by James Lewis
The patient was helped on with his shirt while the doctor packed his equipment into his bag. A heavy, unshaven man wearing a railroad worker’s jacket motioned Mallory and Juan forward.
The doctor closed his bag and glanced up. A smile of recognition crossed his face.
“Ah, Mallory,” he said.
“Hello, Villega.”
Villega nodded. He reached into his pocket and brought out a newspaper clipping, which he waved in the air. “You’ve hardly joined us at Mesa Verde, and already you’re in the papers.” He tapped the clipping. “Irish dynamiter wanted for murder,” he read.
“You’ve caused quite a stir, young man. Killing the captain, that’s nothing. But the German? Not even Pancho Villa has dared to take on a foreign capitalist.”
So, Juan thought, they found the bodies and someone remembered it was Mallory who supposedly sent for Aschenbach. Juan looked at him. The Irishman’s mouth was clenched and his jaw muscles were bulging. His face had gone gaunt and hard, like a man confronting his jailer for the first time.
“It seems that even his Majesty’s secret service would like to get their hands on you.” Villega was toying with him now. “Well, my friend, I think we’ll keep you for a while. You’re a real asset to us—even if you do drink too much.”
Mallory’s reply was curious. “Who says I drink too much?” he snapped. Funny man, Juan mused, not even interested in how he might be an asset to Villega. Or perhaps just not showing it.
With professional dexterity, Villega jabbed a stiff finger at Mallory’s stomach, causing him to grimace. “Your liver does,” he said. “It changes your coloring.”
The railroad worker pointed at Juan. “What about this one?” he asked Villega.
“He’s all right. Except that when he’s operating, he makes deeper incisions than I do.”
“Well, without no training my hand’s kind of heavy …”
Mallory was staring at him, clearly surprised. For a moment, Juan savored the Irishman’s bewilderment.
“We did a little job together,” he finally explained. “Me and the doctor.”
Villega nodded in agreement. Smiling, he rummaged through his bag and took out a thermometer case. “And now we’ve got another job,” he said.
He opened the case to reveal a thin, folded sheet of paper, which he spread on a table. Juan saw a map of a city sketched on the paper. Mesa Verde, he guessed.
Villega waved for silence. “I have good news.” His eyes were glowing. “In two days Villa and Zapata will attack simultaneously from north and south. We here, like those in other cities, must begin parallel actions of harassment. Right now, any spark could light the fire. Huerta’s downfall is only a question of weeks.”
A low rumble of pleasure swept the room. In a corner a pale, thin man began coughing violently. A cigarette was squeezed between his bloodless lips.
Villega looked at him. “Whereas Miguel’s downfall is only a question of hours if he doesn’t stop smoking.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Juan was silent and pensive. Now he understood: These were the revolutionaries. His mouth tasted sour. He studied the others. They were staring raptly at Villega, aglow with the sense of impending action. Each of them clearly was prepared to die, Juan realized with disgust. And for what? Would the next President be any better? Was Huerta better than Madero had been? Would the laws be any different? The rich would still own all the land and the nobles would still sip Spanish wine in their elegant haciendas and pretend to be descendents of Napoleon and the Church would still tell the peons that life was as it was because God had so willed it.
“The committee has made a few minor changes in the plans,” Villega was saying.
Juan thought of Zapata and Villa. Zapata, that mad Indian from the South. He and his tenant farmers and their crazy idea to give the land back to the Indians. Hah. The Indians hadn’t owned the land for four hundred years.
And who had they rebelled against first? Madero! That weak old man who at least wanted to give them the land when he was President even if he didn’t have the balls to do it. Now that Huerta had murdered Madero and become President himself, did Zapata think he could defeat Huerta? If he couldn’t beat Madero, how could he beat someone like Huerta. And if he did, so what? The next President would be the same. No politician in Mexico would give the land back to the Indians.
Villega was pointing at the map. “We’ll attack in four places at one time. Redondo and his men will take care of the guardhouse and the old prison …”
And Villa. A clown! Sure, he had been a good bandit. His men worshipped him. He was daring and clever. But what happened? He decided to play soldier. To play general. It didn’t matter who he was fighting, just as long as he was fighting. Who was it against the first time? Oh, yes, Diaz. Three years ago when Diaz was still President. Sure. Villa fought to make Madero President instead of Diaz. And who did he serve under? Huerta! And now he was fighting against Huerta, against his own general. And for still another man, Carranza. And if Carranza became President, you could bet Villa would find some reason to fight him.
Juan stared blankly at the map as Villega pointed to various buildings and droned on. “Those with Ruiz and Antonio will take on the regulars’ barracks. Francisco and his men at the railroad depot. Ortega, the post office. Once the enemy is busy on four fronts, we’ll move against our real objective.”
Absently, Juan wondered what was the real objective, then dismissed the thought. Who cared?
“Are you still agreed?” Villega looked at Mallory, who nodded. “Do you need men?”
“I only need one.”
Villega gestured toward Juan. “Him?”
“Him who?!” Juan exploded. “Me? To do what?”
“Attack the bank,” Mallory said.
The words jarred him. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to breathe, “That’s right, me and him. Mallory and me …”
For some reason, the others were staring at him with undisguised admiration.
“Don’t worry,” Juan gushed. “We’ll take care of everything. Everything. We got our own men, our own dynamite, pistols, ammo, everything. You do the rest and leave the bank to Juan and John. Johnny and Johnny.”
“Good,” Villega said crisply, “I hope you make it”
“Me, too.”
Villega pulled a watch from his pocket. “We’ll meet again tonight to discuss details. I’ll have to go now. I left a woman in labor—and she can’t wait until the revolution is over.”
Villega extended his hand. One by one, the other men approached and grimly stacked their hands atop his. Mallory motioned to Juan to do the same.
“Land and Liberty!” Villega shouted.
Motherofjesus, Juan thought, a doctor echoing the slogan of a landless farmer, Zapata. Stupidity.
“Land and Liberty!” the others cried. Juan mumbled along with them.
He watched Villega retrieve his bag and head for the door with the others following. He was aware that he was grinning stupidly as he edged over to Mallory.
“Don’t tell me nothing,” he whispered. “They move in and we remove.” He laughed softly. “Land and Liberty? How about Gold and Money instead.” He nodded to the rebels. “What assholes!”
Beside him, Mallory was also laughing softly.
Chapter Eight
The sky was deep blue and beautiful. Two soldiers stood lazily in the shade of the portico, guarding the entrance to the bank. The few people who passed all seemed in a hurry.
Juan watched intently from across the street, crouched with his boys, his father, and his men behind the windows and the door of the tavern. His eyes combed every corner, alert for every movement, for signs that something might be amiss. Nothing appeared to be. A keen sensation washed over him, sharpening his senses. Anticipation. He could almost smell the money.
Behind him the tavern was empty. Only Mallory remained, seated coolly at a table in the rear, staring at the doo
r. He was wearing his black overcoat and bowler again, and the suitcase was by his side. Juan ignored him. Irish’s job was mostly done; the crucial part was now up to him and his boys. He looked them over quickly. Each was clenching a rifle and seemed intent on the bank. He smiled. They were experienced. They would do well.
Mallory took out a pocket watch, looked at it and signaled to Pepe standing in the kitchen doorway. Pepe relayed the signal to Napolean, who rose before one of the windows and flashed the sign to little Chulo.
Chulo was across the street, round the corner of the bank. Juan watched proudly as the boy came to attention and started on his mission. Even from the distance it was clear that Chulo’s face had been scrubbed and his hair combed back like a choir boy’s. He looked the picture of innocence as he ambled toward the front of the bank pulling a toy wooden train behind him. He was even imitating the sound of a locomotive whistle as he approached.
The guards ignored him.
The boy strolled directly in front of the bank entrance and stopped. A guard looked at him and barked. “Get out of the way. You’re blocking the door.”
The clatter of heavy rifle fire in the distance suddenly rent the air. Juan saw the two guards look confusedly at each other and step out into the street, seeking the source of the shots. One of them pointed in the direction of the guardhouse. They both brought their rifles up, ready to fire.
Behind them, unobserved, Chulo edged along the entrance door with his train. He passed one of the massive columns flanking the door and kept walking. The train went no farther.
Juan watched the string with which Chulo had pulled the toy grow longer as the boy came out from under the portico and into the street. A few passersby were running for cover now as the distant shooting grew more intense. None of them noticed Chulo, nor did the guards.
He broke into a run and raced for the tavern. The string unwound from a spool beneath his shirt as he came on. He avoided the main door and disappeared into an alley at the side of the building.
Across the street now Juan saw two officers come out of the bank. Their uniforms were starched and new. Some soldiers trailed behind them.
“What the hell’s happening?” one of them bellowed.
A guard turned toward him. “Must be a rebel attack, Captain,” he said.
Chulo dashed into the tavern dining room from the kitchen door at the rear. Juan winked at him; he had indeed done well. The boy ran to Mallory and handed him the string.
Quickly and deftly, Mallory split the end into two strands. He reached under the table and brought up a small detonating box. To this he attached the two ends of the string.
Outside, more soldiers were running out of the bank. The officers were hoarsely shouting orders to the men, positioning them in front of the building.
“Look at all the troops,” Juan whispered to nobody in particular. “Must be a helluva lot of money in there.” He looked at Mallory, who waved him over to the table.
“You know how to work this?” Mallory handed him a bundle of dynamite sticks tied together.
“Fast fuse?”
“No, normal rate. Thirty seconds.”
Juan nodded and carefully eased the dynamite under his shirt. Mallory checked his watch, gestured for the others to get down, and crouched under the table himself. His hand smacked against the detonator handle.
The explosion shattered the tavern windows and blew off the doors. Dust flew into the room. Juan heard debris hammering against the tavern walls and felt a hot blast and a roaring in his ears.
He looked up and squinted through the settling dust out the window. The entire front of the bank where the toy train had sat was smashed and in ruins, and a gaping hole yawned where the carved doors bad been. The bodies of soldiers lay scattered under the portico and in the street.
With a cry, Juan seized two pistols and charged through the demolished tavern doorway. The niños and his men followed, screaming. Nino brought up the rear.
Fighting could still be heard in the distance but the street was strangely still. No one rose to resist them as they raced toward the bank. No one was in sight as they pounded under the portico, jumped over bodies, and hurtled through the hole where the bank door had been.
Smoke and dust whirled in the air. Juan waited until his eyes adjusted, then began to poke madly around the bank chamber. He kicked aside broken furniture and smashed through a thin, twisted teller’s gate. Scorched paper fluttered about in the cage, none of it money.
“The safe,” he cried. “Where’s the safe?”
He thrashed through some more furniture. Nothing. Coughing dust, he cursed Mallory, the soldiers, his gang. Where the hell was it?
“Hey, Juan. Over here.”
One of his men, Pancho, was pointing to an arch over a descending flight of stairs. Over the arch was a faded sign, SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES, with an arrow pointing down the stairs. “In the basement. Must be down there,” Pancho said, and broke for the stairs.
Juan saw him disappear under the arch and take the first few steps with a leap. “Pancho!” he screamed. “Pancho!” Too late. A volley of rifle fire crashed below.
“Pancho!”
Enraged, he grabbed a heavy revolving chair standing nearby. The chair was on wheels. With sudden fury, he sent it rolling across the floor, under the arch, and down the stairs. He raced wildly after it, but pulled up at the top step, sheltered by a wall.
The chair sailed through space and a few shots rang out fitfully, followed by screams. Juan glanced down the stairs and saw the heavy seat crash into four or five soldiers at the bottom. Three of them toppled to the ground, groaned and tried to stand. Juan shot them before they were erect.
The other two looked at him in terror and fled down a corridor. Juan flung himself down the stairs and leaped over the bodies. The two soldiers had just reached the end of the corridor. He managed to kill one of them; the other disappeared around a corner.
The corridor, he noticed now, was lined with doors. From each hung a heavy chain lock. The sight stabbed him with pleasure. Where there were locks, there must be worth something worth locking up. Oh, Christ, the money must be here.
In an exalted fervor, he lunged toward the nearest door. With a single shot he blew away the chain. Then he kicked outward, smashing the door open, expecting to see the black steel door of a safe loom before him.
There was something else, instead.
Juan gaped in awe at the scene before him. Twenty, twenty-five thin husks of men stared at him. They were all in emaciated rags. Some of them looked sick; others beaten and bruised. Their expressions mingled fear with hope.
Infuriated, he wheeled and rushed toward another door. Who were those men? He didn’t care. All that mattered was the money.
He shot away the chain on another door and flung it open. More men. Another scene of misery. Rage convulsed him. The prisoners in the room recoiled at the look on his face.
“Where is it, goddamnit?” he screamed. “Where?”
Pained, frightened faces stared back at him, uncomprehending.
He headed for a third door. Behind him, his men and his sons were caught among the pitiful creatures pouring in bewilderment from the rooms. He heard cries of curiosity and alarm and querulous, confused voices. He ignored them all. The safe had to be somewhere.
The third door only produced more hapless, shabby prisoners. And the fourth and fifth—and the last—the same. By the time he stepped from the last room, blinded by anger and frustration, a throng of uncertain, apprehensive men filled the corridor. He looked at them blankly for a moment, then raced frantically for the end of the corridor and turned the corner. If the safe wasn’t here, it must be elsewhere. It must be somewhere. He wouldn’t leave the bank till he found it.
He ran down another corridor but stopped abruptly at the sound of approaching steps. Four soldiers emerged from an adjacent passageway. At the sight of him, they brought up their guns. He shot rapidly. To his surprise, the pistol reports were drowned out by the
thunder of a rifle fusillade behind him. The four soldiers came bloodily apart and fell in a heap.
Behind him? He spun around. The prisoners were packed into the corridor, following. The first few held rifles, retrieved he guessed from the troops he had killed earlier. Their faces were flushed with excitement, their eyes glowed. They seemed like crazed bulls ready to burst out of a tight corral. He screamed at them to go away, but they misunderstood and yelled back at him.
Motherofjesus! He wheeled and plunged down the corridor. He ran headlong past the passageway from which the soldiers had come, then with a cry twisted about and bolted back toward it. The corner of his eyes had picked up the glint of polished metal. Could it be?
It was! There at the end of the passageway, no more than fifteen feet away, was a gleaming metallic door fashioned with a series of locks and chains. The safe! The safe! It had to be. Delirium burned in him, and he burst in a fever toward the door. His hands ran excitedly over it, testing locks, pulling chains, almost caressing. He felt like a kid.
“Ah, my baby,” he mumbled. “This is it.”
The sounds of sporadic fighting and of doors being broken open wafted up from behind. He heard the sounds but they made no impression. Only one thing mattered now. Blasting that door open.
He reached frantically under his shirt and brought out the dynamite. He wedged it against one of the door hinges and fumbled for a match. With trembling fingers he lighted the fuse, then dove back around the corner and covered his ears.
The blast was deafening, like a lightning crack against his head. A dense cloud of smoke exploded from the passageway, blinding him. Ears ringing, eyes burning, he rose and flung himself into the thick black cloud. Oh, God, ahead of him surely was more gold and silver and money than he had ever seen. This was the richest bank outside Mexico City, wasn’t it? And now the treasure would be his. He could taste it, it was so close. Smell it. Feel it. He plunged ahead.
A cool blast of air hit him, and he nearly tripped over the remains of the door. He caught himself, then with a surge of energy hurtled through the doorway, arms outstretched to stop him against the safe walls.