J is for Judgement

to turn down a free vacation?
    The picture of the Hacienda Grande de Viento Negro showed a three-storied structure with a stretch of dark beach faintly visible in the foreground. The blurb under the photograph boasted of a restaurant, two bars, and a heated swimming pool, with recreational activities that included tennis, snorkling, deep-sea fishing, a bus tour of the town, and complimentary margaritas.
    The woman in the next seat was reading over my shoulder. I nearly shielded my paper as if she were cheating on a test. She was in her forties, very thin, very tanned, and sleek. She wore her black hair in a French braid and was dressed in a black pants suit with a tan shell underneath. There was not a hint of color on her anyplace. "Are you headed for VN?"
    "Yes. Do you know the area?"
    "Yes, I do, and I hope you're not planning to stay there," she said. She was pointing at the brochure with a little moue of distaste.
    "What's the matter with the place? It looks fine to me"
    She pushed her tongue along the inside of her cheek as though she were checking her gums. Her brow lifted slightly. "It's your money, I guess."
    "Actually, it's someone else's money. This is business," I said.
    She nodded, clearly unconvinced. She occupied herself with her magazine, a look on her face like she was trying not to butt in. After a moment I saw her murmur a comment to the man on her right. Her traveling companion, in the window seat, had a wad of Kleenex hanging out of one nostril, stanching a nose bleed that had apparently been induced by increasing cabin pressure as the plane prepared for takeoff. The twist of tissue looked like a fat hand-rolled cigarette. He leaned forward slightly to get a better look at me.
    I turned my attention to the woman again. "Really. Is there a problem?"
    "I'm sure it's fine," she said faintly.
    "Depending on how you feel about dust, humidity, and bugs," the man interjected.
    I laughed... heh, heh, heh ... on the assumption that he was kidding. Neither one of them cracked a smile.
    Belatedly, I learned that viento negro means "black wind," a fair description of the blizzard of dark lava soot that swirled up from the beach late every afternoon. The hotel was modest, an upside down V-shape painted apricot yellow with little balconies across the front. Alternate patios had planters affixed to the railings with bougainvillea tumbling down in a waterfall of magenta. The room was clean but faintly shabby, looking out across the Gulf of California to the east.
    For two days I cruised both the Hacienda Grande and the town of Viento Negro, looking for anyone who even halfway resembled the five-year-old photographs of Wendell Jaffe. If all else failed, I could try to quiz the staff in my amateur Spanish, but I worried that one of them might tip him off to the inquiry. If he was there, that is. I hung out by the pool, loitered in the hotel lobby, took the shuttle into town. I tried all the tourist attractions: the sunset cruise, a snorkling expedition, a bumpy ass-agonizing jaunt on a rented all-terrain vehicle, roaring up and down dusty mountain trails. I tried the two other hotels in the area, local restaurants, and l bars. I sampled the nightly entertainment at the hotel where I was staying, all the discos, all the shops. There was no sign of him.
    I finally managed to get a call through to Mac at home and filled him in on my efforts to date. "This is costing a lot of money if he's already blown out of here . . . assuming your friend actually saw Wendell Jaffe in the first place."
    "Dick swore it was him."
    "After five long years?"
    "Look, just keep at it for another couple of days. If he doesn't turn up by the end of the week, you can head home."
    "Happy to oblige. I just like to warn you when I don't get results."
    "I understand that. Keep trying."
    "You're the boss," I said. I learned to like the town, which was a ten-minute taxi ride from the hotel down a dusty two-lane road. Most construction I passed was in a state of incompletion, raw cinder block and rebar abandoned to the weeds. A once stunning view of the harbor was obscured now by condominiums, and the streets were filled with tots selling Chiclets for a hundred pesos apiece. Dogs napped in the sunshine, sprawling on the sidewalks wherever it suited them, apparently trusting the local citizens to leave them unmolested. The store-fronts that lined the main street were painted harsh blues and yellows, bright reds and parrot greens, as gaudy as jungle