Teeth of the Cocodrilo

By E. R. Yatscoff

AUTHOR SHOUT 2024 Recommended Read Award.
4.0 out of 5 stars "A punch of an adventure novel!" C. Hoag, author of The Blood Room.
Aaron Landers, Canadian ex-pat only wants to grow his Mexican dive tour business until one fateful turn at a vehicle accident scene binds him to the Yucatan State Police commandant, Luis Guiterrez. The two hatch a simple, easy money scheme and begin a descent down a dark road into a hard world In Cancun. Unbeknownst to Aaron, the commandant is being extorted and his need for more money ups the ante. An anonymous group in Canada asks Aaron to locate a pedophile for big bucks. With the backing of Luis, Aaron sets it up but Luis wrests control and it becomes an international crime. There is no turning back. Meanwhile, Aaron falls hard for Maria, an alluring Mexican woman whose own past is bound to the commandant and her vindictive estranged husband, Hernando. Trying to win Maria's heart, Aaron embarks on a deadly path and ignites a chain of terrible events. When an oil executive decides makes an offer to Luis and Aaron for getting rid of a competitor, the man gets swept up and spit out, leaving Aaron ruing the day he turned north on carretera 307 and met Luis. Now Aaron has become what he never thought he could; a murderous avenging angel trapped by circumstances with no way out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. R. Yatscoff
• Release date: Jun 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994750457

E. R. Yatscoff

Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award finalist, John Bilsland non-fiction award, Canada Book Award Winner and Author Shout 2023 honorable mention. Most mysteries and suspense novels have to do with cops, lawyers, and PIs. My protagonist is a firefighter and is the first firefighter pulp fiction in Canada. True grit and reality are my writing tenets.My juvenile/middle grade/chapter books have no magic wands, wise talking creatures, vampires, or parallel worlds. I write stories about children, not so much specifically for children. Many adults enjoy my writing because of this. My stories are about unassuming boys who get in trouble and must prove themselves and show the world they have hearts of lions. There's fighting, conflict, loyalty, bullies, integrity, and courage. I've read samples to Grade 4 and 5 students and garnered excellent reviews.I was born in Welland, Ontario and now live in Alberta. Backpacked the world on the Hippie Trail and lived in Australia. I've worked as a paperboy, grocery clerk, sales rep, all types of construction work, painter, mink ranch hand, assembly line rubber factory, cherry picker, freelance astronaut (no offers), boilermaker apprentice, delivery driver, father, coach, and career firefighter and officer for 32 years. I've also played drums in the Black Gold Big Band for 8 years.I retired as fire captain with Edmonton Fire Rescue, a large Canadian metro fire service. I live in Beaumont, Alberta with Gloria, whom I met on a freighter/passenger ship from Jakarta to Singapore. I've climbed the Great Wall of China, been down and out living in Australia, honeymooned with Gloria during the Grenada Revolution and saw Maurice Bishop, snorkeled with a marlin, almost smuggled a Playboy into Communist Russia, tossed eggs at an Aussie PM, was in Havana when Fidel shocked Cubans and stepped down. My wife made a pot of tea for the Queen of England in N.Z.I travel widely, do a bit of fishing and boating, drink demon rum, manage a writers group, do occasional renos, and sit on my butt outside in the good weather reading a decent book. My writing work consists of travel articles, YA, juvenile, how-tos, and has garnered several awards. Check out my website for some excellent short stories.

Book preview

Teeth Of The Cocodrilo

by

E. R. Yatscoff

Copyright 2019 by E.R. Yatscoff

Cover art by TG& R Books

A Smashwords eBook

ISBN 0994750455 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Dedication

Special thanks to the Beaumont Writers Group for their hard work, honesty, and humor. Edna Gerri - Em Poppel - Kim Kroening - Diane Tolley.

And my astute Beta reader - Sherry Tracey

Also gracias to the wonderful people of Mexico

To Gloria, my gal.

Check out more great books by E.R. Yatscoff available in all formats

Adult Crime - firefighter crime/action

FINAL RESPONSE FIRE DREAM MAN ON FIRE

All ages

THE RUMRUNNER’S BOY (Arthur Ellis Award Finalist)

Young Reader Books – MG and YA crime and adventure

Archie’s Gold The Blob…In My Shoes

VooDoo Bully Ransom

Out On A Limb The Far Bank

Visit the author’s website to see all his novels.

El que con lobos anda, a aullar se enseña.

He who runs with wolves will learn to howl.

Chapter 1

"Gracias," said Aaron Landers, as he took his paper plate of empanadas and parted the line of taxi drivers and construction workers queued up to buy lunch. He made his way to a concrete parking stop to sit and unwrap the spicy black bean snacks.

Street vendors cooked behind their carts filling the air with aromas of onions and meat and spices. Many tourists avoided street food believing it to be toxic. The vendors sure as hell weren’t about to poison their neighbors and friends. They were mostly family affairs with the mother and father cooking and taking food orders, while the kids readied plates, napkins, and cleaned up the little fold-up tables. The primo location sat beside the bus station and the nearby Playa del Carmen Wal-Mart. After the lunch hour, many of the carts shut down which allowed their kids to return to school.

Aaron looked across at a construction site where a future condo would rise. Sometimes he’d stop to watch the workers and shake his head at the lack of pilings. He often wondered how long his own condo rental would last. Aaron wiped sweat from his brow and crumpled his napkin. While inhaling one last lungful of charcoal smoke and sweet onions, he mounted his 125 cc Suzuki feeling late morning heat rise from the asphalt and sidewalks.

He was grateful for the wind racing past his ears when he turned onto the Federal Carretera 307. A week’s worth of groceries to stock his Maroma Beach condo was secured in the rear bike carrier. Plenty of loud semis passed him, blowing dirty exhaust around the busy four-laner. He debated swinging onto the shoulder where it was safer, but that would require dodging scattered detritus of foliage from last night’s blow. A few palm trees along the wide center median had their long fronds hanging by a thread, swaying in the traffic’s turbulence.

Aaron looked forward to the late afternoon and a short trip to Cancun airport to pick up a tour group of firefighters for their week of R & R in the Mayan Riviera. After an orientation during the bus ride to the small Mamitas Beach Hotel in Playa del Carmen, they’d kick off their week with a 'Welcome to Mexico' party.

Maria Vasquez, a local woman and a real looker he’d met almost a year ago, hinted she would like to accompany him, check out the situation this afternoon—finally. Aaron was working on her, applying some pressure in the hope she’d come on board full-time for the parties and tours. He couldn't understand why she was so hesitant. The woman was always on his mind more than almost anything else.

Ahh, Maria. A Mexican beauty. A knockout, a head-turning woman who somehow had become an obsession. Her bubbly personality and smile; the way she affectionately touched his forearm when she spoke was part of it. Most of all it was how she looked deep into his eyes, causing his cynical heart to melt, making him forget about a long engagement that he ended last year at home in Canada. There was nothing for him back there. His parents had passed on several years ago and only his sister remained there. Growing up, he was never close to her as she had moved out of the house soon after high school and settled in Calgary. They had nothing in common, not even looks. Sure, he had a few friends up there, colleagues he’d see occasionally when they’d come down for some R & R. Mexico was it, the be-all, end-all. Canada slowly faded in the rear-view mirror.

His Mayan Classic Tours company was beginning to grow, at times encroaching on his leisure time of scouting dive areas near Cozumel and south just over the border in Belize. The sport was a low-impact activity easy on his back and shoulder.

While working for Edmonton Fire Rescue he had slipped off a roof. While chain sawing a vent hole in a snow-covered roof during a house fire three years ago he fell to the ground resulting in a few cracked vertebrae and a broken shoulder. No more heavy lifting for this smoke-eater. The shoulder injury still gave him pain when he pushed his body too much. Thankfully, the frightening dreams of falling off roofs were fading. Someone told him if he ever hit the ground in the dreams, he wouldn’t be waking up.

Aaron was able to take a leave of absence to see if he could start a business in Mexico; a place he fell in love with over the years. That period ended and if he decided to return to work, he'd have to go into the fire inspection branch—or become a Mexican fire chief. He laughed at the thought.

A few years back, as fate would have it while jogging along the beach in Puerto Morelos, he met an old friend of his father, who owned a nearby Maroma Beach condo. The man apologized for not attending his father’s funeral. Aaron’s father suffered a massive heart attack while pruning hedges. The man offered the condo whenever he wanted in return for some renos.

Aaron’s mom had passed three years after her husband’s death from a blood disease. His parents used to occupy his thoughts almost hourly, but these days they came to him most when he called upon them in introspective moments. A few years later after several trips to the Mayan Rivera and the awesome swimming beside whale sharks, Aaron began to organize his first diving excursions. Word got around and firefighters across Western Canada were eager to return. Thus, the creation of Mayan Classic Tours and his first promotions during a few emergency equipment trade shows touring Canada. He catered to the fire rescue service. This year would be an initial foray into the U.S. trying to drum up more business in the off-season.

Aaron's phone began to vibrate. He pulled over at a white concrete bus shelter close to where two men set up folding tables and unloaded large bags of oranges. He spoke on the phone with Manuel, confirming the four o’clock Cancun airport arrival. Manuel, his favorite cabbie, considered Maroma Beach and its resort as his territory. Many residents knew him. After ending the call, Aaron observed several locals waiting for the northbound Cancun bus at the concrete shelter. Their thumbs flitted as they texted, oblivious to the world. He regretted buying oranges from the supermarket but pulled an orange from one of the shopping bags and unsheathed a firefighter knife from his belt. Carrying the knife was a habit he’d kept from his firefighter days. The scent of the juicy orange filled his lungs as he sliced into it.

A resounding smash and screech of metal attracted his attention.

About a block and a half away, objects were flung everywhere as a car and cube van collided. In a thin cloud of dust, a black car spun around on its side with a horrendous scraping against the road. A billboard on the roadway median shuddered and dropped on one end as its post was severed and impaled the car.

The white cube van lurched on two wheels, its back doors flung open upon impact. Groceries and goods were strewn across the road and onto the grassy center median. Dust and smoke rose from the scene. A man emerged from the cube van, staggering on the roadway like a drunk, holding his head. Steam rose from under the hood.

The world plunged into an eerie silence.

Everyone at the bus stop looked there, processing the scene, then broke their silence, chattering and texting madly. A few lifted their devices hoping for a picture. A tire rolled across the highway. Northbound cars beside him on the highway slowed, then crawled forward.

Aaron dropped the orange, fired up the Suzuki, and gunned the engine. Two men at the bus shelter ended their texts and dashed toward the scene. Vehicles blocked both northbound lanes, so he swung onto the shoulder. A spike of horror hit Aaron when he neared the scene and spotted liquid pooling under the black car. He cursed. The rescue threatened to be a recovery. He cursed. With luck, the liquid would be plain antifreeze. This wasn’t a great location for a fire-involved accident as it was between major centers of Playa del Carmen and Cancun. Nearby little Puerto Morelos, a small sleepy beach town, might not even have a fire truck.

The cube van appeared to have rammed the rear quarter panel of the car and spun it around coming to rest halfway onto the grassy median. One of its front tires was torn off, its hot oil pan down on the dry grass. The impact almost ripped away the car’s trunk, separated the axle from the frame, and likely ruptured the gas tank.

It reminded Aaron of a vehicle accident he’d seen years ago when half the car separated behind the driver’s seat and skidded across the intersection looking like an abandoned carnival ride. It must have been an impromptu, insane carnival ride for the two passengers in the rear seat. When his crew pulled up, one of the guys in his crew joked in a carny guy’s voice, Do you wanna go faster, kids?

Aaron braked, set his motorbike against a palm tree, and removed a flare from under his motorcycle seat. He hit the striker and flung it down the highway over the blocked vehicles. No movement came from inside the black Mercedes sedan as he approached.

An orange light flickered from under the cube van’s engine compartment. The short grass on the median ignited. Aaron felt a surge of adrenalin jacking into his bloodstream as he dashed to the car.

A woman, in the driver’s seat, hung from the seat belt, her head down. The billboard on the median advertising Bimbo bread teetered on one post like a crippled animal. A length of the other post had rammed through the rear window of her car. Its end rested on the dashboard beside the woman’s shoulder. Aaron had seen stranger things before.

Passersby were already comforting the stunned man from the cube van. A semi-truck driver stopped in the southbound lane and scrambled across the median with a small fire extinguisher.

Aaron climbed up onto the upset car and looked inside. Shit, two boys were in the back seat, one’s legs laying over the other. The bigger boy had a head wound and torn ear from the billboard post flying past him. Both vibrated in shock, eyes bouncing as if they were rabbits about to be devoured by a monster.

He checked the woman’s carotid artery for a pulse through her open window. No blood flowed from her torn cheek and mouth. Several of her teeth were on her dark dress and a length of her gums was gone. No pulse. He pushed his fingers deeper. Her face was a mask of blood, red splashed over her silk black dress. Her well-manicured fingers displayed rings with colored gemstones. Whomever she was, she had a few bucks and didn’t shop at Wal-Mart. A passing glance into the rear-view mirror revealed his strained face. Like old times again, he thought, as if nothing had occurred in the years between then and now. He stretched further down trying to pop her seat belt, but her body and side airbags hampered his efforts.

In the corner of his eye, he spotted white smoke rising from the median and a stronger smell of gasoline.

Aaron felt the heat of an exhaust pipe come through his cheap sandals and slid off the vehicle to face a crowd of bystanders. He felt his shoulder begin to throb. For just one moment, he wished he had a magic lamp, demand the genie bring in his old Edmonton fire rescue crew. ‘Poof’; one firefighter on a hose line, one stabilizing the vehicle, and another with a trauma kit and oxygen equipment ready to attend to the patients. Most of all, some protective duty gear. Shorts and sandals weren’t going to cut it.

The truck driver with the extinguisher pulled the trigger and became obscured by the powder cloud. The expanding grass fire, however, wasn’t paying attention. Flames had already spread to the rear of the car and up the billboard seeking to bake the puffy white Bimbo mascot.

Aaron yelled and pantomimed to the crowd a pushing motion. For a moment, they merely stood there hesitant or afraid until he pantomimed a push motion. The smell of burnt hair went up his nose as flames whipped around from the back of the car to lick at his legs. He howled and danced and beckoned the onlookers.

"Empujar! Push! he cried. Rapido!"

His action and words clicked with them at the same time. Someone tossed a blanket down over the flames, smothering them. Several men stepped forward and began to rock the vehicle.

Uno! Dos! Tres!

With a final heave, the vehicle teetered off its side and onto its tires in a muffled whump of metal springs and squashed tires. The boys in the back seat stopped quivering, probably due to the jolt of the car righting itself. One of the boys muttered aloud while the other keened in a high pitch.

Flames crept up near the trunk of the car. Sirens rose and fell far down the highway. The gathered crowd spoke louder, their words urgent, panicky. A few women held hands over their mouths.

Aaron tried to wrench open the smashed back door but had no luck, except to cause a white spike of pain to explode from his shoulder. Someone ran over with a tire iron and smashed the glass. Aaron took it from the man and cleared the remaining glass crumbles from around the frame. He reached for his knife and ducked into the window and began sawing through the seat belt of the boy closest to him.

The crowd shouted, agitated, as flames reappeared from under the vehicle to lick at Aaron’s bare legs. He jumped back, cursing his decision this morning to wear shorts. A man threw another blanket on the flames.

In he went again and sawed faster, finally cutting through, causing the boy to flop against the door. Aaron reached in to haul on the boy, trying to ignore the screaming pain from his shoulder. He felt a solid bump against his good shoulder and saw a uniformed policeman beside him, reaching in. They got the boy out awkwardly. The policeman handed the boy off to the crowd.

The window on the far side had flames already licking at the door. Aaron crawled through the window, his pelvis on the door frame, and was able to reach in enough to release the seat belt. He seized the boy’s arm but dropped his knife on the seat and began to haul on the boy. The policeman tried to squeeze in but couldn’t.

"Ayudar! Help!" called Aaron. Feeling his shoulder about to give out, he stepped away. Someone from the crowd pointed to Aaron’s legs and tossed a bottle of water at him. He picked it up and dribbled it down his hot legs, feeling the relief.

The policeman turned to the crowd and shouted, rallying some men, before he turned back to the window.

Aaron jammed his upper body in again with renewed grit. The rescue, it was all about the rescue, nothing else matters, he thought. Standing on his toes he seized the boy’s leg which had flopped across the seat when the vehicle had been righted. Feeling the heat scream up his legs, he grabbed the boy’s jeans as helping hands sprouted between Aaron’s horizontal torso and the window frame, grabbing, clenching the leg. One leg, then another and finally the boy emerged. The crowd clapped and cheered as they carried him out of danger.

A tall man with coveralls tried to haul the dead woman out the window.

"Muerta, she is dead," Aaron said, shaking his head. The now gasoline-soaked blankets ignited. Aaron tried to get closer to help the man, but the heat and pain were too much.

He shouted for more blankets, but one look at the rising flames told him it’d be useless. He spied the red flasher of a fire truck racing toward them southbound on the opposing lanes blocked by rubber-neckers. The woman would be partially immolated by the time any water arrived. More fire extinguishers from more truck drivers were deployed, creating a cloud of white powder and snowy CO2 flakes. For a few seconds, it appeared the fire was beaten down, but the extinguishers were too small for all the spreading fuel, and the orange beast needed food.

A woman offered Aaron a bottle of water and guided him over to sit on a semi-truck’s running board where he felt back pain join in harmony with his raging shoulder. He could only look on as black smoke and flames engulfed the Mercedes.

The policeman herded people back cognizant of a possible explosion from a gas tank. The crowd was slow to back away until a tire blew, like a shotgun going off.

Manuel his cabbie appeared in front of him. "Señor Landers, policía want to ask about woman."

Hey there, Manuel. What are you doing here?

Manuel indicated his white taxi. "Taking someone to Playa. The mujer?"

Aaron shook his head. "She’s got no pulse. Muerta, dead." Adrenaline drained from him in several long shivers. He watched firefighters begin to douse the vehicle, steam clouds obscuring the car.

"S'okay, Señor Landers. I see, estás bien?"

Aaron nodded. Manuel turned to speak to a policeman who looked at Aaron and nodded somberly. The policeman took down some info and left. Manuel helped Aaron to his feet. Put something on your legs, said Manuel. "You hurt. I drive you home. I care for you moto."

An ambulance and more policemen parted the crowd as Aaron trudged over to Manuel’s taxi, exhausted, shivering in the hot Mexican sun. As he’d done in his career as a firefighter, he’d try and put this out of mind with the rest of the trauma cases he’d seen, banishing it to a deep dark place.

On the way home and throughout the night he couldn’t shake a feeling this was the beginning of something, not the end.

Chapter 2

Late the next morning, Aaron stood on his second-floor balcony slathering aloe gobs on his singed legs again as he did all yesterday. Shortly after the accident, his legs suffered from sagging blisters full of fluid like deflated balloons indicating second-degree burns. His shins and calves were bright crimson flares.

He looked out across the low rooflines, through the palms to the Cozumel Channel so achingly blue it hurts his eyes. Some days he pondered doing a night chain sawing foray on two of the palms to increase his view. Across the channel stood the distant outline of white hotels edging Cozumel Island. He could almost see the dark spot under the gin-clear water where a shoal lay, home to scores of succulent lobster and a few grouper; the location oblivious to locals. Aaron liked to borrow old Felipe’s panga for a few hours, load it with his diving gear, anchor there for a time, and return home with a fat catch. Below his balcony lay the small parking lot of the condo with his Suzuki on its kickstand, just as Manuel had promised.

Mexican pop music drifted over to him from somewhere down the avenida. A bus sped by on the adjacent road heading for the small resort. The fifty-strong firefighter tour group—his biggest group yet—didn’t arrive yesterday due to a prairie snowstorm delay. Some new weather term—a polar vortex—was blamed. They would be arriving today, though. A lucky break for Aaron as the strain and pain from the accident had exhausted him.

Maria was already paying dividends even though today was simply to check out the situation. She told him she’d hired the Chachos mariachi band for the welcome party, a much better group than the one Aaron usually hired. She knew one of the players and convinced them they wouldn’t be working just for tips either. You get what you pay for. Aaron had seen the Chachos strolling along the 5th Avenida strip most evenings, playing to dining tourists at outdoor eateries. They wore snazzy outfits, white pants, vests with red piping, and big sombreros. Today the players would have to rush over after their day jobs as the gig was a bit earlier than usual for them. Aaron told her to pay them a bit more for their effort.

He went inside to make a salami sandwich and cracked open a Sol beer before returning to the balcony. White clouds looking like three leaning snowmen scudded across the Caribbean sky. His thoughts wandered to his last winter in Alberta, doing a ‘spin-a-rama’ on the icy highway and skidding into the ditch, just east of Banff. Savage wind. Brutal cold. If he never saw weather like that again he’d be a happy man.

Thinking of roads brought to mind yesterday's vehicle accident, something Aaron didn’t want to dwell on. Two boys were now without a mother. He wished he could have at least pulled her out. Rescuers always felt a loss for deaths encountered on duty, even those who were impossible to save. Fire rescue officers encouraged their crews to put any deaths out of their minds as quickly as possible. For Aaron, it required a week or so of doing something distracting like swimming, jogging, or hitting the gym hard. The occasional incident could stay in the head for years. Piled on year after year, some found it simply too much to handle.

Time for some PTSD therapy, Landers style. He went inside and fired up a joint, planning to listen to some slow violin concerto and nod off for a power nap. The particular weed Manuel supplied for him worked well to dull the pain from yesterday. He inhaled the smoke deeply, feeling the throbbing shoulder and flaring sting in his legs recede like a tide. Not all of it, but to the point where it was background. Outside a light ocean breeze brushed through the wind chimes. He sat on his chaise lounge and closed his eyes, drifting into a pleasing Eden.

The condo owner, his father’s old friend, developed health issues and couldn’t afford travel health insurance any longer. Aaron leased it for a dirt-cheap rate in return for paying the condo fees, some renos, and basic maintenance. Three months ago, he’d torn out the hideous lino and laid down some ceramic tile. The unit was a decent two-bedroom on the second floor with a small pool out back. He liked being three blocks from the water and the small dock while having careterra access to either Cancun or Playa del Carmen just off the beach road. There was a good possibility to buy the condo sometime down the road. The owner’s sole offspring, Derek could care less about Mexico or traveling anywhere for that matter. Although he did turn up unexpectedly last week for some fishing. Aaron suspected it was to check up on things as the man constantly bitched about the heat and trashed Mexicans in general. Aaron showed him the ten-year lease and the man shut up pretty quick about ‘changing things around here’.

Aaron’s mind ran again to Maria Vasquez, his sweet azucar, sugar, and their future meeting when she'd tag along to check out his job offer. He could pay her a bit more for her car rental office job. She’d be working less, and he’d rescue her from the little sweat box office. He broached the subject a few times, but she was hesitant, not saying why, always changing the subject. Aaron suspected it might be something to do with her ex-husband, Hernando, a window installer in Cancun, and a crazy jealous man; the unfortunate baggage she carried. Aaron figured they would be crossing swords someday.

Maybe he could convince Maria over a fancy Italian dinner. For a woman who enjoyed flirting she sure could be a prude at times. Public displays of affection were taboo, more so with Aaron being a gringo. But when he did manage to steal a kiss or embrace, he was over the moon. She was an intoxicating woman. In a perfect world, after the business talk and dinner, they’d end up at his place and, as the British say, he'd give her a good ‘rogering’. A man can only dream and she was his dream weaver almost every night.

Whenever he was in Playa del Carmen he’d always pop in on her at either the car rental office or at the open-air clothing shop where she sold traditional clothing to tourists. Seeing her always tended to perk him up a bit. She had to support Delfina, her clever and gorgeous five-year-old daughter, who called him Señor Helados, Mr. Ice Cream because he’d always take the cute kid for a waffle cone. Delfina and Aaron fenced over pronunciations and idioms, in English and Spanish, having fun mispronouncing words or making up new ones.

"I thought your madre had a ‘dolphin’ but it was only you, Dolphina," he said, eliciting a long series of giggles from the little girl.

"Del-fina," she said, in mock anger.

Aaron finished the weed and flicked the butt out onto the balcony. He set his laptop alarm for a two-hour power nap, with a gradual fade-in of violins. He drew in a series of long controlled breaths, adjusted the angle of the chaise lounge, and floated away.

Vehicles skidded into the parking lot below.

A rapid slamming of car doors.

Aaron opened his eyes, frowning at the disturbance. He stood halfway up and glanced down to the far end of the parking lot.

Shit. A spike of fear jolted him. Two police cars.

He bolted from his chaise lounge and looked over at his Italian neighbor’s balcony. Arsentio or Arseholio hated the smell of marijuana, and always threatened to call the police. What a prick. The man was a retired mayor of some tiny village in Calabria. Aaron looked it up and discovered Calabria was the state comprising the ‘toe’ of Italy.

So, you’re like the Big Toe of Calabria?

That, and calling him Super Mario were his main hot buttons. Arsentio’s enormous gut appeared as if he was shoplifting a sea turtle under his shirt. Supported by skinny legs that looked like pins, his forward progress began with leaning forward. A cartoon-like character manifesting itself in a human.

Whenever Arseholio smelled burning weed the argument was on, begun by the Italian tossing some trash onto Aaron’s balcony.

"It’s medical marijuana, Arseholio, said Aaron. I feel a pain comin’ on."

My name is Arsentio! he’d respond indignantly.

Yeah, but pronounced Arseholio in Canadian, eh?

Aaron scrambled around inside for his bag of stash, his brain racing like a hamster on a wheel. Police, marijuana possession, foreign prison, the Canadian embassy…all spelled panic and fear.

He took the three-gram plastic bag and tossed it out to the balcony where it hit the wind chimes and deflected onto Arseholio’s nearby balcony. Aaron cursed and dashed back inside to crank up the ceiling fan. He took a tabletop fan from the closet when a rapping sounded at his door.

Not just rapping. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Insistent and demanding, as if from a giant’s hand, rattling glasses on his kitchen counter.

No one knocks on a door like that except cops and firefighters.

"Uno momento!" said Aaron, jamming in the fan’s plug.

Loud voices out in the hallway. The raps grew even stronger.

He didn’t want his door kicked in, so he toggled on the fan and sprayed some coconut tanning oil over his t-shirt and the room to disguise the smell.

He opened the door a crack and looked at two uniformed police officers standing there. The taller of them jammed his heavy black boot in the crevice and levered it wider with a black steel baton. Aaron conceded and opened it fully, figuring he was already busted. The policeman leaned over the threshold and glanced inside with darting eyes.

"Eres Señor Landers?" he asked and ducked back a half step into the hall.

"Sí, I am Señor Landers."

Aaron heard some footsteps coming up the nearby stairs down the hallway. He looked over the policeman’s shoulder to see a stockier man in a much fancier uniform approach. Gold-edged shoulder epaulets, brass buttons, five gold bars on his sleeves…wow, thought Aaron, a real Generalissimo.

The policemen exchanged murmured words and departed to the stairs while el Generalissimo approached the door. He gestured with a hand out in a silent request for admission.

Aaron was about to say no, worried about the marijuana smell, but the man stepped inside past Aaron in a wake of aftershave. The man’s pressed uniform was perfect. His black hair combed back under the sides of his cap looked like strands of wire. He appeared as if he could go on parade before royalty. Aaron’s eyes shifted to the gloss on the man’s heavy shoes making him wonder how long it took a rookie cop to spit-shine them.

El Generalissimo stopped a few steps in and turned to face Aaron. I am Luis Gutiérrez Commandant of the Quintana Roo State Police. He looked Aaron up and down. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?

Aaron crossed his arms and shook his head. Uh no, sorry. I don’t read the fashion magazines, he thought. El Generalissimo was a pretty close