The Shadow of the Shadow

by Paco Ignacio Taibo II

  "This all? And you call yourselves a bank? What've you got, a bunch of beggars keeping their money here or what? Let's see some of those real bourgeois bills," said the robber in shirt-sleeves. Demonstrating an agility no one would have guessed he had, he jumped over the counter and started to fill the envelopes himself.

  "Ready," said the short man.

  "What is it?" asked the man with the Stetson.

  "Some kind of document, five pages, and then some kind of contract or something."

  "That's better. That's the way I like it," said the man with the Spanish accent, carrying off five envelopes full of cash.

  "Hey, I could have said `this is a holdup' just the same as the lest of you. Thele's no al's thele," complained Tomas as the getaway car sped up Puente de Alvarado toward Tacuba.

  "Yeah, and then what? You going to paint your skin white?"

  "My skin's not that yellow. I could have passed as a malalia patient with the mask on."

  "A malaria patient with a mask. Hell, that's a good one."

  "So read it, dammit, what's it say?" urged Manterola at the wheel of the Packard.

  "Have you got a license to drive this thing, inkslinger?" asked Verdugo.

  "It's a military document, a plan to revolt against the government. It's dated April 1920. That'd be one month before the Agua Prieta Revolt against Carranza. Whoever made this plan got beat to the punch..."

  "Who signed it? No, let me guess ...Gomez," said the reporter.

  "Zevada," said Verdugo.

  "And Martinez Fierro," said the poet.

  "Things ale getting clealel."

  "Not too bad, easier than squeezing blood out of a turnip. Sixty-three thousand pesos, one on top of the other."

  THE THREE COLONELS ARRIVED separately. Zevada and Martinez Fierro drove up in their cars out of the storm, each with a small armed escort. Gomez was the last to arrive, on horseback, accompanied only by a trusted lieutenant. He stripped off his rubber poncho and joined his two associates in the salon, where they stood drinking wine from cut-crystal glasses.' he five North Americans waited at the other end of the room. Two of them relaxed in voluminous green velvet armchairs, puffing away on fat cigars; a third man with white hair and a glassy stare stood at the window looking out into the driving rain; two more sat around a table talking.

  "We're all here, then," announced Zevada, a tall ugly man with a scar that ran from his lower lip down to the point of his chin.

  "Colonel Gomez, welcome," said one of the North Americans in Spanish-Wiliam C. Greene, general manager of the Huasteca Petroleum Company. "I want you to meet Senator Fall, and Mr. Doheny, Mr. Sinclair, and Mr. Teagle."

  Gomez held his hand out to the senator, then saluted the oil barons. He clicked his heels once for Standard Oil of New Jersey, representing a third of all Mexican oil operations, then again for the owner and namesake of Sinclair Oil, and once more for the men from Huasteca Petroleum. With these three brief gestures, he offered up his reverence to what amounted to 30 percent of the entire income of the Mexican treasury, acquired through export taxes and drilling rights on 194 million barrels of crude oil a year. After that, he nodded to his two fellow officers. The three of them together effectively controlled military power in the whole oil country, from the U.S. border down to the Tampico refineries and the Huasteca oil fields in the state of Veracruz.

  "All right, gentlemen, let's get down to business. The devil himself is out there tonight and I have to be back in my barracks at Panuco by dawn."

  Greene, acting as host, led the group to an adjoining room where they took their seats around a large mahogany table. The manager of the Huasteca Petroleum Co. poured out wine and offered around a tray of tiny meat-filled pastries. Aside from the eight men assembled around the table, the huge house was empty.

  "Whenever you're ready, gentlemen," prompted Greene.

  The three Mexican officers sat on one side of the table, facing the oilmen and Senator Fall.

  The colonels glanced at one another. Martinez Fierro had risen to colonel before the others, but it was Gomez who controlled the key forces in the oil region and he was the first to speak.

  "We are ready to take arms against the government, as we previously agreed. Colonel Martinez will secure the border, Zevada will take care of Tampico, and I will be in command in the Huasteca. We've considered the possible flaws in our plan, and they are minor. Once the insurrection begins, it will be necessary to eliminate General Arnulfo Gomez, as well as Colonel Lazaro Cardenas in Papantla. You've got General Pelaez by the nape of the neck and he will take our side. We have men in our confidence in the garrisons at Reynosa, Laredo, Tampico, Panuco, Tantoyuca, Chicontepec, and Tuxpan. Counting the troops under Pelaez, we will have five thousand men with us after the first few hours of the revolt."

  Greene translated the colonel's words to Senator Fall, and Doheny did the same for Teagle and Sinclair.

  "So far so good," continued Gomez. "We can assume that President Carranza will order Pancho Murguia against us from the center of the country, that Aguilar will send Guadalupe Sanchez and his men up from Veracruz, and that General Marcelo Caraveo will come at us from the West. However, the conflicts that already exist among them due to the upcoming elections will immobilize them within a few days, The government can hardly rely on Obregon and his troops, and even General Pablo Gonzalez is not a sure thing for them at this point. The situation works in our favor, but even so, it's unlikely that we can resist for more than a week. The rest is up to you. If after five days you're unable to resolve the political question, then you might as well go ahead and deposit the sum we agreed upon in a bank in Los Angeles, and our next meeting will take place in your country, gentlemen."

  "Senator Fall has asked me to inform you of the following," said Greene. "Once you've taken up arms and your intentions are made public, the State Department will declare that the U.S. government is taking the entire Mexican petroleum region under its protection, in the name of safeguarding our national interests. On the second day of the uprising, you will ask publicly for this protection, claiming that you cannot guarantee the safety of the oil wells in the face of government threats to dynamite oil operations throughout the region. I believe that we can have a squadron of Marines in Tampico by the third day. You will then declare your autonomy from the central government and name an administrative apparatus to coordinate with our expeditionary forces. These gentlemen"-he motioned to the oil barons-"will apply pressure on the State Department for immediate intervention."

  "Can you guarantee us a Marine landing on the third day?" asked Zevada. "I can open the border at Reynosa if necessary."

  Greene and Fall talked in English in low voices.

  "On the third day, you'll have the Marines. In addition, Senator Fall will sound out the possibility of sending a cavalry regiment across the border at Reynosa."

  "And now, with respect to the economic arrangements we discussed previously?" asked Martinez Fierro. "In the event that the uprising fails, we will deposit, in each of your names, one million dollars in a bank in Los Angeles."

  "And how do we slice up the pie if we win?" asked Zevada.

  "Each of you will get three percent of tax revenues due on exports and drilling rights."

  "One other thing, gentlemen. We plan to form a triumvirate to govern the autonomous region, and once things calm down a bit we'll count on you to get rid of Pelaez."

  "Consider it done," said Doheny, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis.

  Greene opened a yellow folder and took out five copies of the same document.

  "This, then, is the Plan of Mata Redonda, gentlemen. Read it over. There's one copy for each of you, one for the oil companies, and one for Senator Fall, who will make use of it at the appropriate time."

  "Before we sign, we want a copy in writing of your intentions, including the economic arrangements between us."

  The oil bosses spoke together in English and then Doheny directed himself to the colonels.


  "Agreed, with the provision that, should the operation fail, the information not be made public. What guarantees can you give us?"

  "There will be one copy only, and we'll make sure that it doesn't go beyond us. Tomorrow morning, I'll send my assistant to pick it up, and it will then be deposited in a safe-deposit box in the Bank of Hamburg in Tampico, as if it were a copy of a will or some other family document."

  The copies of the Plan of Mata Redonda made their way around the table. Gomez, Zevada, and Martinez Fierro signed without so much as flipping through the pages.

  "Have you gentlemen come up with a name for the new protectorate, should our plan succeed?" asked Greene.

  "I thought we might call it the Republic of Black Gold," said Gomez. His words were translated, and the men at the table laughed.

  MANTEROLA WALKED INTO Vito Alessio Robles's office without knocking. And without saying a word he slid the Plan of Mata Redonda across the desk of the owner and managing editor of El Democrata.

  Vito Alessio, the brother of Miguel Alessio Robles, Obregon's personal secretary, was an independent-minded man in the ranks of Obregon's supporters. He'd built the best daily newspaper in the country in only two years'time. With an independent outlook, an excellent labor-affairs section, detailed national news, and a brilliant crime page, well-designed and provocatively headlined, the paper easily surpassed its three competitors in circulation. Alessio had made a policy of paying well for his reporters' genius, enduring their eccentricities, their manias, their unrepentant bohemianism, in exchange for an admirable level of journalistic discipline and an unsurpassed passion for the profession. So he wasn't in the least surprised to see his star crime reporter walk into his office dressed as an Indian Maharaja-he settled back to read the document.

  "All right, Manterola. What do you want to do with this?" he asked, lifting his eyes from the pages in front of him.

  "I assume you've been following my campaign against Gomez. Well, this is the final blow."

  "I'd like to be able to cover my ass before taking this to press. I'd like to talk it over with my brother first. You realize, of course, it doesn't merely implicate the three colonels...' his Zevada is the one they tossed out of the window in the building across the street, isn't he?"

  "One and the same. He must have been blackmailing the other two."

  "We have to think about the overall impact of something like this, now that the government's about to enter into negotiations with the oil companies. What we'd be doing is accusing the four American oil companies of trying to organize a revolution to take over the oil fields. It's not these two-bit colonels I'm worried about here. It's the government's position."

  "It'd be front-page news for a week, sir."

  "I don't doubt that, Manterola, but I'd like to check up on it first-if you're willing, of course. If you insist, we'll go to press today. It's your story, and come hell or high water we're here to get out the news. But, with your permission, I'd like to talk to a few people first."

  "That's fine with me, sir. How many days do you need?"

  "Two at the most," said the editor, looking fixedly at the reporter.

  "There's one small problem, sir. This document here is like my life insurance. If it doesn't get published, and they drum the two colonels out anyway, I've got one foot in the grave, if you know what I mean."

  "You're safe as long as you're here at the newspaper."

  "Safe from Colonel Gomez?"

  "From Gomez and the entire Mexico City gendarmerie, if it comes to that. You have my guarantee," said Vito Alessio. He picked up the telephone. "Get me Ericsson seven-nine-one, direct with my brother. Tell his secretary it's a matter of life and death."

  "I'd like to keep the original, sir."

  "Let me make a few notes, then."

  "Be my guest."

  "In the meantime, why don't you go down to the cashier? You've earned a bonus, Manterola."

  "I appreciate that, sir. You have no idea how expensive it can be to go around dressed like a Hindu prince in a rented limousine."

  Vito Alessio laughed as the reporter headed toward the door.

  But not nearly as much as Gonzaga when he saw Pioquinto Manterola walk into the newsroom wearing a turban.

  "Stand there a minute, will you?" he said. "This is something I've got to draw."

  "Go to hell."

  "Cheggidout. That reminds me, there's a message for you here. You've got a date with an army colonel who says he'll wait for you every night this week in the... Let's see, I've got it here somewhere... in the Black Circus Bar. Cheggidout. I get it now, they want to give you a job as a doorman."

  I N S I D E THE PAC KA R D, and much to the lawyer's surprise, the poet pulled down his pants and cut out the bottom of his right front pocket with a knife. Then he loaded his shotgun and started to strap it to his right leg with a roll of sticking plaster. First he wrapped the plaster around the barrel at his ankle, then at the knee just beyond the double hammer, and again around his thigh and the gun's wooden stock. He hitched his baggy pants back up and, sticking his hand into his pocket, felt for the trigger.

  "Perfect," he said. "Now all I have to do is remember not to dance, because if this thing goes off on me, you're going to see one elevated poet."

  "I don't know... If we have to make a fast getaway, you're going to have some problems."

  "If we have to make a fast getaway, I'll just take off my pants and run for it. Don't underestimate my strategy."

  Verdugo checked the bullets in his revolver and replaced the gun in its shoulder holster. Then he filled the pockets of his fortypeso white linen Palm Beach suit with extra bullets.

  The reporter was waiting for them at the corner of Heroes Street.

  "What about your glasses?" Verdugo asked, pulling up to the curb.

  "Don't worry about it. If it comes down to gunplay, everything's going to be at close range anyway," said the poet, tying a red silk handkerchief around his neck. Verdugo glanced at the poet's dull eyes and smiling face reflected in the rearview mirror. They got out of the car and walked with the reporter toward the Black Circus Bar, guided by the sound of the music.

  The Black Circus was the jumpingest tropical-music joint in Mexico City, and in those days there weren't very many. Located at the corner of Heroes and Camelia in the tough Guerrero district, it was patronized mostly by working-class dance freaks who had made it what it was: the undisputed cathedral of rumba. Tonight a twelve-piece Cuban-Veracruz conjunto called Extasis was officiating from the pulpit. A wave of sound, sweat, and smoke hit them in the face as the three friends walked through the swinging doors.

  It was a big box of a room, with twin bars on either side, a low stage for the band at the far end, and a large circular dance floor. Around the dance floor were some two dozen tables filled with office workers, artisans, poor students, prostitutes, and musicians who'd come to learn from the new tropical sound. Extasis was just finishing off its second set of the night while a mulatto man danced barefoot in the center of the floor. Verdugo returned the stare of an officer and two civilians at a nearby table. At the next table over, behind the officer and his companions, the Chinaman and San Vicente sat drinking, pretending to be caught up in the music. While the reporter and the poet headed straight over to the officer's table, Verdugo surveyed the scene. He discounted almost everyone in the crowded bar except for a pair of men sitting with a woman three tables away from what appeared to be the center of the action. His eyes teared from all the smoke.

  "Good evening, Colonel. I'm Pioquinto Manterola," said the reporter, and the man motioned him to take a seat.

  The poet limped up behind his friend, pulled up a chair a little way from the table, and rested his stiff leg on another chair, his boot pointing at the belly of Colonel Martinez Fierro. Verdugo sat down on the reporter's left, an arm's length from one of the colonel's companions, a blond man with an absent-minded air which made him all the more dangerous in the lawyer's eyes-Verdugo being a man who believed
in anything but appearances.

  "These are a couple of friends of mine, Mr. Manterola," said the officer, motioning toward his companions.

  "The lawyer Alberto Verdugo and the poet Fermin Valencia, two close friends of mine," said the reporter.

  "Will you join us in a drink?" asked the colonel. He was a fortyish man with dark skin and deep-set eyes that shone brightly despite the darkness of the bar. He held out a bottle of something that was either mezcal or tequila, and poured out three glasses. Manterola shook his head, and the poet politely declined. Verdugo took a glass. Whatever Martinez Fierro had in mind, it wasn't poison. The lawyer downed the mezcal with a single gulp. The band finished their set with a fanfare of trumpets. Verdugo clapped eagerly, looking around carefully for anyone who didn't, adding to the list of possible targets a man who sat at the bar several feet behind him with his head between his hands.

  "Gentlemen, I'm not going to waste your time. You have a certain document in your possession, or if you don't actually have a copy of it, you're familiar with its contents. I tried to keep the representatives of the Aguila Petroleum Company who stole it from me from letting it get out but, one way or another, I was unsuccessful. It didn't belong to them, it was mine, and I should have destroyed it long ago. Now I just want to let bygones be bygones. We can all forget it ever existed. You gentlemen go about your business and leave me alone to go about mine. I'm talking peace.

  "And what exactly is your business, Colonel?"

  "That's just the attitude that's gotten you in trouble before. My business is my business, asshole. Understand?"

  This isn't going to last very long, the poet told himself and, feigning discomfort, adjusted his stiff leg so that it pointed at the colonel's head. Then he slid his hand into his right pocket and stroked the shotgun's double trigger.

  "What's in it for us?" asked the reporter, his hands starting to sweat. He knew his fear could paralyze him, and he didn't want to waste any time.