Cindy talked me into going to the pool with her. I wasn’t adverse to going, but the timing never seemed quite right for me. On this particular day, I was ready. There are a number of pools at the resort, and I had been to a different one earlier in the week, but Cindy claimed that this pool was warmer. She was right. As you can see, this pool also had an artificial waterfall and grotto. Did I really have to tell you that they were artificial? I promise to give you more credit in the future.
I am always surprised at how oblivious some people seem to be about what goes on around them. For instance, at first glance the pool seemed to be dominated by two families. The fathers were in the grotto talking, while the mothers and kids were cavorting in the pool. There were a few other people around, including us, but mainly we stayed out of the pool because the mothers and kids were raising such a ruckus in the water.
Then I noticed something very strange. There was a man, in ninety degree weather, wearing baggy sweat pants and a sweat shirt with a hoody covering his head, and he was doing calisthenics near the grotto. Then I looked at the two men in the grotto. They were still talking, sometimes laughing and sometimes looking very grim. I couldn’t hear what they were saying due to the waterfall. But suddenly it all made sense.
The two men were leaders of competing Mexican and a Columbian drug cartels. They were discussing a truce and were dividing their spheres of influence in the western hemisphere. Dastardly deeds were dominating their discussion!
The men had their wives and children in the pool to divert attention from their discussion, and to keep other people away from the grotto. The man in the sweat suit was there to ensure that the leaders were not disturbed. He must have had various weapons concealed within his apparel.
Their security was good, but the FBI was also there in the form of a buxom bikini-clad agent sitting in a lounge chair on the other side of the pool, opposite the grotto. She appeared to be lounging, perhaps dozing, with her sunglass covered face drooping towards her ample bosoms. I knew that she was secretly reading the lips of the men in the grotto, from behind her sunglasses. She was relaying their conversation by whispering into a sensitive microphone secreted in her oh-so-skimpy bra.
How did I know she was FBI? When she had arrived at the pool I had seen an American eagle tattooed on the small of her back. I was concerned that as she aged the eagle would transform into a condor, but that was beside the point.
When I advised Cindy as to what was going on around us, she marveled at my insights. Rather than stay there and run the risk of being caught in the middle of a gun battle, and since my chest and legs were starting to turn red from the sun, we repaired to our suite. Who can say that I’m oblivious to what goes on around me?