Grave Secrets

skirts to legs and hips. Overhead, palm fronds rose and fell with soft clicking sounds.

The Gucumatz was done in techno-Mayan, with dark wooden beams, plastic flora, and an artificial pond with arching bridge. Murals decorated every wall, most depicting the fifteenth-century Quiche king who’d lent his name to the place. I wondered how Feathered Serpent felt about the implied endorsement, but kept it to myself.

Lighting was by torch and candle, and entering was like passing into a Mayan tomb. As my pupils dilated, a parrot shrilled greetings in Spanish and English. So did a man in white shirt, black pants, and apron.

“Hola, Detective Galiano. Hello. ?Como esta?”

“Muy bien, Senor Velasquez.”

“Such a long time since we’ve seen you.”

An enormous mustache handle-barred over Velasquez’s mouth, plunged south at the sides, then curled back north as though reaching for his nostrils. I thought of an emperor tamarin.

“Working my tail off, senor.”

Velasquez wagged his head in understanding.

“Crime is so terrible today. Everywhere. Everywhere. The citizens of this city are privileged to have you on the job.”

Another sad head shake, then Velasquez took my hand and pressed it to his lips. The facial hair felt like steel wool.

“Bienvenido, senorita. A friend of Detective Galiano is always a friend of Velasquez.”

Releasing my fingers, he flashed both eyebrows at Galiano and winked theatrically.

“Por favor. My best table. Come. Come.”

Velasquez led us to his prize pond-side seating, turned and beamed at Galiano. The detective tipped his head toward the restaurant’s interior.

“Si, senor. Of course.”

Velasquez hurried us to an alcove constructed around a back corner, and gave Galiano a questioning look. My companion nodded. We entered the cave and sat. Another Groucho display for the great crime fighter, and our host withdrew.

“That was as subtle as a baboon’s ass,” I said.

“I apologize for the machismo of my brothers.”

Within seconds a waitress appeared with menus.

“Libation?” Galiano asked me.

Oh, yeah.

“Can’t do it.”

“Oh?”

“Over quota.”

Galiano did not question that.

He ordered a Grey Goose martini neat. I asked for Perrier with lime.

When the drinks arrived, we opened our menus. The lighting had gone from low to nonexistent with our relocation to the underworld, and I could hardly make out the handwritten text. I wondered about Galiano’s motive for the move, but didn’t ask.

“If you haven’t had caldos, I recommend it.”

“Caldos being…?”

“Traditional Mayan stew. Tonight they have duck, beef, and chicken.”

“Chicken.” I closed my menu. I couldn’t read it anyway.

Galiano chose beef.

The waitress brought tortillas. Galiano took one, offered the basket.

“Gracias,” I said.

“When?” He settled back into his chair.

I’d missed a bridge somewhere.

“When?” I repeated his question.

“When did you burn your allotment?”

I made the connection, but had no intention of discussing my love affair with alcohol.

“A few years back.”

“Friend of Bill Wilson?”

“I’m not a joiner.”

“A lot of people rely on AA.”