The Mictlan Murders

Chapter 1-4

THERE WERE ONLY A FEW of us waiting at the baggage claim carousel. While still on time for my first set of interviews, my preparation for them was far from complete. I was going to use the time on the flight to dial in my prep work. That obviously did not happen. The conversation with Elisa was still weighing heavy on my mind. All I could think about were her stories as they compared to the ones my cousins had told me. In that moment, I realized a truth about the altars that I had seen back as a kid. They were there for protection. But from what, exactly? My answer came quick, just as the old and dated carousel came to life.

The first thing I noticed were his snakeskin boots. Art was a sternly spoken rather large framed Mexican American. I recognized him instantly as the guy sitting behind Elisa and I. It was his cowboy hat with snakeskin band (which matched his boots) that I remembered from the flight. He had on a light blue shirt with a black vest and black jeans. His whole ensemble was completed by the black broach with a turquoise stone center he wore as a tie. A rancher/businessman is what would best describe him. His french style handlebar moustache completed the ensemble.

He introduced himself and explained he couldn’t help but overhear the conversation I had with Elisa. I asked him which part he overheard exactly, he said “La Mano de La Muerte.” He completely understood why Elisa was in such a rush to catch the bus heading south. She was a perfect target as he explained to me; young and “fresh.” I thought it was an interesting choice of word, “fresh.” There was a part of me that took offence to it. I heard almost a tone of disrespect. I pushed back a little and he took notice. He only meant to say that “La Mano” seems to be specific with its prey —young and vulnerable. It’s better he said, that Elisa kept in transit until she reached her destination. He seemed to know what she was afraid of.

The way he talked about it to me, portrayed a group of people, perhaps a collective of sorts. When I asked him directly about this he smiled and said, “it’s all possible.” By this point I wasn’t buying his cryptic explanations. Nor did I appreciate his eavesdropping on my conversation. He was coming across as a nosey creep in a fancy rancher get-up.

I did my best to wrap up the conversation as I waited for my luggage to drop. Art’s suitcase had already come through, but he was waiting there with me for mine, still talking. I thought that the unfortunate traffic back in Los Angeles really did hex my trip.

First, a strange and coincidental conversation on the plane, and now this. He asked me about the business I had here in El Paso to which he had also “overheard.” The more he spoke the more I realized just how much of my conversation he’d listened to which was pretty much everything. And he was not shy about it.

Art is a jewelry salesman specializing in gemstones, turquoise in particular. And he wore his wares proudly as the rings on his fingers would suggest. They were a bit loud and gaudy for my tastes but seem to suit him just fine. However, selling jewelry was not his true passion. Arturo “Art” Castaneda also fancied himself a private eye. He fumbled through a brief story about his past as a “professional investigator” and that he had worked closely back in the day with law enforcement and members of the F.B.I. It all screamed of bullshit, but I tried my best to seem interested.

My guess is that Art felt a certain professional connection between us, listening in as I explained to Elisa my business of doing a report on drugs amongst the college kids, bizarrely making a link between my soon to be expose piece and whatever it is he snoops around looking for. But his knowledge of these southwest regions and the local goings on were impressive. He knew his stuff and like a skilled investigator was always listening. His concerns for Elisa’s journey were genuine as were his comments about this ‘hand of death’ business.

The polite me decided to just go along with it. On top of him being overwhelmingly nosey, I got a distinct sense of loneliness. Just a regular guy, looking for an interesting conversation. Or maybe just a friend. Whatever the case, I was running late. I pulled my suitcase from the moving carousel, which by now had passed by me twice, as Art’s motor mouth ran at full throttle. I situated myself and slowly started to walk toward the rental car facility in hopes Art would get the hint. He did not. Art was a hard guy to say no to and he somehow, coaxed me into giving him a lift. I was still in disbelief that I was giving this stranger a ride but that’s Arturo, as I would soon come to know.

Once we headed down interstate ten another rush of memories invaded my thoughts. That feeling of entering a strange unknown as my Grandpa’s camper entered into El Paso, here I am doing almost the exact same thing under slightly different circumstances.

We were going to a pawn shop on the east end of town. These shops were Art’s main book of customers. As we pulled into the small strip mall parking lot, I asked him one last time about the stories I’d heard and the ones that he and Elisa had spoken about. I asked what he thought, from “one professional to another” as I put it, hoping to get an honest reaction out of him. His tone changed.

“Call me, if you want to go deeper,” he said while struggling to get his large frame out of the car.

He conjured up his best salesman grin and gave me his card.