Siddhartha’s Socket

By D.K. Clark

A jaded toy designer, Fergus Finney, is unwittingly sucked into the theft of an unusual ancient Maya sculpture from a museum in Copán, Honduras. The artifact--a crystal skull with one ruby eye--trades hands several times as several characters—with conflicting motives—maneuver to obtain it, moving from Honduras to Los Angeles, Puerto Vallarta, Shanghai, Xi'an, and Lahore. Eventually we learn the skull connects the Maya to the Chinese Tang Dynasty and other ancient cultures. The skull, it seems, is not just any skull.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.K. Clark
• Release date: Sep 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466050488

D.K. Clark

D. K. Clark is a polymath living in Tinseltown.

Book preview

Chapter 1

About three hundred and fifty-thousand children are born every day in our world, most of whom are little tyrants, incessantly crying, scheming, and fighting. Once in a great while, one child is different, pure as a gemstone.

Lata was such a child. Her constant smile, like a heavenly flu, instantly infected everyone she met, and they smiled in return. She had never cried, even as an infant.

What did I do to deserve such a child? thought Chela, as she kissed Lata’s twelve-year-old forehead goodnight. She looked absently out the window, at the inky shapes of trees against the night sky. She knew she didn’t deserve Lata, but then, she couldn’t think of anyone who deserved such a child.

The doorbell rang.

Chela flinched. No one ever rang their doorbell unexpectedly. Their house was tucked at the end of cul-de-sac, high in the Hollywood Hills. You had to be looking for their street to find it.

She didn’t bother to look through the door’s peephole. When she opened the door, three men rushed in. One held her arms, one covered her mouth before she could scream, and one pointed a gun at her nose.

Keep calm and you won’t get hurt, said the man with the gun. All we want is the luggage your boss brought back. Is he here?

She nodded.

Where?

She nodded toward a hall on her left.

The gunman whispered something in Spanish. More men quietly rushed in. They all wore the same chocolate jumpsuits and ski masks. They crept down the hall, found him quickly, and brought him back to the front door.

"Where’s the luggage you just brought back? Dejalo que hable. Let him talk."

Fergus looked at the men. There must have been 20, all with dark brown eyes except the gunman, whose eyes were a light smoky blue. Fergus was sure he’d seen those eyes and heard that voice before.

I don’t understand. It’s empty.

Where is it, goddamn it?!

It’s in the garage. Through the door in the kitchen.

Half the men went to get it.

It’s empty, Fergus repeated. Is there something you want? Cash? I’ve got a couple thousand.

Just the luggage.

Can’t you take your hand off her mouth? Fergus asked, nodding towards Chela. She’s starting to hyperventilate. It’s okay, Chela, they’ll be gone soon.

"Let her breathe. Permítale respirar."

"¡Hijo de la puta!" Chela hissed. The gunman ignored her.

The others came back with three leather suitcases.

"Try the big one first. Trata la grande."

One of the men laid the suitcase on the ground, opened it, and slashed its lining open with a knife. Nada, he said, showing the gunman. He tried the medium sized one next. "Está aquí."

He pulled out a large cardboard box.

What’s that? Fergus said. I didn’t put anything in there!

The man gently opened the cardboard and carefully removed a heavy object. He showed it to the gunman.

The gunman stepped forward, partially blocking Fergus’s view. Fergus craned his neck. It was a carved head of pure crystal, with only one eye, made of a red gemstone with green flecks. Fergus had seen it last week, in the Museo Copán Ruinas at the famous Maya site in Honduras. Fergus had no idea why it was in his suitcase.

I didn’t take that! Fergus said desperately. I don’t know how it got in there!

No one said you did. This is all we want. But don’t tell anyone about this, or we’ll be back. And then we won’t be so nice.

The gunman called someone on his Blackberry and told him to get ready.

The men walked calmly out the front door and into a large van.

I didn’t put that thing in there, Fergus said somewhat sheepishly. I saw it at a museum last week. Who could have….?

Someone used you as a mule, reassured Chela. No one would suspect you of smuggling.

She had a point. Fergus tended to think of himself as young and even dashing, but he was plainly not too young anymore, and probably struck a customs official as a typical American tourist with too much money.

Fergus tried to remember when he had left his luggage unattended. It was only at the hotel, he thought. But who knew what hotel he was staying in? I told my guide at the Ruinas! Impossible! The guide, Rogelio, had been superb. A Chortí Maya himself, he had taught himself enough English to discourse exhaustively as he led Fergus on a three hour tour. He obviously had a deep love and respect for the ruins.

After the tour, Fergus had strolled through the Museo alone, barely digesting the exhibits because Rogelio’s commentary had filled his brain to capacity. That was one of the biggest drawbacks of aging, Fergus often thought: if you want to learn more you have to divest yourself of some knowledge you already have, thus freeing brain cells.

The museum’s artifact labels were printed solely in Spanish, which irritated Fergus because it reminded him of his failure to learn Spanish before coming to Honduras. He had really meant to this time, he just didn’t prioritize it. So he walked through the exhibits lackadaisically, thinking a cerveza and a nap would feel very good about now. The stone carvings were all starting to look alike, without Rogelio there to interpret them.

But one piece stopped him in his tracks because it was so different and so beautiful. It was a larger-than-life-sized crystal head, with one red eye and a headdress of jade spheres. He assumed it represented a god or a ruler, but couldn’t make heads or tails of the label.

It’s got to be a national treasure, Chela, it’s so beautiful and so unusual. If they’re trying to smuggle it here to sell it, I can’t imagine how. Art dealers and museums are much more careful about such things these days.

Even as he tried to reassure himself, he remembered a senior curator at the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles, the world’s most richly endowed, had recently been accused of serious irregularities involving antiquities. Still, it was unthinkable. The piece was one of those rare, iconic artworks that is instantly remembered.

Chela said nothing. She wasn’t sure she believed Fergus. The head was obviously very heavy. How could Fergus have possibly thought the weight of his luggage was normal? She was a little surprised at the heaviness when she helped him bring his luggage in from the cab a few days earlier. Probably rocks, she thought. Fergus often brought home unusual rocks when he traveled. Maybe he never lifted the suitcase himself.

Chela was used to Fergus’s eccentricities. She had worked for him for 14 years. He had hired her as a simple housekeeper, but as he got to know her better, he found she could do almost anything, and do it well, so she became his personal assistant. She directed the servants, ran the household, made appointments with his doctors, and arranged his travel. She appreciated his respect. In time, she had come to cherish him—maybe not a love attraction, for he was 20 years her senior, but a deep, abiding affection.

Fergus was traveling more and more. He was fed up Los Angeles. Restless. He was an L.A. oddball: someone who achieved modest success as a film producer when he was young, who turned his back completely on Hollywood and then made a fortune designing toys.

His desire to play the L.A. game of newer-bigger-faster-flashier-than-thou had long vanished. He couldn’t stand to be in the same room with the younger people who played it. He was ten years into his mid-life crisis. The only thing he was sure about was that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with his head somewhere else.

We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Chela. That head belongs in Honduras.

But you heard what the man said, Chela said warily. She knew that tone in his voice. It was pure will. When Fergus decided to do something, he did it. No one stopped him.

So beef up our security system. Hire some guards round-the-clock. Have a guardhouse built at the front gate.

Fergus surprised himself. He had always been proud that he wasn’t paranoid like everyone else in L.A. He didn’t even have a security system, despite owning several million dollars worth of art.

But get the guards first. I’m getting on this right away.

He knew Chela would have guards there before he woke in the morning. He was pretty sure she would get a security system installed by the end of tomorrow. The guard station might take a little longer.

He retreated to his office and spent several hours unsuccessfully searching for an image of the crystal head on the Internet. There was no official website for the Museo Copán Ruinas, and unofficial websites were spotty. He found images of Central American crystal skulls, but not like this one. This head had the visage of a specific face, a little plump and jowly. It wasn’t a skull.

Fergus finally dragged himself to bed, but had a hard time sleeping. He hadn’t felt such a rush of adventure in years. But being held at gunpoint would be one of the calmer moments he’d experience in the weeks to come.

Chapter 2

Captain Keevy was a wiry man in his early thirties, with surfer-blond hair, a sunburned, pockmarked face, and a permanently hoarse voice. He drove his BMW into the Los Angeles neighborhood of Hancock Park, an older area of stately homes, immaculately manicured lawns, tenderly sculpted hedges, and oh-so-perfect trees. He never could understand why anyone would want to live here. It was so perfect, so boring.

The man he was to see, however, was just the opposite. Balthazar Keikos had a misshapen body, an enormous torso atop twisted tiny legs. His velvety bass voice was the essence of cunning calm.

Would you care for a chocolate, Mr. Keevy? he purred, like a six-foot-six Himalayan cat.

Keevy was amused at this. Balthazar always offered him chocolate, and was always eating chocolate himself or drinking cocoa.

Sure, Mr. Keikos, said Keevy. Chocolate was okay, but he didn’t like sweets much anymore, and he never understood the passion that some people develop for it.

He sat down in an over-stuffed leather club chair in Balthazar’s dim library. Etruscan and Archaic Greek sculptures lurked in softly lit niches. Antique Persian carpets, Serapies and Tabrizes, lay haphazardly on the floor.

Balthazar gave him a glass of Cabernet. Even before sipping it, or eating the chocolate, Keevy was so relaxed he just wanted to nod off.

Still dealing drugs? Balthazar asked.

Yes, admitted Keevy, a little sheepishly. He saw Balthazar as an older role model, almost a father figure, who could help him find some other, less dangerous business.

I have a proposition for you. Though still illegal, it carries far less substantial penalties. You’re really too smart for the drug game, Keevy. Time to grow up.

I completely agree, Mr. Keikos. I just need a little direction and assistance, I guess.

Do you know anything about the ancient Maya?

A little.

An art collector has commissioned me to obtain a particular piece that is currently in a museum in Honduras. She’s willing to pay a pretty price, and I, in turn, am willing to pay you well if you’re able to smuggle it in.

How much?

Two hundred thousand for you.

Not bad. What’s so special about this piece?

I’m not clear why the collector is so keen on it, though it’s a very beautiful, unusual piece. But I’m also in it for myself, at least temporarily. It supposedly has an encrypted recipe for chocolate contained in it. The Maya were as mad about chocolate as I, you know. Perhaps madder. Some Maya old-hands believed their original recipes were very different from ours today, much stronger, closer to the essence of the cacao bean.

"So where do I find this libro de cucina artístico?" asked Keevy. He was always trying little ways to impress Balthazar with his erudition. What the hell, he thought, at least I’m reminding him I’m fluent in Spanish.

In the ancient Maya city of Copán. You’ve heard of it?

Sure, sure, Keevy ventured, though he was straining to remember. It’s one of the big ones, right? In the Yucatan?

No, my boy, as I said, it’s in Honduras.

Right.

There’s a little village next to it in which you can stay, the Ruinas de Copán. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving you a hotel room for the night after tomorrow night. I trust you’re available?

Yeah, I can go. Is there a deadline for smuggling it into the States?

No, said Balthazar. Time is not an issue. Getting it here safely and securely, with no damage, is the key.

And how do I find this piece?

As I said, it’s in a museum. On the grounds of the ruins. It’s easy to find once you’re in the museum because there’s nothing else remotely like it. It’s a head carved from solid crystal.

Crystal?

Yes, crystal. No one is sure how the Maya found such a large piece of glass. It’s larger than life size. It has a headdress of jadeite lozenges, and a single eye, like a Cyclops. The eye is red and green.

Sounds simple enough to identify. You wouldn’t have any suggestions on how to get it out of the museum, would you? Past security and all?

No, that’s why I’m hiring you, the expert, as it were.

But I’ve never done any heists like this. I’m just a drug dealer.

You are not ‘just a drug dealer,’ Mr. Keevy, you’re a very successful drug dealer, which means you have ingenuity, courage, and an ability to assess risks. I’m sure you’ll determine some means of extricating it. I wouldn’t overly worry. The security measures in Honduras are highly unlikely to be sophisticated.

Thanks for the compliment.

Just one thing, Mr. Keevy, which should be somewhat obvious. Once you get the head out of the museum, it’s advisable to get it out of the country as soon as possible. Once they find it missing, they’ll go a little batty. They consider it a national treasure of sorts.

I don’t suppose it would be too easy to make a cheap replica to put in its place…

That might take months or years, to even approximate it. I’m afraid we’ll have to go with cruder methods.

Maybe I can replace it with one of those ‘On Loan’ cards museums use. That may buy a little time.

There you go, boy! You underestimate your resourcefulness, Keevy. If you succeed at this one, we’ve got to try some other jobs. I suspect you’ll be finished with drug dealing in no time.

Let’s hope. So, you said you reserved a hotel room for me?

Yes. It’s at the Loro Azul, which is right on the main square. The proprietor is an expatriate from the U.S., and he should be able to help you with anything you need. I suggest you fly to the city of San Pedro Sula and take a bus from there, to preserve anonymity. There’s an air strip in the Ruinas, but you’d be much too visible entering that way.

Anything else?

Just this, said Balthazar, sitting forward and letting his baronial words wash over Keevy. This is no ordinary artifact. You must be extraordinarily, extraordinarily careful.

There was something portentous, almost menacing, in his words. Keevy hadn’t the faintest idea what he had just volunteered for.

Chapter 3

As predicted, Chela had two security guards on the grounds by the time Fergus woke up. She hadn’t had any more luck finding the crystal head on the Internet than Fergus did, but she did find contact information for a professor at Stanford University whose specialty was Maya art.

You might want to talk to this Professor Springbok, she said, sliding a printout over his breakfast newspaper. She seems to know a lot about Copán.

Fergus scanned the printout of the professor’s curriculum vitae. Chela was right, as usual. Springbok would surely know about the crystal head. Ph.D. from Columbia University in Art History and Archaeology. Professor at Brown University, focusing on Mesoamerican architecture, sculpture, epigraphy, and cultural theories of food, drink, and intoxication. Recently appointed the Director of Stanford’s Greene Center for the Study of Central American Art, Archaeology, and Cultural Anthropology.

In a few moments, Chela had the professor on the phone. Fergus fumbled with his request as he spoke to her. He didn’t want to let on that he had smuggled the head, even it was inadvertently.

Why are you so interested in this head, Mr. Finney? the professor asked. Her voice was warm and gentle, not like the pointed, exacting tones of so many academics.

It’s just that, it’s a, it’s such a beautiful and unusual piece. I was surprised we damn Americans hadn’t appropriated it for one of our museums years ago.

It was found only recently. The Honduran government will never let it go. You’re not one of those people who think the Maya were aliens, are you?

No, no, of course not. I just find them interesting. It’s sort of…an avocation. I can’t pretend to be even a little expert about them. I’m just fascinated that a civilization could have become so sophisticated in such a short time, with no influence from other cultures. It’s hard to understand.

Yes, it is. And most people have no idea just how sophisticated they were.

I was wondering if you could tell me any more about the piece, what it’s thought to represent and so on. The label in the museum wasn’t very informative, he lied.

Mmm. There are several competing theories. Mr. Finney, I have to give a lecture now, but I happen to be coming to Los Angeles later today for a conference. If you are really very interested in Maya art, perhaps we could meet and discuss this more this evening.

Sure, sure, that would be great. Why don’t you call me when you get in? He gave her his phone number and said goodbye.

Professor Springbok was dumbfounded. As an eminent authority in her field, she participated in several initiatives to stem theft of cultural antiquities. One of these was a non-profit that sent e-mail alerts on stolen artifacts to its members, most of whom were dealers and museums. Yesterday an alert had been issued for her favorite Maya sculpture: the crystal head.

She was astonished that a thief would be so foolish as to contact her for information. But she remembered something her policeman father had told her years ago: There’s one thing that really stands out about criminals, sweetie—they’re almost all of them just not too bright.

She considered calling the FBI, but hesitated. If things weren’t done right, the thief might panic. The head could get damaged or lost. She decided to go alone to Los Angeles to meet this Mr. Finney.

Fergus was right about one thing, she mused. The head was indeed unusual. But he hadn’t the faintest idea how unusual, if her hunch should prove correct.

She boarded a shuttle for Los Angeles at 4 p.m. What kind of conference shall I tell him I’m attending? she thought. She considered but rejected the temptation to tell him it was about antiquities theft.

Chapter 4

Chocolate comes from the bean of the cacao tree (Theobróma cacáo), native to Central and South America. Theobróma is Greek for food of the gods. There are three primary sub-species of cacao: forastero, criollo, and trinitario. The vast majority of beans used in making chocolate are forastero. Criollo are rare and the most highly prized by chocolatiers.

Columbus was the first European to learn of the cacao bean, after his men seized a ship near an island off present day Honduras. He observed natives treating beans with unusual care. Though he didn’t realize it, the beans were used as currency.

The word cacao is Mayan, as are the words "chocol and chokola," though they probably derived from the Olmecs, the Maya’s predecessors. The Maya were consuming chocolate as early as 600 B.C. Some anthropologists and ethnobotanists speculate the Olmecs were the first to domesticate cacao beans. Genetic analysis suggests it was first used by humans over 10,000 years ago.

The Maya did not conceive of the natural and supernatural as separate, but as one, inhabiting all things, living and non-living, as well as the invisible. Chocolate was seen as Earth’s blood, associated with human blood. The Maya sometimes added achiote paste to chocolate, giving it a deep red color, perhaps to heighten the symbolic link to blood. Many rituals involved human bloodletting, including sprinkling blood over cacao beans. Cacao was used in baptismal ceremonies for children and weddings, and included with the remains of the dead.

The Maya combined the beans with maize, honey, vanilla, chili peppers, and a variety of other spices, herbs, and flowers to create a frothy, sometimes bitter, drink. The drinks were often fermented.

Natives have used a tree in the rainforests of South America, virola theiodora, for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, for its hallucinogenic properties. They removed a resin from its inner bark, dried and pulverized it, and mixed with the ashes of bark from a type of wild cacao tree. It is not known whether the Maya were aware of or used virola.

Chocolate contains over 300 substances, one of which is phenylethylamine, which some scientists link to the complex of human emotions we call love. Phenylthylamine may cause the release of mesolimbic dopamine in the pleasure centers of the brain. Cacao also contains anandamide, a neurotransmitter that binds to the same receptors as THC, the active ingredient in marijuana.

Cacao beans contain the alkaloid theobromine, a central nervous system stimulant similar to caffeine. Because theobromine dilates blood vessels, it is sometimes used to lower blood pressure. Theobromine is toxic for domesticated animals, such as dogs. A single ounce of baking chocolate or ten ounces of milk chocolate may prove fatal.

Flavanoids may comprise between 12% and 18% of the beans. Flavanoids are strong antioxidants that scavenge free radicals and inhibit the oxidation of Low-density Lipoprotein (LDL, the bad cholesterol). They may also inhibit inflammation and promote a healthy immune system.

Chocolate also contains the amino acid tryptophan, which plays an important role in the production of serotonin. Heightened serotonin production may reduce anxiety. Chocolate sparks production of endorphins, the natural opiates in our body chemistry. This may account for the craving many people experience for chocolate.

Cocoa butter, also made from the cacao bean, is used to heal bruises and diminish scarring, perhaps because of its high vitamin E content.

Oil of Theobroma or cocoa butter, rather than a mixture of glycerin and gelatin, are often used as the base in suppositories, pessaries, and bougies.

The Swiss are the world’s biggest consumers of chocolate in our time, downing 22 pounds per person each year. Still, they don’t hold a candle to the Aztec emperor Moctezuma, who quaffed 50 cups of honey-sweetened cocoa each day.

Jean Calment, who may have lived longer than anyone else on earth, died in 1997 at the age of 122. Apart from her observation that I only have one wrinkle, and I’m sitting on it, Ms. Calment was famous for drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and eating two pounds of chocolate each week until her doctor convinced her to give it up in her late super-teens.

To make cocoa, cocoa butter is removed from the beans. Conversely, to make chocolate, cocoa butter is added. Cocoa butter melts are about 97 degrees Fahrenheit: perfect for melting on the tongue.

In 1828, Coenraad Van Houten, a Dutchman, invented a method of expunging cocoa butter from the bean. Joseph Fry & Son, in England, invented the modern chocolate bar as we know it, in 1847, by creating a means of reintroducing the expunged cocoa butter. Two years later, Fry & Son teamed with Cadbury Brothers. In 1861, Cadbury produced the first Valentine’s Day heart-shaped box. In 1876, the Swiss confectioner Daniel Peter invented milk chocolate by adding condensed milk. He formed the Nestlé Company with Henri Nestlé in 1879. The same year, Peter’s fellow Swiss confectioner, Rodolphe Lindt, perfected a refined chocolate that truly melted on the tongue. Hershey's Kisses were first introduced in 1907.

Today, chocolate factories first roast the beans, and then separate the hull from the inner nib. The nibs are ground, and the heat from this process separates the cocoa butter. The resulting paste is termed chocolate liquor, though it is not alcoholic. When it cools, it is what we term unsweetened or baking chocolate. To produce other forms of chocolate, variable amounts of cocoa butter, sugar, and milk are added to the liquor, and then conched--manipulated with rollers to reduce moisture and acids. The conching can last up to several days, depending on the quality desired.

As of 2004, annual worldwide production of cacao had reached 3.5 million tons, almost one pound for every man, woman, and child on earth. Very few of them live in Third World countries.

Chocolate is not implicated in many human deaths. When it is, it may be caused by anaphylaxis, producing acute urticaria, commonly called hives, in a person’s upper respiratory tract, associated with angioedema, a swelling of the skin, its subcutaneous layers, mucus membranes, and sometimes the viscera. The airways become blocked and the victim is asphyxiated.

Georges Seurat, the Pointillist painter, is thought to have died of pharyngeal-tonsillar diphtheria with toxemia, but the proximate cause was an extension of the laryngeal membrane, resulting in acute airway obstruction and asphyxiation. Seurat’s typical lunch was a croissant and a chocolate bar.

The only other kind of death associated with chocolate results from Wilson’s disease, or Hepatolenticular Degeneration, a rare inherited disorder in which the body retains excessive amounts of copper that would ordinarily be excreted in the bile. Foods that contain significant amounts of copper include mushrooms, dried fruits and beans, liver, shellfish, nuts, whole-wheat products, and chocolate.

The retained copper accretes in the liver, brain, kidneys, and eyes. Damage to the nervous system or liver can be fatal if the disease is not identified and treated expeditiously.

Wilson’s disease is most common among Eastern Europeans, Southern Italians, and Sardinians.

Symptoms include jaundice, an enlarged abdomen or spleen, weakness, tremors in the extremities, difficulty walking or moving, speech impairment, confusion or delirium, and dementia. A telltale symptom is the presence of Kayser-Fleischer rings, rusty/brownish rings around the irises.

Almost all humans who sample chocolate enjoy it intensely. Some become chocoholics. A tiny percentage of very unlucky people are allergic to chocolate.

Fergus Finney was one.

Chapter 5

Captain Keevy had engineered some daring drug smuggling, but never an operation like this, which would require so much finesse. Keevy wasn’t the usual uneducated drug smuggler. He preferred new experiences, new places. He wasn’t a brilliant student, but he had graduated from the University of Texas, and was smitten there by a class on the history of Mesoamericans. He had visited some Maya sites in the Yucatan. On the plane to Honduras, he read up on the Ruinas de Copán.

Keevy loved the little village across the river and up the hill from the ruins, the cobblestone streets, the unreliable electricity, the nightly firecrackers. And he loved the ruins themselves. Who wouldn’t? Copán is sometimes called the Florence of ancient Maya cities. Though Copán was not the biggest of Maya cities, its art was among the most exquisite of the Late Classic Period.

Keevy’s mother was from Mexico, and taught him Spanish when he was little. He was fluent. When he went to the Museo and came upon the crystal head, and read its label, he was astonished. He looked around him, as if to ask everyone, What in the hell is this doing in this little museum, with probably little or no security? This should be at the Met or the Louvre. Am I dreaming?

He wandered over to the ruins and hired a guide, Rogelio. Keevy spent two hours touring and came back the next day for more. Like most tourists at Maya sites, he had fallen in love with this strange old culture.

He invited Rogelio for dinner at an outdoor restaurant that sported thatch umbrellas over the tables and served, improbably, German food. They got a lot of homesick German tourists, the owner explained. Rogelio had never been there. On his salary, he couldn’t afford any of the tourist eateries. Keevy treated him to Sauerbraten con Plátanos Verdes.

Rogelio told him a little of his life. He lived with his wife and kids forty miles away and didn’t own a car, so he rented a room near the ruins to sleep in during the week. He kept a mistress there to ease the loneliness.

You are obviously very intelligent, Rogelio, said Keevy. Haven’t you considered going to the U.S. to make more money?

No, I am a Maya. My home is here. It would be nice to have more money, though.

Many people smuggle Maya art to the U.S. You haven’t thought about doing that?

No, said Rogelio, offended. I would never betray my culture.

What if I offered you fifty thousand dollars for one piece of art?

Fifty thousand dollars! Rogelio earned about $1,200 per year. That’s a lot of money!

Rogelio ordered some gifiti, an herbal liquor that Keevy had never tried. It tasted like alcoholic root beer. After several drinks, Rogelio seemed to be warming to the idea of $50,000.

No, Señor, I cannot betray my culture, he still insisted.

But you don’t have to take it yourself. Just tell me how to get into the Museo without setting off alarms.

Alarms? There are no alarms. We have no crime here.

No alarms?! What about security guards?

Rogelio guffawed. There is only one at night and he’s usually asleep.

He’s in the Museo?

No, he’s at the road.

So I could get there from the river trail without him seeing me?

Señor, you must stop thinking about this. If you were caught, you would be in prison for the rest of your life.

Keevy reconsidered. Yeah, I guess they take it more seriously than drug smuggling. He had known a few people imprisoned in Central America. It was hell even for a short time.

Rogelio excused himself for the night while he could still walk. Keevy stayed for more gifiti. Normally he didn’t drink much, but gifiti seemed magical.

He watched a tourist at the bar flirt with a young mulata waitress. The man was exceptionally well dressed. This was no ordinary tourist. Keevy joined him.

Have you tried this gifiti stuff? Keevy asked.

He hadn’t. Keevy ordered more. The man drank it as though it were soda. Keevy switched to sipping. He wanted his head clearer.

As the man got drunker, Keevy slowly wheedled personal information from him. He was Fergus, from Los Angeles. Was interested in Maya art and architecture. Semi-retired toy designer. Had been to the Maya site of Lamanai in Belize last week. Spectacular temple. Got there by boat. Amazing birds on the river. Must have seen 20 species of orchids. Was staying at the Loro Azul Hotel here in Copán. Leaving in two days.

Despite Fergus’s increasingly slurred speech, Keevy was certain. This was his mule. He bid Fergus goodnight and went to bed. He had to sober up. There was a lot of work to do in the next two days.

Chapter 6

Professor Springbok landed in L.A. at 6:15 p.m., called Fergus, and agreed to meet him for dinner at Engine Co. 28, a downtown restaurant in a renovated 1912 firehouse. She was already sipping a mojito when he arrived.

Professor? he inquired uncertainly.

Anele, she insisted, offering him her hand.

He had imagined a mature person, a professor emeritus. Anele was more a sprite. She couldn’t have been even 30 years old. She wore a sober dark shirtdress that exuded a certain…sexiness.

Ah-nay-lay, Fergus repeated. Unusual name.

It’s from the Xhosa people of South Africa. It means ‘enough.’ I’m the last of my parents’ eight children.

Thanks for coming, Fergus laughed.

Not at all. It’s nice to find Maya enthusiasts who aren’t just paleographers or glyph-decoders. Tell me again why you find the Maya so fascinating.

Well, I… I don’t… I guess you could say I’m having my midlife crisis. I’m just so…bored with it all. A long time ago I produced movies. But that got dull, so I started designing toys--.

Toys?

"Yes, toys. Clever toys. Think Rubik’s Cube. Or the Hoberman sphere, that collapsible thing. I studied art in college and then got a degree