Now the lovely architecture of Houston, those spires challenging the sky, those castles of glass so brilliant in the rising or setting sun, were subjected to a tremendous battering, and one by one the windowpanes began to shatter. Glass from one building would somersault through the air and smash into the glass of an adjacent building, which would in turn throw its panes toward another.
Maggie Morrison, hearing of the savage effects of the storm, went outside, against the advice of everyone, to see at close hand what was happening to The Ramparts, for which she felt a custodian’s responsibility even though the buildings were no longer hers. Finding partial refuge behind a concrete abutment, she watched in anguish as the fantastic winds struck at the towers.
‘Pray God they hold!’ she whispered as the climax of the hurricane struck, and she drew breath again when she saw that although they swayed, as Beth had imagined them to do that afternoon, they behaved with grace and dignity, bending slightly but not surrendering. ‘Thank God,’ she sighed.
However, when the winds at this great velocity passed around the curved expanse of the three buildings, it acquired that capacity which lifts an airplane—a kind of venturi effect as when material of any kind is constricted and flows faster—and on the far side of the buildings, away from the frontal force of the gale, the wind began to suck out the windows, popping them outward from their frames, and as they fell to the streets below, they formed a delicate, deadly shower of glass, millions of shards little and big, clattering to the asphalt streets and the cement pavements, maiming any who stood in the way, covering the passageways with icicles that would never melt.
Oh God! Look at my buildings! She stood behind her refuge, her fingers across her face in such manner as to allow her to see the devastation, and as the glass showered down around her, missing her miraculously with its lethal chunks, she wept for the tragedy of which she was not really a part but for which she felt a personal responsibility.
Standing in the howling wind and the falling glass, she wept for the broken dreams of the oilmen she knew whose world had collapsed; she cried for all the recently unemployed, many of whom had given up everything in the North to move to the lures of steady work in Houston; she sobbed for the Mexicans who had gambled so heavily and seen the ground swept from under them; and she felt particular sorrow for the Canadians who had purchased these buildings three weeks ago. The Ramparts, with their empty rooms and shattered façades, were the responsibility of the new buyers—of that there was not the slightest doubt—but she had escaped this disaster by only twenty days, and had she been dilatory in her manipulations, she would have borne the full weight of this catastrophe.
In the storm she wept for all those in Texas whose great gambles came crashing down.
‘This could be the most dangerous road in America,’ Ranger Cletus Macnab said to his tall, hefty brother as they sped southwest from Fort Stockton toward the pair of little border towns which faced each other across the Rio Grande, Polk in Texas, Carlota across the rickety bridge in Chihuahua.
‘Doesn’t look too bad to me,’ Wolfgang said, nor did it: a solid macadam roadway no narrower than most secondaries, bleak plains east and west, with cautionary white flood gauges at the dips where a bridge would have been too costly for the relatively little use it would have gotten. Looking at the black warning marks, foot by foot, Wolfgang asked: ‘Can a flood really rise thirteen feet through this land? Looks bone-dry.’
‘When it flashes up in those hills, fifteen feet in ten minutes, and if you’re caught in this hollow, farewell.’
‘Is that what you mean, “the most dangerous in America”?’
‘No! Sensible travelers learn to beware when they see rising water. Those warning poles are for tourists … like you.’
‘Then why the danger?’
The Ranger, a very tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, wearing Texas boots, a fawn-gray whipcord ranch suit and the inevitable Stetson, pointed to a car speeding south ahead of them: ‘On this road I would stop that car only with the greatest caution, Wolfgang. And if I saw it stalled over on the shoulder, I’d approach it only with drawn gun, expecting trouble.’
‘Why that particular car?’
‘On this road, any car, watch out. Chances are it’s been stolen up north. That one’s from Minnesota, so what in hell is it doing on this road? I’ll tell you what. Some goon has stolen it up there, late-model Buick, and is high-tailing it to Mexico to sell it for a million.’
‘Is there a market?’
‘Are you kidding? They caught the head of a Mexican police agency, fronting for an organization of hundreds, buying stolen American cars all along the border, changing numbers, repainting, selling them all over Mexico at outrageous prices. So if I try to stop them, they shoot.’
‘If it’s known, why don’t they …? Did they throw the police chief in jail?’
‘What do you think? We’re approaching northern Mexico, a world unto itself, a law unto itself.’
‘So you steer clear of cars heading south?’
‘And on this road, cars heading north, too.’ He indicated a low-slung, modified Pontiac roaring north with Kansas plates. ‘Probably loaded with marijuana or cocaine.’ He studied the car as it whizzed past. ‘If they are running the stuff, they’ll give me a gun battle.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘I notify Narcotics farther along the line. They intercept them with machine guns.’ And he cranked up his police radio: ‘Vic, Macnab. Nineteen eighty-two Pontiac four-door. Kansas plates ending seven two one. Heading north on U. S. 69.’
‘And I suppose many of the northbound cars carry wetbacks?’
‘We don’t bother with them.’
‘Why not? If they’re illegal?’
‘Border Patrol has charge of that. So we let them handle it.’ He hesitated: ‘Of course, if a wetback commits any kind of crime …’
‘They give you much trouble?’
‘In the old days, almost never. Today, a more vicious element moving in. They rob. Now and then a murder. But we can track them pretty easy.’
Wolfgang, four years younger than his brother, a mite taller at six-seven and much heavier, reflected on this strange state of affairs, then said: ‘Gram-pop Oscar would go out of his mind if he heard how you were running the show. Remember how he hated Meskins, how he ordered them around?’
‘All that’s changed, Wolfgang. I work very closely with Mexican officials on the other side of the river.’ Before his brother could reply, the Ranger added: ‘Couldn’t do my job without their help.’
When they approached the dip that would carry them down to the Rio Grande, Cletus slowed the car and said gravely: ‘Wolfgang, you sure you want to go the rest of the way? This isn’t for fun, you know.’
‘I asked to come, didn’t I?’
‘True, but once across that bridge …’
‘That’s the part I want to see.’
‘So be it, little brother. Here we go.’
They dropped in to the American town of Polk, named after the Tennes-see President who had fought so valiantly to bring Texas into the Union; it was a miserable testimony to a great leader, a town of sixteen hundred persons living for the most part in crumbling Mexican-style adobe huts. The town’s chief fame derived from summer weather reports: ‘And once again the hottest spot in these United States—Polk, Texas, down on the Rio Grande, a hundred and nine degrees.’
But to those who appreciated the Southwest, and the Macnab brothers did, this town, like its sisters along the river, had a persuasive charm: ‘Reminds me of how it must have been in 1840. I love these dusty streets, the Mexican women peerin’ at me through the shutters, the dogs chasin’ their fleas.’
‘I wouldn’t be able to tell this was the U. S. of A.,’ Wolfgang said.
‘It isn’t,’ the Ranger said. ‘It’s something new. Maybe one day we’ll call it Texico.’
‘That’s a gasoline.’
‘No more flammable that this.’
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nbsp; Cletus did not stop in Polk, for he wanted as few people as possible to know he was on the prowl, and at the international bridge, a sorry affair, the customs people, American and Mexican alike, waved him through without an inspection or a question. This confidence in his trustworthiness was a tribute to the years of patient work he had performed along the border: ‘I have never failed to accept the word of one of my counterparts here in Mexico. If they say a man I’ve arrested is a good citizen, in momentary trouble across the river, I drive him down here and kick his ass back into Mexico. They do the same with me if some college yahoo gets into big trouble down in Chihuahua. We live and let live, and they’ve never gigged me on a heroin shipment or anything like that, so I let their cattle cross, if there aren’t too many and if they pick some spot well hidden and away from the bridges.’
Once safely within Carlota, he drove by circuitous back streets to the office of the chief of police. ‘We have not seen the plane,’ the jefe said in Spanish. He stopped, gaped, pointed at the Ranger’s brother, and cried: ‘Wolfman Macnab! Linebacker! Dallas Cowboys!’ When his discovery was confirmed, all work in the office halted, as men and women gathered around to question the rocklike man they had seen so often on the American television shows transmitted into Mexico. They wanted to know what he thought of the Pittsburgh and Miami and Oakland teams, and they especially wanted to hear about that covey of wild linebackers which the press had labeled ‘The Dallas Zoo.’
‘Well,’ he explained, always delighted to talk football with real aficionados, ‘we are three pretty tough guys, but the league is full of men like us. What makes us different, our names. They call me Wolfman. Rumsey they call the Gorilla, and Joe Polar, you can guess his name.’ Many of the Mexicans could speak English and they translated this jargon to those who couldn’t, after which one woman asked in Spanish: ‘Is it true, you take the Gorilla to away-games in a cage?’ and he assured her: ‘He could break your arm like this,’ and for three days she would feel the pressure of his hands.
‘All-American at Texas?’ one of the officers asked, and he replied truthfully: ‘One evening newspaper—Wichita Falls, I think it was—they nominated me for All-American. Nobody else, because in my junior year I weighed only two-twenty and opposing offensive tackles ate me up. But in my biography, circulated by the Cowboys, it says clear as day “Consensus All-American,” like as if all the papers in the country hailed me.’
‘But in the pros? You have been All-Pro five times?’
‘Six, and if I make it this year, maybe my last season.’
‘Oh, no!’ the men protested, but a woman clerk said in great admiration: ‘You want to get on with your art, don’t you?’ and he nodded to her as if she were a duchess.
The men now asked: ‘Is it true? You’re an artist?’ The Dallas management had made so much of this that his skill was known even in distant Carlota, and on the spur of the moment he reached for a pencil and a sheet of paper and completed a good likeness of the woman who had asked the question. As the men applauded the speed and dexterity with which he drew, he asked in English: ‘How do you say “To a Beautiful Lady”?’ and a would-be poet in the group said: ‘A una princesa bellísima,’ and as they spelled the words for him he wrote them down and handed the portrait to the woman, who began to sniffle.
‘Shall we proceed?’ the jefe asked, and when Cletus nodded, the Mexican indicated two assistants, who procured a veritable arsenal of guns and a load of ammunition, which they piled into a beat-up Land Rover.
Since it was some hours before darkness, they drove far south of Carlota to a small cantina, where they had a delicious meal of hot chili and freshly made tamales. As they ate, Cletus explained the situation: ‘We got word two nights ago. Thieves in La Junta, Colorado, we have reason to think they’re part of a cocaine ring, stole a Beechcraft, two-engine job, flew right down the New Mexico-Texas border, well west of detectors at Fort Stockton, and into Mexico, south and east of here to that field they’ve used before.’
‘The one on the high plateau south of the canyons?’
‘The same. From clues we picked up, they’ve got to be there, because their gas supply won’t permit them to go any farther south. And we believe they’ll try to make their return flight after dark tonight.’
‘Do you want them, or the cocaine, or the plane?’
‘Reverse order. Plane first, the drugs, whatever they are, next, them last.’
‘So if we have to shoot?’
‘We shoot. We do not let them lift that plane off the ground. My brother and I fly that plane north. This hijacking has got to stop.’
‘Understood,’ the jefe said. Then he asked a curious question: ‘Macnab, can you assure me? I mean, these men are American citizens, not Mexicans?’
‘I give you my word, the three airplane men are Americans. Anglo-Saxons, not even Spanish names. The ground men, supplying them, of course they’re your turkeys.’
‘We’ll take care of them, the bastards. But we must not have Rinches killing Mexicans, not any more.’
‘Compadre,’ Macnab said, placing his arms about the jefe, ‘my usefulness along this border is destroyed if I kill even one Mexican chicken, let alone a smuggler.’
‘I know that, Macnab. So you promise not to shoot at the ground crew?’
‘Promise.’
They drove slowly away from the setting sun, trying not to throw dust, and at about nine they dismounted, crept through the low grass, and came to a secluded field on which sat the stolen Beechcraft, shimmering, loading doors open in the moonlight. The three American smugglers, easily identified, were directing the loading of their plane, and it was apparently going to carry a maximum cargo of two types: large bales, probably of marijuana, and smaller packages, most likely of either heroin or cocaine. Cletus, watching the care with which they stowed the stuff, whispered to his brother: ‘Like they always say, “with a street value of millions.” This batch will not hit the street.’
When the plane was fully loaded, the jefe gave the signal and his men ran toward the field, firing high so that the Mexican suppliers could escape, but Cletus ran right for the plane, guns blazing but with no intent to kill. The American smugglers, frightened by the thunder of gunfire from what seemed all sides, started to fire back, then turned, dodged, and ran to a truck, which whisked them into the night.
As soon as they were gone—no one dead—the Mexican policemen ringed the plane to prevent counterattack while the Macnab brothers scrambled into the pilots’ seats. The Mexican officer closed the door and waved, whereupon Cletus opened his window and shouted: ‘Send my car to Alpine, like before,’ and the officer saluted.
With a skill that amazed Wolfgang, his brother wheeled the plane about, revved the engines to a roar, checked the brakes, and took off into the night: ‘Clean operation, kiddo. I could have killed one or two of those bastards, but I shot late. It would mean a lot of paper work for the jefe. We’ll catch them up north one of these nights.’
‘Are you disappointed?’
‘We got the plane. We got the cargo. “Who could ask for anything more?” ’
Their course back to the American airfield at Alpine required them to fly directly across those hidden, unknown canyons of the Rio Grande east of Polk-Carlota, and in the silvery night Wolfgang saw that marvelous display of deep rifts in the earth, tortuous river passages and sheer-walled cliffs that seemed to drop a thousand feet. This was the unknown Texas, the wild frontier unchanged in ten thousand years.
‘That is something!’ Wolfgang shouted, and his brother replied: ‘I recapture about seven hijacked planes a year …’
‘My God, why don’t the police …?’
‘Who can protect all the American airfields? This plane came from La Junta, God forbid. It’s the new rustling on the old frontier.’ He flew in circles so that Wolfgang could catch an even better view of the great canyons: ‘I like to check them out after each capture.’
When he landed the stolen plane at Alpine in the early da
wn the Narcotics boys were on hand to confiscate the drugs and an insurance man was there to take possession of the plane, but Cletus was diverted from such matters by an urgent telephone call from the Ranger at Monahans, north of Fort Stockton: ‘Cletus, woman clerk at the convenience store murdered. About eleven last night. Almost certain it was a wetback, headin’ south.’
‘Now take it easy. Before midnight? Get much cash? Peanuts, eh? But the woman’s dead? Mack, my guess is he’ll hitchhike to Stockton, catch that morning bus to Fort Davis, drop down to Marfa, then try to make it back to Carlota, like they all do. I’ll intercept the bus.’
‘We’ll trail him to see if he made it to Stockton. We’ve got to catch this bastard—she was a good kid.’
‘We’ll alert Marfa and the folks on the bridge at Polk. I think we can close in on this paisano.’
In a car borrowed from the Narcotics men, the Macnabs sped to Marfa, where they reached the bus stop fifteen minutes before the arrival of the Fort Davis special. As they waited, Cletus asked: ‘You want to go aboard with me? In case he tries to run?’
‘Why are you so sure he’s coming this way?’
‘Averages. We play the averages.’
It was agreed that the huge linebacker would accompany his brother onto the bus, but behind, in hopes that his sheer size would cow the murderer. Cletus would keep his gun at the ready, but every precaution would be taken to avoid shooting.
‘Here she comes!’ Quietly, purposefully, the two Macnabs pushed aside those waiting for the bus, and as soon as the brakes took effect, sprang aboard like cats and moved immediately to the rear, where a very frightened wetback cowered in a corner of the back seat. Without touching his gun, Cletus said in good Spanish: ‘All right, paisano. Game’s up.’ And when they frisked the man they found the murder weapon, the small amount of money from the store and two candy bars.
They were with the Marfa police for about three hours, making telephone calls back to Monahans and Fort Stockton, and as Macnab worked, rabid supporters of the Dallas Cowboys crowded about, and one man asked: ‘It’s confusin’. Sometimes they call you Wolfman, and other times it’s the One-Man Gang.’
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