Under a Killing Moon

UAKM — CHAPTER ONE

Not a single pack of Lucky Strikes in all of Mexico City. I shook my head as my speeder glided through the clammy, grimy darkness that lay like a rotten blanket over the metropolis. From a quarter-mile up, I looked down on a sea of city lights, sparkling like sequins on a private dancer’s too-tight dress. Just above the horizon, the blood-red moon was a bullet wound in the night sky.

I’d spent most of the day scouring the city for a pack of Lucky Strikes, moving frantically from one tienda to another, like a high-school sophomore on a scavenger hunt. I’d run out of time and was forced to abandon my search for the cigarettes that meant fine tobacco. I glanced at the small red box of cigarillos festering on the passenger seat and exhaled through a grimace. It was at rare times such as these that I cursed my addiction. I cracked the window of my speeder, took a final, excruciating hit from a Marlboro rojo, and flicked the sizzling butt into the night. Below me, the red hot cherry ejected and burned out, leaving the charred filter to spiral softly down into the world’s largest ashtray.

Directly ahead, the Torre Latinoamericana, once the Mexican capital’s tallest building, stood forty-seven stories erect above a knuckled clump of runty buildings. Together, they strongly resembled a common hand gesture. Back at ya, pal.

I descended through the two-packs-a-day layer of atmosphere frosting and touched down on a street south of the Dulce Vida apartment building. There wasn’t a lot of luxury to be found in Central America’s largest capital, but the Dulce Vida had an aura that would pass for luxury in any civilized spot. This was the sort of residence inhabited by tasters of decay, rather than swallowers — people who liked the idea of living in Mexico City, but preferred to avoid the hands on experience.

I slumped down in the driver’s seat and peered up at the top floor of the Dulce Vida. The two windows on the far right were nice and dark. A less careful shamus would’ve made his move immediately. I, on the other hand, saved that kind of recklessness for conjugal minefields and offers of free liquor. The windows of the neighboring apartment were lined with Christmas lights and ablaze in holiday cheer. There was no reason to take unnecessary risks. A silhouetted figure passed by the window. I glanced at my watch: 8:29 P.M. It was Saturday night, and there were only twenty-one shopping days until Navidad. I figured the odds were fair to good that Eddie Ching’s neighbors would eventually go out for the evening. Fortunately, I wasn’t in a hurry… as long as I didn’t think about my lack of Lucky Strikes.

I settled in to wait. Out of sheer habit and a pathetic dependence on nicotine, I pulled a Rojo out of the pack and torched it. After a long drag and with renewed disgust, I removed the cigarillo from my mouth and inspected it closely. It certainly resembled the cigarettes I’d come to know and love — it even burned like the real thing. But it was an abomination, plain and simple. The kind of creation Sauron and his minions worked through the night creating in the foul-stench bowels of Barad-Dur.

But even a mutated distant cousin of nicotine had to be considered family. I leaned back, my eyes locked on the windows of the Dulce Vida and my mind idling in neutral. In the distance, Christmas music floated merrily through the polluted night air. What a way to spend the holidays. Could’ve been worse, I supposed. I could’ve been working as a mall Santa. That was a mistake I wouldn’t make twice.

A noisy, old-fashioned pickup truck roared past my speeder. I’d seen more four-wheeled vehicles after five days in Mexico City than I’d seen in New San Francisco in a year.

Being out of the States made me appreciate my lot in life. Personal airborne transportation was still a novelty to ninety percent of the world, and being among the other ten percent made me smile — until I inhaled again.

A few minutes later, a scraggly group of teenagers paused to check out my speeder.

Realizing that the vehicle was occupied, the apprentice lifers meandered off in search of fun and profit. Like the juvenile delinquents in New San Francisco, these hooligans were continuing the age-old tradition of cultivating a look that would be as incomprehensible and distasteful as possible to the preceding generation. The latest form of fashion rebellion was to shave a narrow strip of hair from the forehead to the back of the neck.

This was known as a racing stripe. The width, depth, and design of the racing stripe apparently indicated gang affiliations as clearly as the color of one’s socks had when I was growing up.

I sat in my speeder for almost an hour, smoking compost sticks and staring up at the Dulce Vida. At last, the lights in the Yule-filled apartment went out. I tossed most of the rojo out into the street and rolled up the window. There were four large, festively wrapped boxes in the trunk. After getting them out, I closed the hatch and activated the security system. Mexico City was notorious for its crime rate, and I, being a monolingual-and-damn-proud-of-it Yankee, wasn’t about to take a chance on finding myself speeder-less and at the mercy of 30 million capitalist-loathing Latinos.

I looked both ways to avoid getting run down by some local reveler filled with mucha tequila, and crossed the street toward the covered parking lot that nestled up against the ground floor of the Dulce Vida. At the far end of the parking lot, a nondescript door provided a private entry for tenants. The majority of foot traffic went through the front door, which was around the corner on the east side, inaccessible directly from the parking lot. Having cased the location several times over the past few days, I knew the back door had a lock that would open only to the magnetic-strip cards given to tenants.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a card. But I had something almost as good: a plan.

Peering out from behind my teetering stack of presents, I walked slowly into the parking lot. With any luck, someone would use the door in the next couple of minutes. If no one appeared, I would go to Step 2B of Plan A: intentionally drop the boxes, then stall until someone showed up. I’d seen plenty of Three Stooges movies while researching the technique and was confident I could pull it off.

A bright light flashed across the far wall as a car pulled into the parking lot and drove past me. I maintained my nonchalance as the driver parked and stepped out. It was a tiny, though sturdy elderly woman, always my preferred duping target. Laden with shopping bags, she trudged wearily toward the door. I maintained my leisurely pace.

The woman reached the door, set a shopping bag on the asphalt and, after what seemed like an eternity of purse searching, came up with a card, which she ran through the card reader. After replacing the card meticulously, she grabbed the door handle with both hands and heaved. At that moment, she became aware of me and turned. I threw every ounce of charm I could muster into a wide smile.

“Feliz Navidad!”

The woman smiled back at me and eyed my huge pile of brightly decorated packages.

“Feliz Navidad!”

She stepped to the side and, as expected, held the door open. I was in.

The old lady followed me inside and down a short corridor to a set of elevator doors. An armed security guard sat on a chair nearby, reading a Condorito comic book. He barely glanced at me, probably assuming that I was helping grandma with the boxes.

The old lady reached passed me and pushed the up button. We waited silently for the elevator to descend. My nerves began to kick in, causing my stomach to slowly twist and tighten. It probably didn’t help that I hadn’t eaten anything for five days. On the flight down, I’d made the mistake of studying my Spanish for Idiots book, which had only reinforced my fear of native Mexican food by including translations for such phrases as ‘What species of meat is that?’ and ’No lettuce, for God’s sake!’ As I waited for the elevator, I could feel my digestive juices deciding that my stomach was not only edible, but nutritious and delicious.

After what seemed like a long time, the elevator chimed and the doors opened. Grandma and I stepped in, and I breathed a sigh of relief. As the doors closed, she pushed the button for the third floor, then swiveled her head in my irection. “Que piso?”

She seemed to be asking which floor I wanted. I quickly traveled through time to seventh-grade Spanish and began counting. “Diez y ocho.”

The old lady pressed the eighteen button and offered me a crinkled smile. Ten seconds later, we came to a halt at the third floor, and grandma stepped out of the elevator.

“Buenas noches.”

“Buenas noches.” The doors closed, and I began my ascent to the top floor.