“Been down that road,” said Ewball. “Plantation life not what you expected?”
Young Von Quassel allowed himself a chilly smile. “It is exactly what I expected.”
EWBALL HAD A FATALITY for running across old acquaintances from el otro lado and an earlier day, in the years between grown older and meaner, and sometimes into a notoriety neither could have imagined back in those times of sensation and carelessness. There was for instance “Steve,” nowadays suggesting folks address him as “Ramón,” a fugitive from some bucket-shop catastrophe up north, keeping ever on the move, still not able to stop flimming as loud and fast as he could, who showed up one day downtown in the middle of a brief sandstorm, in the same little courtyard where Ewball, Frank, and Günther and a couple dozen blackbirds happened to be sheltering. The norte howled as if at some invisible moon. Sand whistled and rang through the fancy wrought-ironwork, and “Ramón” entertained them with tales of cascading debt. “Tell you, I’m sure getting desperate. If you hear about anything you think’s too crazy or dangerous for you, why, pass it along. There’s this stock-margin situation up north. Right now I’d fuck an alligator at high noon in the Plaza de Toros if there was a peso to be had out of it.” Before slouching away into the yellow opacity, he invited them all up to a wingding at his villa that evening.
“Come have a look at it while it’s still ours, meet the new wife. Little reunión, hundred folks maybe, go on all week if we wanted it to.”
“Sounds good,” Ewball said.
Günther, off to do some business with the extensive German colony here in Tampico, shook hands with Frank and Ewball. “You will go to this fiesta tonight?”
“We’re staying at the Imperial,” Frank said, “down in the basement, way in back. Drop by, we’ll go up there together.”
Away to the west and the Sierra, in grand residences faintly visible through the mists that rose from the malarial lowlands, the gringo population cringed on top of their breezy river-bluffs, waiting for the native uprising they all believed imminent, as they lay supine in their bedrooms night after night, beset, in the few hours of sleep they did find, by nearly identical nightmares of desert flight, pitiless skies, faces in which not only the irises but the entire surfaces of eyes were black, glistening in the sockets, implacable, reflecting columns of flame as wells blazed and exploded, nothing ahead but exile, loss, disgrace, no future anyplace north of the Río Bravo, voices invisible out in the oil-reek, from out of the diseased canals, accusing, arraigning, promising retribution for offenses unremembered. . . .
FRANK AND EWBALL moseyed into Steve/Ramón’s party to find a ballroom murmurous with tiled fountains, where uncaged parrots glided from one ornamental palm to another. A dance band played. Couples danced tropical versions of the bolero and the fandango. Guests were drinking Ramos gin fizzes and chewing coca fresh from the jungles of Tehuantepec. Laughter was more or less constant in the room, but somewhat louder and more anxious than in, say, the average Saturday-night cantina. Out in the front hall, concealed by giant pots full of orchids, was an array of steamer trunks, packed and ready to roll. The same could be seen in most of the villas rented by gringos in Ramón’s set, each a reminder of the pit waiting in the shadows of near futurity, for how could this last, this unnatural boom, this overextended violation of reality?
“It’s Baku with skeeters,” old oilpatch hands assured Frank.
“Time to get out of the country,” revelers were heard to say more than once, “for we’re all just hostages here down below the border line, up north they’re borrowing like it’s the end of the world, half of it with stocks for collateral, anything goes wrong up there with the trusts and it won’t matter how much oil’s in the ground, it’ll be adios chingamadre, so to speak.”
Günther had shown up with a tall blonde beauty named Gretchen, who spoke no English or Spanish and only a few words in her native German, such as “cocktail” and “zigarette.” As it turned out, she showed a propensity, strange in such an eye-catching young lady, for disappearing, and Frank noticed Günther had a worried expression.
“I’m supposed to be looking after her for an associate,” he said. “She has a history of impulsiveness. If it were not for—” he hesitated, as if about to ask for Frank’s intercession.
“If I can help . . .”
“Your name actually came up today, in a context I have myself lately only begun to investigate.”
“I’ve had some dealings with the German colony. In Tampico it’s hard not to.”
“This had to do with a certain delivery in Tampico for transshipment to Chiapas.”
“Coffee-picking machinery,” Frank suggested.
“Quite so.” Gretchen reappeared drifting by the French windows along a colonnade, a glazed look in her eyes even at this distance. “When you have a moment . . . as soon as I . . .” Distracted, he sped off after the restless Valkyrie.
The shipment at issue proved to be a quantity of Mondragón semiautomatics from Germany, intended for the Mexican Army.
“Nice little unit,” Frank said. “Started off as a Mexican design twenty years ago, Germans have been refining it since. The bolt gets blown back, ejects the old case, chambers a new round, you don’t have to touch a thing. Weighs about as much as a Springfield, all’s you got to do’s keep squeezin ’em off till the magazine’s empty, that’s ten rounds, unless you can find some of those thirty-round Schnecken rigs they make for the German airplanes ’ese days.”
“I’ll ask,” said Günther.
The crates of rifles could be re-manifested as “silver-mining machinery”—one of the principal cargoes railroads here and up north had been built to carry in the first place—thus finding safe-passage tuned to the duplicities of an economic order they might someday destroy. There would be no problem on this end getting help from the stevedores’ union, who were by nature anti-Porfiristas.
“You might also want to have a word with Eusebio Gómez, who’s acting as a subagent,” Günther said.
Frank found him down at the docks on the Pánuco, the rough iron flank of a steamer ascending behind him. “I’m taking my commission in merchandise instead of cash,” Eusebio explained, “on the theory that Mondragóns will get you through times of no money better than the other way around, as anyone who’s tried to shoot anything with a hidalgo can tell you.”
“Got to say you speak some mighty fine English, there, Eusebio,” nodded Frank.
“In Tampico everybody speaks northamerican, it’s why we call it ‘Gringolandia’ here.”
“I bet you see a lot of Irish around too, huh? those irlandeses?”
“Señor?”
“Oh they’re easy to spot—red-nose drunk all the time, jabbering, dirtignorant, idiot politics—”
“And what the bloody fuckall would you know about it—este . . . perdón, señor, what I meant to say, of course—”
“Ah-ah . . .?” Frank grinning and waving his finger.
Eusebio’s fists and eyebrows begin to unclench. “Well, you got me, sure. Wolfe Tone O’Rooney, sir, and here’s hoping you don’t work for the bloody Brits, or I’d be obliged to deal with that somehow.”
“Frank Traverse.”
“Not Reef Traverse’s brother.” Which was the first word Frank had had of Reef since Telluride.
They found a little cantina and got a couple of bottles of beer. “He wanted to finish the obligation himself,” Wolfe Tone said. “He felt it was wrong to shift the burden over to you.”
Frank told him about the Flor de Coahuila and the end of Sloat Fresno.
“So it’s over?”
“Far’s I’m concerned it is.”
“But the other one.”
“Deuce Kindred.”
“He’s still out there?”
“Maybe. I ain’t the only one lookin for him. Somebody’ll get him if they haven’t already. If that bitch is still in the picture, could even be her, wouldn’t surprise me much.”
“Your . . . sister.”<
br />
Causing Frank to squint inquiringly through the smoke of his cigarette. “She’s got the best position on the pool table right now.”
“Doesn’t mean she’d do it?”
“Sure would be a funny one though, wouldn’t it? If all this time she was just playin the long game, you know, gettin married to him, pretendin that whole li’l wifey business, waitin for the right moment, and then, well, kapow.”
“A man might almost think you miss her a little.”
“Hell. Only way I’d miss her’s if my sights was off.”
Wolfe Tone O’Rooney was after weapons for the Irish cause, primarily, but found himself drawn more and more, the longer he stayed in Mexico, into the gathering revolution here. He and Ewball hit it off right away, and soon the three of them had become regular passengers on the trolley out to Doña Cecilia, eventually blending in with dockworkers, roughnecks, and families on the way to the beach.
Their preferred place of business in Doña Cecilia was a cantina and gambling den known as La Fotinga Huasteca. The house band consisted of gigantic guitars, fiddles, trumpets, and accordion, with rhythms provided by a batería including timbales, guiros, and congas. Everybody here knew the words to everything, so the whole place sang along.
Into this tropical paradise one day who should come strolling but their old jailmate Dwayne Provecho, acting like he owned the place. Ewball’s ears went back, and he set about repositioning his feet, but Frank felt only dull vexation, something like chronic dyspepsia, at this latest addition to an already worrisome list.
“Well, lookit this,” Ewball snarled in greeting, “figured you’d be in Hell by now, bed-buddyin ’th that dirty li’l back-shootin Bob Ford.”
“Still packin ’em old resentimientos,” Dwayne shaking his head, “gonn’ affect your range and accuracy someday, podner.”
“Careful who you call that.”
“Have a warm beer,” Frank suggested without bothering to keep the weariness out of his voice.
“Why Kid, how Christian of you,” pulling over a chair and sitting down.
Frank’s eyebrows descended briefly from the shadow of his hatbrim. “You stayed on my good side there maybe eight seconds, Dwayne, ever think of ridin the rodeo? Say, Mañuela, this prosperous-lookin gent would like to buy us cervezas Bohemias all around, with maybe some Cuervo Extra to go with that, doubles if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Sounds good,” Dwayne bringing out a flashroll of American you could’ve wallpapered the place with, and peeling off a sawbuck. “Business is just bountiful. How’s it with you fellas?”
“Thought they paid you off in rat cheese,” muttered Ewball.
“About to put you fellows in the way of a whole new career, this is the thanks I get?”
“You’re just our guardian angel,” Frank reaching for his tequila glass.
“With what’s rollin down the rails here,” Dwayne said, “it ain’t just money, it’s history. And the next stop could be up north, ’cause anybody needs a revolution, it’s sure us gringos.”
“Then why ain’t you up there?” Frank pretended to ask.
“He’d rather be down here soldiering on the cheap,” Ewball explained, “ain’t that it, Dwayne, all these greasers whose lives don’t mean all that much to you?”
“Why, I feel like that these are my people,” replied Dwayne with an air of dismissive sanctity. What he did not seem to be taking in was how much Ewball had changed since last they’d met. Maybe still figuring he was dealing with the same boomtown remittance man.
“There he goes, insultin the whole country. Fact of the matter,” Ewball growing gleeful with aggravation, “these folks down here at least still have a chance—one that the norteamericanos lost long ago. For you-all, it’s way too late anymore. You’ve delivered yourselves into the hands of capitalists and Christers, and anybody wants to change any of that steps across ’at frontera, they’re drygulched on the spot—though I’m sure you’d know how to avoid that, Dwayne.”
Which should have sent Dwayne into some fit of offended dignity, but instead, as Frank expected, turned him oily as the Pánuco River on a busy day.
“Now, boys,” he said, “let’s not sour what could be a happy reunion—for it seems I’m so snowed under at the moment that it’d be almost a mercy if you could take some of this business off of my hands. Especially seein how well connected you boys seem to be around Tampico—”
“Damn,” Ewball as if he’d just figured it out, “that’s why we haven’t seen him around here before—Dwayne! ol’ Dwayne, why, you just hit town today, didt’n you?”
“Let me prove my good faith here,” Dwayne said, “how’s a nice big consignment of them Krag-Jørgensens sound to you-all?”
“Blam! Blam!” Ewball supposed. “Kachunk, blam!”
“Come on, now, everbody likes a Krag. That handy trapdoor magazine? been a great favorite for years now with riflemen of many nations, includin the one we currently find ourselves in here.”
“Who do we get sold to this time?” Ewball inquired mildly.
When Dwayne had gone off to the next segment of his important day, Frank said, “Well, things are kind of slow.”
“Up to you. I’m staying as far out of that poisonous little bastard’s way as I can without swearing off alcohol.”
“He says the folks to see are in Juárez. One day up and back.”
“Unless it’s another of Dwayne’s special little surprises, o’ course. Go on ahead, I’ll mind the shop, but you get bushwhacked on this don’t come cryin and I’ll try not to say I told you so.”
“Jake with me.”
“Vaya con Dios, pendejo.”
Just what kind of a weapons jobber would pick a place like this to meet in? It appeared to be another of these damned ladies’ gathering spots, just off the lobby of a reputable hotel near the Union Depot, tables surrounding a patio, clean as a whistle, plaster on the walls white as new, a stepping-off place for gringos making their first trip south, friendly señoritas in charming native outfits bringing afternoon tea in matching crockery and so on. Not a patch on the old El Paso—meaning three or four years ago, before the Law and Order League got into the act. What’d happened to all those very small back rooms down in the Chamizal, cigar smoke, self-destructive behavior, windows you could always jump out of? Since the good citizens had forced everything interesting out of town and across the river to Juárez, these damned little tearooms were showing up on every block. He looked again at the business card Dwayne’s contact in Juárez had given him—E. B. Soltera, Regeneration Equipment.
Though not entirely tuned to female emanations, Frank noticed now a sudden dip in the chitchat level as tables full of respectable wives and mothers, bundled in unstained white dresses, first turned and then inclined their heads one to another to pass behind the brims of their pure white hats remarks on the apparition gliding toward Frank across the room. All he could think of was to sort of fan himself with the little card and keep pointing at it with his eyebrows up.
“Business name. Hello, Frank.”
It was Stray, all right. Days and nights must have gone by when he’d been too claimed by trail business to imagine them ever meeting up again, but she did manage to cross his mind, once a week, maybe, cross it and often as not smile back over her shoulder. And now would you just look. Not exactly trailbeat, more rosy and plump in a city way, though some of that could have been the turnout and the rouge and all. . . . “Sure didn’t expect . . .” On his feet, shaking his head slowly. “Well, I wouldn’t’ve bet.”
“Oh, all you got to do here in E.P.T.’s just sit still, sooner or later everbody you ever knew shows up, your whole life, everthin hoppin like Mexican jumpin beans ’ese days.”
He was about to go through the gentlemanly routine, but she took her own seat without fuss, so Frank sat down again, still a little discombobulated. “Place to be, eh?”
“For some kinds of business. Guess you finally got tired of that little old Smith,” sighti
ng down her parasol at one of the matronly starers, who quickly looked away. “These Krag-Jørgensens’ll be U.S. Army issue, which th’ Army as you know’s been replacing ’em with a newer Mauser type of model, so there’s a lot of Krags out on the market right now, if you know where to look. Not that I ever get my hands on too much of the merchandise, of course.”
“Go-between.”
“Yeahp, percentage on a percentage, same old tale o’ woe. Business with the Army sure ain’t like it was, no more them two-three day binges with your good compadre supply sergeants, now it’s all timing, quick in, quick out, for gosh sakes they’re always on the telephone, Frank, they’ve even got the wireless telegraph. So even if I shouldn’t be sayin so—buyer beware.”
“I’ll make a note, but you’ll probably get your price, other side the river they’re gettin crazier as the days go by, and the money this side’s comin from some unexpected pockets.”
“Best not tell me, I hear too much as it is.”
For a full minute then, they sat face-to-face, as if waiting for time to slow down. Then they both spoke at once.
“Bet you’re thinkin about—” Frank blurted.
“This used to be—” she began. He smiled sourly and nodded her to go on ahead. “It was your brother’s old stomping grounds here, El Paso. One of ’em. He drifted around the sanatoriums posing as a rich-kid lung case from back east, workin ’em dayrooms like ridin a circuit. Though he never did get the accent right. When he could find a nurse who’d keep still for it, he’d get her to check him in, maybe even split the proceeds, which’d often as not turn out considerable. I used to come in, pretend to be his sister, got some funny looks from some nurses. Take notice of a few poker hands now and then, pass along the news, nothing nobody ever thought through. Then off we went. Or maybe just me, I forget.”
“Good old days.”
“Why, hell no.”
Frank scrutinized his hatband. “Oh, but,” slowly, “you never know with that Reefer, do you, one these days he’ll just come breezin in—”
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