The Rainbow Scorpion

By Keith Smith

A cartel controls production, pricing, and distribution of its products by thoroughly eliminating any and all competition. Though he had been a high ranking member of the cartel for years, Antonio Vargas was certain the cartel now viewed him as competition. An unlikely and unique friendship is formed when Antonio enlists the aid of Kelvin Ray Elliott, a retired mathematics instructor, to help free him from the cartel, and save the lives of his daughter and grandson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483581217

Keith Smith

Keith Smith is a retired computer consultant with a long-standing interest in South African military history. He has published several books on the subject, including Harry Smith’s Last Throw, also published by Frontline Books.

Book preview

Jacy.

Prologue

The sun had just set below the distant hills, but its influence could still be felt and seen. The air remained warm and remarkably still, and even the old man’s eyes could still distinguish shadows created by the sun’s light even though the sun itself was no longer visible. He smiled and walked slowly through the dry desert wash that meandered south and west from his shack on the outskirts of Nogales, Mexico.

His pace was leisurely, not yet purposeful. He was hunting, but it was still too early. His prey still slept either underground or within the dark cool crevices of the loose rocks and boulders that rested where they had been deposited by the last flash flood. During the infrequent rainstorm this wash was often filled with a torrent of water if even for only a few minutes. The power of the rushing flood could move large rocks or even uproot juvenile mesquite trees that dared to attempt to make the normally dry river bed their home.

He wore his thick leather boots that were almost knee-high, and his light cotton pantaloons were tucked into the tops. Despite the warm temperature his cotton shirt was long sleeved and buttoned tight to his wrists. At the moment he carried in his left hand the white cotton capture bag with his protective gloves and powerful black light inside. The two-foot-long bag had drawstrings at the top to prevent any of his prey from escaping once he had them trapped inside. In his right hand he carried a three-foot-long steel grabber that he had liberated from a roadside worker who used it to pick up trash. It had a handle with a trigger at the top that operated two rubberized tongs. It was designed to allow a person to pick up trash from the ground without having to bend over. It also served as a walking cane when needed. The old man conveniently used his grabber as such as he walked further until he reached the deepest part of the wash.

The earth there was soft and loose. Erosion had altered the complexion and look of his favorite hunting ground every time he returned, but he knew this area intimately. He stopped about ten yards from a huge boulder whose presence had baffled him for years. It sat in the middle of the wash and had successfully defied the occasional flood to move it. For all of his life the proud Mexican had never seen the boulder moved even an inch, but he also could not fathom how something so large and resolute had ended up there in the first place.

His timing had been perfect. In a few minutes such a darkness would envelop this area that even the boulder would disappear as it melted into the blackness. He reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and his favorite silver Zippo lighter. After he lit his cigarette, he took the black light from the bag and flashed its eerie bluish light in a six-to-eight-foot radius three hundred sixty degrees around the area at his feet. He knew from past experience that many unfriendly creatures roamed these grounds at night. On more than one occasion he had been surprised by a rattlesnake. His thick boots had often saved him from being bitten, and he was skilled at using his grabber to trap the head of the snake. Once he could control the venomous fangs he used his six-inch razor sharp knife that hung in a leather pouch on his hip to decapitate the potentially lethal serpent. He always kept the heads and the bodies of any snakes he killed. The heads, the tails, and the skins were valued products for this street vendor, and he even liked and ate the snake meat. But his desired prey was not snakes. He was after a different kind desert predator. He needed scorpions.

He continued to scan the area around him moving his light in ever widening arcs. His old eyes were still keen and could detect the subtlest of movements. Satisfied he was alone and would not be disturbed, he quietly smoked. Though he had never told anyone, he believed the smoke from his cigarette appealed to scorpions and enticed them out of hiding. Whether it was true or not didn’t really matter. It had become part of his routine, and it seemed to work. Within a matter of minutes, he shined his light towards the dark bank of rocks in front of him. He was experienced and knew to aim the light and move it smoothly and slowly from side to side. On the very first pass to his left he spotted the bluish-green glow he sought. The scorpion paused slightly and raised its tail aggressively. Scorpions never showed any fear of the light.

The skilled hunter stepped quietly toward the scorpion.  He kept the light focused on the small adversary, and though it moved a few furtive steps, it made no attempt to run or to escape. It stood fearlessly and challenged the old man with impertinence. When both foes had been as still as statues for but a few seconds, the hunter began his practiced move. He was able to put his gloves on without once moving the light off his target. Once he was gloved, he kept black light in his left hand with the capture bag hanging from the drawstrings around his left wrist. The grabber in his right hand was ready as he leaned his head down and bent his knees until his face was only a foot or so from the scorpion. Then he blew a steady stream of smoke directly on the scorpion who actually seemed to enjoy the thick cigarette smoke and appeared to relax. In the purplish blue glow of the rays from the black light he was sure he looked like a dragon blowing harmless blue flames.

Without having to hurry, the grabber was used to reach for the scorpion’s tail. Only when the grabber had the scorpion securely trapped, did it react. It arched its back and used its menacing claws in a vain attempt to escape. He then lifted the scorpion off the ground to examine it. The black light proved it was a magnificent specimen. The body was as thick as his thumb and just over two inches long. Its shell glowed a brighter teal color than most. Once processed he knew the powder from this shell would make a wonderful rainbow scorpion ring or pendant.

He dropped the live squirming scorpion into his capture bag and continued his hunt. If he could get five or six tonight, he would stay busy for at least a week making his popular jewelry. He sold his rings and pendants at the local public market in Nogales. He claimed to his customers that his products possessed magical protective powers. In the dark he displayed a mirthful grin as he deeply inhaled cigarette smoke.

Chapter 1

Antonio sat quietly on his stool enjoying a hero sandwich at Fred’s Deli. He had just walked to the sandwich shop from a successful business meeting with his friend Margaret which had been held at her new dance club, La Chaba. It was November, but the air was comfortably warm in Juarez, Mexico. He hoped the weather would be just as nice in Nogales. Though he never liked when he had to leave Juarez to attend to cartel business, this trip had a very different purpose. If he accomplished all that he wanted, his daughter Neescie and his grandson Manuel, along with himself, would never return to Juarez or to Mexico.

For reasons he had kept to himself, the itinerary for the trip was short. The next afternoon he would have Escobar fly them to Nogales. He needed only one full day to quietly finalize his preparations. If things went smoothly, in two days he and his family would leave Nogales and enter the U.S. The documents they needed were already in his possession. It was unlikely to be necessary, but he was prepared to request political asylum and protection for them all, but if this could be avoided, they might be able to rejoin his wife Patricia within two days. Their scheme to leave the cartel had taken nearly nineteen years to fulfill, but he had finally set in motion certain irreversible events. He smiled and rubbed his rainbow scorpion ring. Its protection was very much needed, for soon he would no longer be El Jefe.

Chapter 2

La Chaba was the newest and most unique nightclub in Juarez, Mexico. It had been open for less than a year, but its success was unquestioned. It occupied a nondescript two story building that sat on the corner of ordinary streets just off the edge of an abandoned industrial area. The innocent looking structure appeared to be a deserted factory. The outside veneer was a combination of brick over cinder block, and the new owner had done no renovation. The graffiti had been left unwashed, unpainted, untouched. For the most part nothing had been done to change the building’s appearance. It had been bought as is and had been left as is. People often passed the unremarkable entrance with its double metal doors still covered in colorful spray painted images. They passed without noticing that behind these doors was an erotic experience few could imagine.

There were some subtle changes to the exterior windows, but these were easy to overlook. The first floor windows were neatly boarded up with plywood painted a flat black. New wrought iron bars, which prevented any kind of access from the outside or exit from the inside, had also been installed. The second floor windows had the same new wrought iron bars, but instead of boarding, the glass panes were thickly lacquered in black to prevent any light from entering or leaving the club unless they happened to be open.

Evidence that this was a club at all involved two large men wearing stylish black suits with crisp white shirts and black bow ties who stood like old fashioned butlers just outside the doors. As customers approached, these men greeted them with less than sincere smiles, vice like grips for handshakes, and the occasional search for weapons or other contraband. Their size alone warned those who entered La Chaba did so at their own peril.

This did not seem to discourage the throng of men and women who flocked there, night after night. Word of mouth had spread. Erotic pleasures beyond description, beyond the imagination, were available at La Chaba. It was clear that many people, both young and old, wanted to experience these pleasures.

The owner of La Chaba was a former prostitute named Margaret, pronounced as if she were from France, with emphasis on a long e. But she was not French. Although born and raised in Mexico, she refused to reveal the exact origin of her heritage, and her European looks aided the ruse that she was indeed from France. Her legendary buttery smooth skin was ivory white with not even the hint of a sun-washed tan. Her natural hair color was auburn, not the usual ebony black of most Hispanic men and women, and even her emerald green eyes which had melted the resolve of many men suggested she was of European descent.

Her major financial supporter, a man known as El Jefe conjectured that Margaret was the daughter of a Mexican prostitute and that her father was a white American, but, in fact, it didn’t matter to him where Margaret was from. He knew her to be both cunning and beautiful and believed she would make an exceptional business partner. Investing in a brothel with her as the Madam was tantamount to investing in her. La Chaba had turned out to be a shrewd and hugely successful business proposition, just as he had predicted.

Margaret had designed her club to be more than just a mimic of an ordinary Juarez brothel. The décor of La Chaba rivaled even the expensive resorts that dotted the coastline of the popular Mexican Riviera. Incredible original artwork was tastefully sprinkled on the walls.  Talavera pottery and hand painted urns and vases also enhanced the elegance of the club’s interior. The low barrel chairs, conversation tables, lounge divans, and bistro tables and stools were all handcrafted and very comfortable. Brass and crystal chandeliers were creatively hung throughout the room, with matching sconces along the walls that added enough additional light so that a customer could bask in the warmth of their glow. No matter where a person stood or sat, there were no shadows to darken the mood.

A massive beautifully carved wooden bar stretched across the back of the first floor ballroom. The intricately etched wood, though mostly oak and mahogany, included parquet designs of mesquite and cedar carvings and moldings. It rivaled the beautiful prostitutes and waitresses for attention. A majestic forty-foot smoked mirror filled the center of the bar. It was tilted at just enough of an angle to downwardly reflect the light. It maintained the ambience of the room so well that not many people suspected that behind the mirror sat men armed with semi-automatic weapons, able to see the entire room, ready to respond to any trouble.

Even with dozens of light bulbs illuminating the large room, the atmosphere remained subdued, and the noise level remained only slightly louder than hushed library quiet. The floor was covered with thick red carpeting that perfectly matched the red and gold wallpaper. Both provided excellent sound absorption, so extraneous noise quickly dissipated. Customers knew their conversations and negotiations with any of the exquisite prostitutes remained private and secure. The walls never talked.

While the bartenders wore crisp white tuxedo shirts and black bow ties, the waitresses were adorned with only black bow ties and shiny black stilettos. All the girls were young, lovely, sexy and completely topless. Their skin varied in color from cocoa brown to light tan, dark ebony to milky ivory, but all possessed skin as smooth as alabaster. There were no visible tan lines, and there was not a single tattoo among them. Some of the waitresses wore satin black bikini panties, but most proudly displayed a smoothly shaved vulva or a very small patch or a thin line of dark pubic hair. Though these girls were virtually completely nude, they did not preen themselves in any way that seemed vulgar but went about their jobs tastefully and efficiently. Like the superb artwork, their nimble nude bodies were only there for customers to view and appreciate.

The available prostitutes, all in luxurious sheer black lingerie that barely hid their supple bodies, roamed about the room. They greeted guests with practiced grace, informed visitors of the house rules, and pointed out the unique features of La Chaba. They were also trained and adept at determining which customers should be monitored. They had been instructed to inform any one of the half dozen white-shirted bow-tied bouncers which of the patrons might pose potential trouble.

In the middle of the room was a round couch that had recently been upholstered with dyed red leather. If a scantily clad prostitute were not otherwise engaged in a conversation with a customer or a potential customer, she could be found resting on The Round, as it was called. She could be seen easily from anywhere in the room. The standard unwritten rule of all Juarez brothels was observed here; any girl sitting on the round red couch was available. With just a look or a hand signal, a man or a woman could request any of these prostitutes. The girl would then accompany the requesting customer to the bar or to one of the other sitting areas where drinks were ordered. Afterwards negotiations could begin.

If a satisfactory agreement were reached, the customer and the prostitute would head for the stairs on the right hand side of the room where two large men were positioned. They were easily recognized by their dark suits, white shirts and, of course, black bow ties. They were there to collect the house fee before customers were permitted to accompany their chosen young ladies to a bedroom on the second floor.

This fee could range from twenty dollars to fifty dollars or even up to one hundred dollars, depending on the customer’s sexual desires and the necessary length of time to fulfill those desires. With incredible accuracy an experienced prostitute could tell within minutes of meeting a customer the maximum fee that he or she would be willing to pay. But mostly the price depended on the age and beauty of the girl. Young, sensual girls were in great demand and could command very high fees for their services, and all of Margaret’s girls were, indeed, young and beautiful. For this reason alone, the prices at Margaret’s club tended to be higher than those of other brothels, but for customers, especially the many regulars, the exorbitant charges were never too high and the girls worth every penny.

At the top of the stairs leading to the bedrooms were several women inspectors, usually older prostitutes who no longer serviced customers, whose job it was to inspect the men before they went any further. It was a house rule that clients were required to undress in front of an inspector. Their genitalia were examined for evidence of disease, and the customers were also examined for concealed weapons. The fee for the inspector was a non-negotiable five dollars, which included a condom at no extra charge, since this assured yet another house rule. Prophylactics were required.

When services had been rendered and the guest had been completely satisfied, the prostitute would politely leave the bedroom to shower and to douche, but the customer was not ignored or abandoned. Two or three inspectors/housekeepers would enter the bedroom, gently wash and assist the customer in redressing, and then escort him to a private exit at the rear of the club or back to the main room on the first floor. The bedroom was swiftly cleaned, the bed changed with fresh linens, and the air sanitized to remove unwanted smells of smoke and body odors.

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Margaret’s night club had many of the same features that could more or less be found in any one of dozens of brothels scattered throughout Juarez, but it was another unique feature that made this club different from all the others. It was the cavernous basement, The Cave, which sported entertainment unmatched anywhere else in the city. Margaret understood that clients came to her establishment to satisfy sexual appetites. She was determined that her customer’s sexual wishes would be granted, whether privately in an upstairs bedroom or downstairs within the carnal bowels of The Cave. 

There was no public entry to the basement from the street, but upon arrival at La Chaba a patron need only to whisper The Cave to one of the doormen. If the customers were appropriately attired, a house rule, they would be shown to an unobtrusive door located on the opposite side of the main entrance. From there a standard cover charge…ten dollars for men and nothing for accompanied women…was collected, and entrance to The Cave was granted.

After patrons paid the entry fee they descended a staircase where the muffled sounds and vibrations of rhythmic dance music could instantly be heard and certainly felt. Near the closed doorway at the bottom of the stairs stood an effervescent hostess dressed in a starched white blouse, a snug black skirt, and the now easily recognizable black bow tie. She was there to greet customers and to stamp the backs of their hands with the signature The Cave insignia. This symbol was invisible to the naked eye, but under a black light, the stamp brightly glimmered into a greenish-blue scorpion.

Upon admission, the first thing to engage the clients’ eyes was the central monolithic dance floor encompassing nearly one-fourth of the huge cavern. The loud and energetic music attracted a horde of dancers swaying, gyrating, bumping and grinding into one another with an absolute perfect sexual tempo.  Small tables and short, comfortable barrel chairs surrounded the dance floor. Along three of the four walls were semicircle booths slightly elevated to give the occupants an unobstructed view of the entire room, but especially the dance floor.

The fourth wall, opposite the entrance, was comprised of a long bar which was also elevated above the dance floor. Customers stood sipping specialty cocktails and ice cold beer along the shiny black onyx surface. There were no barstools. The barkeeps and waitresses wore crisp, white shirts and obligatory bow ties. They seemed to glow with a ghostly, purple iridescence from the black lighting that flooded the room.

The DJ was good at his job, drawing enthusiastic crowds onto the dance floor and into an electric frenzy, bobbing and crashing like ripples and waves upon the shore. But one had to wonder what would draw so many people to this obscure building in this innocuous section of Juarez? The answer was revealed twice each night.

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The first show started promptly two hours after sundown. On cue, with synchronized choreography, the music changed, and powerful spotlights lit up five distinct areas of the dance floor, four just inside the outer edges and the fifth blindingly focused upon the very center of the room. The excited dancers scrambled to the edges of the polished surface anticipating what would come next. The dance floor now resembled an arena at a sporting event. With exacting timing, the four lit areas along the edges of the dance floor were filled with nubile, exotic dancers.

The DJ initiated a new song that always had a slow, pulsating beat, and with practiced grace the dancers smoothly glided and twirled as they gradually undressed, never leaving their individual spotlights. Each section of the crowd cheered its favorite, as the girls, precisely timing their every movement, stripped off the little clothing they wore. At the completion of the first song, all of the dancers were completely nude.

Most strip shows would have ended at this point, and the girls would have quickly left the stage to be followed by other beautiful girls performing remarkably similar routines. But at The Cave things were different. The now naked girls on the dance floor would begin to roam the edge of the arena, clockwise, their eyes searching the crowd.  No one was ever forced. It was strictly voluntary, and the girls were adept at choosing suitable partners…young, good looking, athletic… but, above all, enthusiastic. Of course, it didn’t really matter who was chosen to dance in the spotlights. It was the show that mattered.

Once the nude dancers had chosen their partners, the crowd focused its attention on the center light. An electric anticipation filled the room as everyone wondered who would be chosen as that night’s star performers. The DJ panned the crowd with a wandering spotlight looking for volunteers. He made a production of selecting the most beautiful woman among the throng, as well as an accommodating male partner, always tall and handsome. Remarkably no girl or man had ever refused to enter the central beam of light.

With all the spotlights now filled, the DJ began playing sultry, titillating music, and the volunteers quickly undressed and focused their attention on their naked partners.  Each highlighted individual couple maneuvered into well-known, but unrehearsed, moves and positions, tantalizing the lustful, drooling audience. The volunteer dancers and the near mob-like crowd were intent on only one thing… sexual satisfaction. 

Just watching usually fulfilled the voyeuristic fantasy of much of the crowd. Loud vulgar swear words were discouraged by the roaming bouncers always on the alert for trouble. However, it was not unusual to witness couples engaged in a broad spectrum of sexual activity in the darker confines of the The Cave, and occasionally a man or a woman could be seen masturbating in time with the music. The intense, sometimes perverse, displays being played out under the spotlights acted as the ultimate aphrodisiac.

It was pornographic entertainment in its purest form. Sex at The Cave was easy to see, easy to obtain. There was no script. It was not orchestrated and was completely uncensored. It was an old fashioned sexual orgy. The volunteers participated in a frenzy of sexual maneuvers and entertained the crowd, but very often the crowd was just as exciting to watch. The DJ was so adept at choosing music with just the right tempo that it became impossible to tell if the performers were controlled by the music or the music accelerated or slowed as it tried to keep pace with the dancers. But after four, or on a rare occasion five, songs all the happy chosen dancers had reached a satisfactory climactic conclusion.

Margaret would usually await the volunteers at the performance’s conclusion in the confines of a hospitality lounge where they would wash and redress. She always offered refreshments purchased from a nearby deli called Fred’s, assured them that the rest of the evening would be on the house, and though it seemed hardly