Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (4 page)

Taking it double-time in the direction of downtown, I slip into
a bodega where I purchase a black T-shirt that has the words NEW YORK CITY
printed on the front in bright white letters. I pay the exorbitant
twenty-five-dollar fee, then redress myself right on the spot, the Chinese
vendor standing behind the counter shaking his head the entire time.

“What’s the matter?” I say. “Never seen a grown man get
dressed before?”

“No dress in public,” he says in his heavily accented voice.
“If you do that in my country, you get arrested.”

“Welcome to New York,” I say. “Anything goes.”

I head back out of the store and continue toward downtown on
foot. For a brief moment, I consider heading straight for Gramercy Park, where
Ava lives with her mom and stepdad. But then just as quickly it dawns on me
that she’s still in school. I am, however, hungry. And when I spot a familiar
corner diner I head inside, plant myself on a free stool at the counter, and
order coffee, a plate of eggs over easy, and an order of lightly buttered wheat
toast.

“What, no home fries?” says the tough,
salt-and-pepper-haired waitress.

“No home fries.”

“Why?”

“’Cause they suck.”

She cracks a hint of a smile and leaves.

When she comes back with the coffee, she flips over my
coffee mug and pours me a fresh cup. At the same time, I reach into my chest
pocket, pull out the letter, set it down onto the counter beside the white
coffee mug. Sipping my hot coffee, I stare at the address while trying to think
about who I know down in Lima. I’ve been to Peru twice, both times as a
sandhog. The first time, I was barely out of college and working for my dad’s
excavation company. The second time I was working for myself.

On the first dig we were going after a large dish supposedly
made of solid gold and decorated with a thousand precious jewels including a
blue diamond. Legend had it that the dish had been shipped over from Spain
along with Pizarro and countless other treasures. The dish was said to be
hidden somewhere in the depths of the Cuzco Cathedral.

We never did find the precious treasure, even after a full
week of government-supervised digging. What we did find was a firefight in the
form of some local Incan bandits who subscribed to both the Tupac Amaru
Revolutionary Movement and the pro-Cuban Shining Path Movement. One late
afternoon as we were packing it in, the terrorists invaded the site, guns
ablazin’ and MRTA bandannas wrapped around their faces. Turns out they were
hoping to steal the priceless object for their own as payback for the Spanish
conquistadors who unrightfully invaded Peruvian soil from the Incans while
raping the women and pillaging the homes. As luck would have it, no one was
killed, but the conflict was enough for the government to shut us down and send
my dad and his crews packing back up to the US.

The second time I went to Peru to dig, the MRTA and the
Shining Path were all but history thanks to new, stricter Peruvian
anti-terrorism laws. Our mission at the time was to unearth the many mummified
remains that were slowly being exposed due to the hastily retreating glaciers
in the Andes Mountains.

I personally excavated a girl of about fifteen who had been
brought up to the mountain by a local priest and her parents in order to offer
her body and blood as a sacrifice to the Gods. When I removed the lid of the
heavily constructed straw basket, she revealed herself to be a beautiful young
woman with thick, dark, braided hair, rich olive skin, big eyes, round face,
and luscious lips. She was wearing traditional colorful robes and fur, lace-up boots.
In one hand she held a bag of coca leaves and in the other, a bundle of
flowers, the petals of which were still attached to the stems. After careful
examination we could see that she’d been hit on the back of the head with a
blunt object in order to render her unconscious. She was then left out in the
elements to freeze to death. I recall shedding a tear as we loaded her tiny,
but near perfect, six-hundred-year-old body onto a truck bound for the Cuzco
museum.

Even with having worked those two sites in and around Cuzco
and Lima, I still can’t recall anyone I know well enough to be sending me a
personal letter. That said, I steal another sip of coffee and decide once and
for all to cut to the chase. Using the butter knife as a letter opener, I slide
the blade inside the glued flap and slice it open. Setting the knife back down,
I pull out the single piece of letterhead, the name Peter C. Keogh III gracing
the top.

I look at the words written on the plain white, expensive
stock.

“Meet me at JFK International for drinks and hors
d'oeuvres. Gate 14B. Four o’clock. Don’t worry about finding me. We’ll find
you.”

It’s signed
PCK III.

My food arrives. The waitress sets it down, asks me if I
need ketchup for the home fries.

“I didn’t order home fries.”

The waitress shoves a little pencil behind her ear, says,
“Consider the home fries on the house. Now you want ketchup or not?”

“Sure, seeing as they’re on the house and all.”

“Everybody thinks they’re Jim Carrey,” she says, grabbing
hold of a fire engine red squeezable ketchup bottle and slapping it down in
front of me. “Bon appétit.”

She walks away. Cutting a piece of egg and hot smooth yolk
with my fork, I then set it onto the triangular edge of buttered wheat toast.
Raising the toast to my mouth, I bite it off. The eggs are hot and delicious. I
guess I should be nicer to the waitress.

Washing down my egg and toast with more coffee, I read the
letter from PCK III again, and again, and one last time for good measure. The
words don’t change no matter how many times I read it.

Folding it back up, I stuff it back into the pocket of my
bush jacket and think. Why would this PCK III character want me to meet him at
the airport? Why not meet at a restaurant or bar like civilized people? Shit,
why not call or email? What if I simply ignore him and don’t do anything?

Certainly, judging from the expensive stationery and the
name snazzily printed on it, Mr. Keogh is civilized enough. He also assumes
that me being me, I’ll be curious enough not to blow him or his invitation off.
But then, I get the feeling he’s not your everyday kind of average Joe either.
In fact, if I listen to my gut, it seems to keep on repeating the same words
over and over again: Mr. PCK III is richer than Jesus. And maybe even as
important. In certain circles, that is.

“Well, one thing’s for sure, Mr. Keogh,” I say, out loud,
“you’ve piqued my interest much more than the home fries have.”

“Excuse me?” says the waitress.

“Oh,” I say, holding out my coffee cup, “you mind warming
this up for me, pretty lady?”

She comes back over with the pot of coffee.

“Who you callin’ pretty?” she says, pouring more coffee into
my cup.

“Term of endearment,” I say.

“Tell that to my girlfriend.” Then, “How them home fries
treatin’ ya?”

“They’re free,” I say. “No complaints.”

“You’re right,” she says before walking away. “Home fries
suck.”

Coming out of the diner, I make a check on the time.

It’s already half past one in the afternoon. I have just
enough time to get home, get cleaned up, and think about hiring a driver to take
me out to JFK for four o’clock. So much for seeing my little princess as soon
as school lets out. I hope ol’ PCK III won’t mind reimbursing me for the cost.
Making my way to the street corner, I hail a taxi to take me the rest of the
way downtown.

Opening the back door, I go to step in when somebody shoves
up against me.

“Excuse me, my friend,” he says. “But are we not heading the
same direction? Perhaps we should cut our expenses in two and share this cab.”

I’m a resident of two cities. Florence, Italy, and New York
City. In Florence, the taxi cabs are white Mercedes Benz wagons. Oftentimes a
driver might be a well-dressed gentleman whose extended family has, for
generations, devoted themselves to the noble pursuit of driving. Sometimes the
drivers are even women, beautifully and expensively attired. When hailing one
of these drivers, under no circumstances would another customer be rude enough
to jump in front of you suggesting you share the ride.

But in New York City, where most of the cab drivers don’t
speak English, it’s not all that uncommon for a man or woman to jump in front
of you, hop in, shut the door, and steal the cab ride altogether. I’ll say it
again: in NYC, anything goes. Most anything anyway. The fact that this little,
neatly dressed, bald-headed man suggested we share the ride proves at least a
semblance of good manners. I decide to reward him with a monotone, “Okay.”

We both get in.

“Corner of Prince and Houston,” I say to the driver.

“That’s fine with me,” confirms the little man.

Like I said, he’s bald, but neatly kept. He’s wearing a
lightweight baby blue suit that looks like it came from Brooks Brothers, and
loafers with no socks. The knot on his red and white necktie is perfect, his
pink oxford impeccably pressed. I peg him for late thirties, but he’s so small
and boyish looking, he could easily be ten years older or younger.

“Wish I could have a cigarette,” he says in a voice that’s
neither masculine nor feminine, but somewhere in between. The accent is not
American. At least, not US, but Latin American. Which country it originates
from I can’t be sure, however.

“Was a time not too long ago,” I say, “a blue cloud of
cigarette smoke hung over Manhattan.”

“Filthy disgusting habit anyway.” The Peter Lorre look-alike
smiles, looking up at me with big, dark, round bulbs for eyes. “My mother died
from the big, grotesque tumors that formed on her lungs from a three pack a day
habit. She was a sweet woman, my mother. Died far too young.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, focusing my attention out the window onto
the fenced-in Gramercy Park where my princess resides, feeling the pangs of
missing her like stones in my stomach. “Maybe you should quit too, before the
same fate awaits your lungs.”

I’m not entirely sure why I’m engaging in a conversation
about life or death with this man, but somehow, it seems like it would take
more effort to ignore it.

He goes on, “Oh, but I have a plan should that eventuality
raise its ugly head.”

I turn back to him.

“A plan.” It’s a question.

“Did you know that there are doctors in South America and
other parts of the world who can cure tumors with their hands?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, but it’s true. Just last month a team of three medical
doctors in Beijing were able to cure a woman’s breast cancer by placing their
hands on her body for a period of an hour. The entire procedure was recorded
with an MRI. Do you have any idea how long it took her multiple tumors to
disappear?”

“No idea, pal.”

“Less than three minutes.”

I laugh. “Listen, little friend, don’t you think if
something that miraculous were to truly have occurred that it would gain top
billing in the world news?”

He nods, emphatically.

“Precisely,” he explains. “But here in the West, we have
trouble believing that one man’s positive healing energy can be transferred
into another sicker individual just through something as simple as touching.
Yet the ancients have known about this secret for millennia. The mainstream
media refuses to report on these miracles simply because they fear for their
credibility.”

“And how did the ancients come to know about this healing
energy you speak of?”

“It is possible the ancient astronauts taught us.”

“Astronauts from ancient times.” I snicker. Okay, maybe I’m
laughing at the concept of ancient astronauts, but I’m not about to discount
the possibility of their existence either. After all, who in the past has gone
in search of God and aliens and uncovered enough evidence to back the existence
of both? Maybe even evidence to prove that they are one and the same? That who
is me.

“Yes, ancient astronauts, hard to believe,” he goes on. “But
as time goes on, scientists are discovering more and more about ancient
civilizations. The Egyptians, the Romans, the Incans, the Chinese, the Asian
Indians, and the American Indians were far more advanced than for which written
history gives them credit. There’s proof of them harnessing electricity, of
conquering the skies with man-made flying objects, and even harnessing the
power of healing.”

“Fascinating,” I say, still playing dumb as the taxi pulls
up to the corner of Prince and Houston.

The dark-skinned driver turns around.

“Twelve dollar,” he says in a heavy accent that could be
Afghan as easily as it could be Pakistani.

“You wanna split it, little buddy?” I say, reaching into my
pocket for some cash.

But the bald man is too quick. He’s already pulled a ten and
a five from his billfold, and is handing it to the driver through the Plexiglas
opening over the seatback.

“Please keep the change,” he insists to the driver in his
soft, strange voice. Then, turning back to me, he holds out his right hand. “I
am Carlos,” he says, while reaching into his suit jacket with his free hand,
pulling out a business card and handing it to me.

I take the small, almost birdlike hand in mine, give it
quick squeeze and a shake, then pocket the card without looking at it.

“I’m Chase,” I say. “Chase Baker.”

“But of course you are. Pleased to meet you, Chase. If you
would ever like to talk more about the ancients and their mysteries, do not
hesitate to give me a call. And thank you again for allowing me to share your
cab.”

I watch him open his door, get out, and disappear around the
corner. Opening my door, I step on out, shutting the door behind me. As I start
walking toward my small apartment above the Italian restaurant on Prince
Street, I can’t help but wonder if it’s entirely coincidental that Carlos and I
shared the cab ride together, or if the strange man’s sudden appearance in my
life was planned that way all along.