Angels in Heaven

Benny said. “I always thought it was the other guys.”
    “Well, Benny, even you don’t know
everything,” I said. “And besides, it’s been a closely kept family secret for
ages.” Even the twerp was amused at that one, although she rolled her eyes
heavenward in mock disbelief.
    After we’d landed at Mérida, we
caught a cab to the hotel, where we all changed into apparel more suitable for
the business types we were supposed to be—me and Benny in suits; a skirt and
blouse for Doris—and then we walked the few blocks to our office building. We
said kola to Fred, who was reading a tattered old Mexican wrestling
magazine, as we passed his desk, caught the elevator, opened up the office, and
then me and Benny went into conference in the inner room, while Doris plopped
herself down at her desk and started bringing her diary up to date, which literary
work I seriously doubted would ever rival Pepys’.
    I began the conference by asking
Benny what the time was. He looked at his watch and announced it was a quarter
after four.
    “Do you think lunchtime is over now
up at Febrero Segundo?”
    “I should think so,” he said. He went
over and opened one of the windows to air the place out a bit.
    “OK,” I said. “Here is what we are
going to do, or rather what you are going to do while I sit back and admire
your prowess.” I got out the local phone book and after several red herrings
finally found a number for Febrero Segundo under “Governmental
Services—Provincial.” Then I switched on the intercom connecting the offices
and asked Doris to please join us if she could bear to tear herself away from
her purple prose for a minute or two. I jotted a few words down on the slip of
paper with the jail’s phone number on it, then explained to Benny the gist of
what he should say to Lt. Esparza and what we wanted from him.
    When Doris slouched in, I handed her
the piece of paper, which she looked at with a mild show of interest.
    “Doris,” I said. “Would you get a Lt.
Joaquín Esparza on the phone at that number, my little chickadee? What you say
is written underneath: ‘Lt. Joaquín Esparza, por favor, Sr. Keith aqui,’ which means, “Mr. Keith here.” Then when you get him, you say, ‘Momento, por
favor,’ and Benny’ll take over. ¿ Comprende? ”
    She tossed her phony curls, turned,
and went back out to her desk to use the phone there. Benny picked up the one
on my desk.
    “Anytime, Doris dear,” I called out.
    She dialed. She said to whoever
answered, “Lt. Joaquín Esparza, por favor.” There was a pause. Then Doris called out, “What’s he saying?”
    Benny called back to her, “He’s
saying he’s out of his office at the moment.”
    “Even better,” I said. “Benny, leave
a message asking him to call back, like we said.”
    Benny nodded.
    “Thank you, Miss Day, that’ll be
all,” he said into the phone. “I’ll take over.” Then he asked whoever it was on
the other end to kindly ask the lieutenant on his return to call Mr. Keith,
whom he met briefly the day before, at the United States Cultural Association,
spelling out the difficult bits. Then he said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
    Doris came back in immediately. “You really are a
bunch of totally dim bulbs,” she said scathingly. “Why didn’t you leave him our
office number?”
    “Oh, damn!” I said. “Benny, how could
you be so thick? God almighty, you’ve ruined everything.”
    Benny looked suitably crestfallen.
    “If he looks up the number in the
book, as he probably will,” Doris steamed on, “that Ethel downstairs will
probably invite him to The Nutty Professor. I don’t believe you guys
sometimes.”
    “Doris,” I said. “Would you do me a
small favor, please? Pretty please?”
    “I doubt it,” she said, wandering
around the room looking for something to break or throw or spill.
    “When the phone rings, as it will
shortly do, answer it by saying sweetly, ‘U.S.C.A., good afternoon’—or ‘buenas
tardes,’ if you so desire.”
    She directed a suspicious look at me.
    “OK, big shot,” she said, marching
over to my desk and glaring down at me. “What’s goin’ down?”
    “Why nothing, darlin’,” I said,
trying to look as innocent as Benny always does. “Can’t a busy executive expect
a call? Now simmer down and trust your elders and wisers and go back and
scribble some more in that searing, scorching diary of yours, the book that
tells it like it never was, the tome that plumbs new