enjoy a relaxing bath. I assure you, your accom-modations for the next few nights will be much less ... comfortable."
Private villa of Xavier Salida, Quintana Roo Thursday, 10:17 p.m.
The fire crackled in the hearth, burning hot as 1 it consumed the aromatic wood, sending curls of perfumed smoke into the upstairs drawing room. Xavier Salida stood in front of the blaze, his hands clasped behind his back as he drew deeply of the bay and nutmeg scent, the peppery oils that made the smoke heady, almost a drug by itself.
He turned away from the warmth and went over to the thermostat on his wall, turning up the air condition-ing so he could enjoy his fire, yet keep the room from get-ting unpleasantly warm. There weren't many things in life that one could enjoy both ways. But Salida had reached the point where he could do anything he wanted.
From the rack of brass-handled fireplace implements, he selected the cast-iron poker and jabbed the flaming wood, watching the sparks fly. He liked to play with tire.
Salida stepped back and strutted around the room with the poker as if it were a walking stick, practicing his moves, reveling in his personal grace—though newly acquired, he expected the grace would remain with him for the rest of his life. Education and culture were an investment, an intangible wealth that went beyond mere baubles and art objects.
Salida went over to the stereo system on the wall and casually flipped through his collection of phonograph records, LPs of the best classical music, performances memorable as well as pleasing to the discerning ear. He selected a symphony by the great Salieri, an obscure eigh-teenth-century composer. The man's very obscurity meant his works must be rare and therefore precious.
As the bold overlapping strains of violins over-whelmed the old album's scratchiness, Salida went over to the bottle on the table, twisted off the cork with his fin-gers, and poured himself another glass of the purplish red wine, a 1992 Merlot. It was well aged and smooth, he thought, not as young as some of the Cabernet Sauvignon he had in the wine cellar. He had been told this label was from one of the best California vineyards. He held up the glass, swirled it, and allowed the firelight to shine through its rich garnet color.
Salida stepped out to his open balcony, taking a deep breath of the moist night air. The hammock hung, sug-gesting thoughts of lazier days, relaxing afternoons ... but this past week had been very difficult. A thousand stressful challenges, each one dealt with decisively.
As he gazed beyond where the lights shone, he saw the monolithic silhouette of the ancient Maya stela in the middle of his courtyard. Starlight trickled down on the prized monument, and he could make out the lumpy form of that damned male peacock perched on top.
A foolish peacock. Much like his rival, Pieter Grobe, a showy, blustering man who was ultimately insignificant... just an amusing piece of coloration.
Salida had attempted to get even with the Belgian expa-triate, requiring revenge for Grobe's ill-advised tactic of shooting down one of Salida's private courier planes. Salida had demanded that his men eliminate one of Grobe's planes in retaliation, but that had not proved possible.
Grobe had tightened his own security procedures, allowing no vulnerabilities around his own aircraft—and so Salida had had no choice but to take an alternative vengeance. Not as full of finesse, but ultimately as satis-fying: a large truck filled with fuel oil had "accidentally" exploded in the middle of one of Grobe's marijuana fields. The resulting fire and caustic smoke had damaged a great portion of the crop.
With the score evened again, Salida had no desire to escalate events into a full-scale war. He suspected that Grobe was just bored and needed to blow off pressure every once in a while. Done is done.
Now he could relax and enjoy life, culture, the finer things. As the symphonic strains of Salieri's first
Private villa of Xavier Salida, Quintana Roo Thursday, 10:17 p.m.
The fire crackled in the hearth, burning hot as 1 it consumed the aromatic wood, sending curls of perfumed smoke into the upstairs drawing room. Xavier Salida stood in front of the blaze, his hands clasped behind his back as he drew deeply of the bay and nutmeg scent, the peppery oils that made the smoke heady, almost a drug by itself.
He turned away from the warmth and went over to the thermostat on his wall, turning up the air condition-ing so he could enjoy his fire, yet keep the room from get-ting unpleasantly warm. There weren't many things in life that one could enjoy both ways. But Salida had reached the point where he could do anything he wanted.
From the rack of brass-handled fireplace implements, he selected the cast-iron poker and jabbed the flaming wood, watching the sparks fly. He liked to play with tire.
Salida stepped back and strutted around the room with the poker as if it were a walking stick, practicing his moves, reveling in his personal grace—though newly acquired, he expected the grace would remain with him for the rest of his life. Education and culture were an investment, an intangible wealth that went beyond mere baubles and art objects.
Salida went over to the stereo system on the wall and casually flipped through his collection of phonograph records, LPs of the best classical music, performances memorable as well as pleasing to the discerning ear. He selected a symphony by the great Salieri, an obscure eigh-teenth-century composer. The man's very obscurity meant his works must be rare and therefore precious.
As the bold overlapping strains of violins over-whelmed the old album's scratchiness, Salida went over to the bottle on the table, twisted off the cork with his fin-gers, and poured himself another glass of the purplish red wine, a 1992 Merlot. It was well aged and smooth, he thought, not as young as some of the Cabernet Sauvignon he had in the wine cellar. He had been told this label was from one of the best California vineyards. He held up the glass, swirled it, and allowed the firelight to shine through its rich garnet color.
Salida stepped out to his open balcony, taking a deep breath of the moist night air. The hammock hung, sug-gesting thoughts of lazier days, relaxing afternoons ... but this past week had been very difficult. A thousand stressful challenges, each one dealt with decisively.
As he gazed beyond where the lights shone, he saw the monolithic silhouette of the ancient Maya stela in the middle of his courtyard. Starlight trickled down on the prized monument, and he could make out the lumpy form of that damned male peacock perched on top.
A foolish peacock. Much like his rival, Pieter Grobe, a showy, blustering man who was ultimately insignificant... just an amusing piece of coloration.
Salida had attempted to get even with the Belgian expa-triate, requiring revenge for Grobe's ill-advised tactic of shooting down one of Salida's private courier planes. Salida had demanded that his men eliminate one of Grobe's planes in retaliation, but that had not proved possible.
Grobe had tightened his own security procedures, allowing no vulnerabilities around his own aircraft—and so Salida had had no choice but to take an alternative vengeance. Not as full of finesse, but ultimately as satis-fying: a large truck filled with fuel oil had "accidentally" exploded in the middle of one of Grobe's marijuana fields. The resulting fire and caustic smoke had damaged a great portion of the crop.
With the score evened again, Salida had no desire to escalate events into a full-scale war. He suspected that Grobe was just bored and needed to blow off pressure every once in a while. Done is done.
Now he could relax and enjoy life, culture, the finer things. As the symphonic strains of Salieri's first
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