minute walk from the hotel, Teresa said she had never met Angel. With nothing else to talk about, she and Teresa discussed what to see in the country. Then Ceci left.

Looking at her watch, she decided she had better check in with Ralph Lewin. It was a little late, but San Jose was one hour ahead of San Francisco, so she would see if he was up at eleven o’clock his time. Ceci made the arrangements with the desk clerk, and then waited in a telephone booth in the hotel corridor for Ralph to pick up on his end. She was about to hang up when an obvious sleepy voice on the other end said wearily, Hello...

Ralph, I finally have some information that I can tell you about Angel.

Ceci, can you call at a decent hour...? I had another long day trying to put out fires at Firestone and was trying to get some sleep.... Where are you calling from?

From a phone booth in the Americas Hotel.

Why aren’t you using your cell phone?

Funny about that, but cell phones from the U.S.A. generally don’t work here, because they’re locked to the company providing the service. And only a legal resident with a Costa Rican national ID, or cedula, can purchase a cell phone line, i.e., a phone number. If you do get one, you can leave your message in English, but the voicemail systems and all prompts are in Spanish. Of course, you won’t have any service in the jungles or rainforests with the usual dropped calls in any city.

Ceci then went on to tell Ralph what she had learned so far about the mysterious Angelica Moreno. Has the P.I. firm come up with anything else? she then asked.

No. All we know is that Angelica was investigating the leads on the missing pre-Columbian jade artifacts, headed to Costa Rica, and never returned to this country, or checked back with Central Investigations in Miami. All we have is her simple note, ‘You can’t pay me enough for this work. I quit,’ received some weeks ago. And with the mail systems of these two countries, we still have no idea when she mailed that—if she was the one who did.

What about Belso? What’s he doing after quitting the case

Ralph laughed. I heard that he’s now working as a part-time bouncer for some disco joint in Miami. After being kicked around in that San Jose alley while tying to find out what happened to Angel, he never told his firm anything else, other than Angel had first stayed at the Americas Hotel and that the people down there were simply nuts. He did say that Teresa’s antique shop had ‘some good stuff.’

She does and I’m sure, Ralph, that the old lady knows more than she’s telling. She could be scared about being roped into all of this, or on the other hand, she could be part of why Angel is no longer around. It’s hard to say, as she seems to be smart as a whip.

So where do you go from here?

I’m heading out tomorrow on the boat trip to Limon on the Pacific side, as Angel did, and we’ll see where that leads us. It should take several days, and Timmy and Jeff should enjoy the trip, as well.

How’s that working out?

They are tourists and having fun.... Don’t worry about me on this one, as with three of us, I can’t see all of us running into trouble, or disappearing. I won’t be able to talk with you for a bit, as telephones just don’t work that well, especially in the jungles. After a few pleasantries, they said good-bye and Ceci let Ralph finally get back to bed.

Back in the lobby, she mentally thanked Ralph for them being here. The head of loss prevention for the Firestone Insurance Company in San Francisco, Ralph had known Ceci since she had practiced law for a prestigious, but very dull law firm in the city. Firestone had become her best paying client after she left the firm, negotiating insurance claims for them, large and small, which also allowed her to live and work from her Sausalito houseboat—and studiously avoid the seven to nine ritual of the upwardly mobile.

From Nepal to Laos, Ceci loved traveling to different countries, and a friend had mentioned Costa Rica as a quiet, safe place to travel around. She planned the trip here with her 26-year-old son, Timmy, and significant other for the past two years, Jeff Wagstaff. When Ralph heard about the trip, he asked if she might like to mix some business with pleasure.

Ceci thought back about what had brought her to this different engagement. When a Miami exhibition of pre-Columbian artifacts ended, the exhibitors discovered that several exquisite, one-of-a-kind jade carvings were missing. The stolen jade was the highest of grades: a brilliant emerald green, sometimes mottled with white or gray soft streaks. Whoever had done this knew exactly what they wanted.

Two of the missing antiquities were jade amulets, slightly smaller than a clenched fist, carved as the head of a ruling Mayan king. Along with three smaller pendants, the most valuable piece that disappeared was a mosaic mask made from small pieces of carved jade. Archaeologists had discovered the jade mask on the mummified remains of a still unknown king buried centuries ago in the second temple of Copan in Honduras. All of the stolen pre-Columbian artifacts had been on loan, and Firestone was the unhappy insurer. The small carvings alone were insured for over two million dollars, and unless solved, these claims would wind up in very expensive litigation.

Ralph believed this was an inside job, since an underworld informant said that a Costa Rican, or tico, by the name of Perez was behind it. The description of Mr. Perez, or whatever his real name was, could have fit three-fourths of the population. Firestone hired the P.I. firm, Central Investigations, in Miami some months ago, but nothing solid turned up. Then the one investigator, Angelica Moreno, never returned and Belso was beaten.

Ceci was happy to earn some money, plus expenses, while in Costa Rica, and they were in the country three weeks later. She still marveled at how fast the airport’s tropical setting of palm and banana trees melted into the hustle and bustle of a major metropolitan area with over one million people, a skyline of ten- to thirty-story buildings, with McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets.

While Ceci sorted out the facts, she kept a wary eye out for Jeff and Timmy. And it was late. Señorita Dunaway, the clipped announcement abruptly came over the sound system. Señorita Dunaway. Please pick up the house phone. Drat, she had told them not to make any public announcements or calls for her. Forget any undercover work on this trip—they only knew how to be tourists.

Ceci walked to the courtesy phone, picked it up, and identified herself. Let’s see, the operator responded. I’ll patch you into their phone. Seconds later, the voice said, Sorry, they must have hung up. They didn’t leave a message either.

Five minutes later, she spotted Timmy and Jeff disappear into a small bar off to one side of the lobby. Jeff had that in his favor: He got along very well with her son. She hoped this relationship would meet the test of time, but she hadn’t much luck with men, and she and Jeff had also had their ups and downs.

* * * * * *

Much later that night, Ricardo Aguilar was meeting the Sandman at a small dark bar in a rundown part of the city. A couple of drunks were at the counter and one couple at the far end of the small line-up of booths. The gravely voice said incredulously, You did, what...? The Gold Museum...? Ricardo, what in the hell were you thinking about? Knowing better, Ricardo didn’t say anything. He took another sip from his rum and coke, and there would be a lot of sips taken tonight.

Five minutes later, his boss still was yelling at him. When Ricardo saw his chance, he said, But boss, you always wanted them, and I give them to you, he said handing the thermos over.

The Sandman looked around, seeing if anyone else was close by. He peered into the container but didn’t say anything. He pulled out a piece, unwrapped the covering toilet paper, inspected it, and placed this one on his lap. He did the same with another, and then a third. After carefully wrapping and putting them back into the thermos, the man pursed his lips. We could get a very handsome price for them and get out of this damn business, once and for all…. But Ricardo, damn it all, they’re hot! Too hot to handle, right now. He quickly handed the metal bottle back, as if it was radiating that heat.

"You keep them right now, where you usually put the others when we first get them. I’ll think about these...what do you call them?

Gold bugs, boss.

Okay, but we also have another problem now, to go along with yours. Another gringa’s running around asking questions about the business.

Teresa called, huh, boss?

According to Teresa, she said this one asked mucho questions, including about the other gringa. She’s taking the boat to Limon tomorrow. The Sandman rubbed his forehead. Don’t these people ever give up? I’m plum tired about these interruptions. So we’ll have to think of something that will stop them from ever coming down again. The boys’ beating of that one guy seemed to work for a while. Now what should I do?

Ricardo was quiet. He had been with the Sandman long enough.

I’ll come up with something, once and for all—something good for Señorita Dunaway and her friends, the Sandman said slowly, chewing each word as he rose from the table. I’ll call you later on what to do.... And stay away from the rum and cocas.

Chapter 3

Jeff Wagstaff stood quietly by the boat’s railing the next morning, immersed in the sights and sounds of the rain forest unfolding so vividly before him. The brilliant, multi-shaded greens of banana, mangrove, and hibiscus trees were in sharp contrast against the muddy waters that rippled from the bow against the deeply eroded banks and dense shrubbery. The eerie shrieks of hidden insects and blood-curdling cries of howler monkeys punctuated the steady chug-chugging of the diesel engines. The musty smell of decaying vegetation and a curious dampness hovered cloud-like over the tight passageway, as the beaten boat pushed its way through the jungle kaleidoscope of smells, sounds, and sights towards the small seaport of Limon on the Caribbean Coast side.

Alerted by the sharp sounds of scraping ahead, Wagstaff occasionally needed to duck under the branches of the overhanging trees, as the small craft pushed its way through the narrow waterway, the dense jungle pressing down at times against the cabin and its sides with long groans. This was a far cry from the steel and concrete, overpopulated tangle of San Francisco-Oakland that he called home, and Jeff embraced the change. The warming sun and mild wind felt good on his face, and he was finally into a relaxing vacation after another interminable stretch of long work hours.

He looked around the vessel. The wooden Conquistador was a narrow boat, nearly fifty-feet long, and apparently had received another coat of thin white paint, although the new layer was already scratched and marred by its jungle passages. The pilot’s cabin was at the bow and a covered canopy stretched from behind it towards the stern. A stairway led down to a lower level just above the water line.

A scraping sound alerted him again, and he quickly ducked to avoid another tangle of vine tentacles that reached down for him. The movement reminded him of one of his morning exercises, all designed to keep him from becoming another office couch-potato. He was wearing a red tank top, white shorts, sneakers, and sun glasses. Of medium build and stature, Jeff chuckled at the thought that some said he looked a little like Richard Dreyfuss when younger. Jeff was forty-years-old, although he knew he didn’t act like that at times.

He counted twenty people scattered about the boat, most warming themselves in the late-morning, tropical sun. Three young Peace Corps volunteers—at least as it appeared from the T-shirt one wore—were laughing to themselves in the back, drinking beer from small dark bottles and giving each other high-fives with loud smacks. A few others, more than likely college kids on a true summer’s lark, sat on small chairs under the covered canopy behind him, wearing the standard garb of cutoffs and tank-tops or halters.

One particularly attractive blonde wore a two-piece bathing suit, and Timmy sat next to her, his hands moving in the air as he described another animated story. Short but handsome, Timmy as Ceci once told Jeff, His blonde hair and blue eyes came from his father’s side, and the rest is up for grabs.

The rest of the passengers were light- and dark-skinned natives, dressed in T-shirts and dungarees or colorful sleeveless blouses and short skirts. As the custom, the ticos carried their belongings, wares and food in yellow or red plastic bags when they traveled, and these plastic suitcases were displayed prominently. The ticos didn’t talk much, as they sat back on their metal folding chairs and stared intently at the dense forests gliding not so silently past them. It was as if they were watching at home their favorite late-night TV show.

The boat had been motoring in and around these byways for a few hours. It would