by Jack Higgins
Dillinger put his suitcase down. 'How'd you know I spoke English?'
'You walk like an American. And I never saw anybody down here drive a job like that.' He pointed at the convertible. 'Besides,' he said with a small-time laugh, 'Illinois plates don't grow on cars down here. Two bits and I'll watch your fancy job while you check in.'
'What's it need watching for?'
'The kids around here'll be down on it three seconds after you walk in that front door. I'm cleaned out. Two bits and nobody gets near your car.'
Dillinger took out his wallet and extracted a five dollar bill. 'Watch it real good.'
The man examined the bill, his face lit up as if he'd just won a jackpot. 'Thank you,' he said, stretching the 'you' out.
Dillinger picked up his suitcase again when he heard the man say, 'Don't I know you from somewhere, mister? You been in Laredo?'
'No.'
'San Antone?'
'No,' Dillinger said, and headed up the steps to the hotel entrance.
'Hey, I know who you look like,' the old man said. 'You look like John Dillinger.'
Dillinger looked around to see if anyone was standing within earshot. The only person close enough to have heard was a fat Mexican woman carrying a basket on her head. No chance she'd know the name even if she'd heard.
'I seen your picture,' the man said. 'You're him, ain't you?'
Dillinger turned slowly and moved back to face him. 'You're mistaken, friend. The name's Jordan - Harry Jordan.' He parted his jacket slightly so the old man could see the butt of the Colt pistol holstered under his left arm. 'You should be more careful, old timer. Americans should stick together in a place like this.'
The old man said, 'I guess I made a mistake. I'm sorry.'
'Make them myself every day,' Dillinger said and went into the hotel.
On the balcony above the hotel entrance, sitting well back out of the sun, the man who'd rented the best room in the hotel had listened to the exchange with interest. Although he hadn't heard the actual words, the new gringo spoke with an authority he liked. He picked up his Malacca cane, and straightening his wide-brimmed hat, he headed down to the lobby, walking with the confident gait of a man who knew what he wanted.
Dillinger, waiting at the desk for his key, saw him coming in the mirror. He was tall, with good shoulders, his temples brushed with grey, and the broken nose looked out of place in the aquiline face. There was an elegance about him, a touch of the hidalgo in the way he carried himself. He was a breed the revolution had almost destroyed. The proud ones who never gave in. Who had to be broken.
He removed the long cigarillo from his mouth. 'Senor Jordan?' he inquired in careful, clipped English.
Dillinger froze. How did the man know the name on his passport? No point in denying it. The hotel clerk knew. The old man in front knew. 'Yes,' was all Dillinger said.
'Allow me to introduce myself. Don Jose Manuel de Rivera.'
Dillinger could tell from the way the hotel clerk nodded to the man that he was a wheel.
'My business can be stated quite briefly, senor,' Rivera said. 'Perhaps I could accompany you to your room? We could talk as you unpack.'
'We can talk right here in the lobby,' Dillinger said, gesturing to a glass-topped wicker table with two chairs beside it.
'As you wish,' the man called Rivera said.
Just then they both heard the commotion outside, and a cracked voice yelling, 'Scram! Vamoose! Get the hell out of here!'
'Excuse me,' Dillinger said, and walked quickly to the front entrance, where, as he suspected, the old man was trying to chase away three shirtless teenage Mexican boys, one of whom had already opened the near door of the convertible and was peering into the glove compartment.
With quick strides Dillinger was at the car and grabbed the kid by his hair and yanked him out of the car, then twisted the kid's arm behind his back, paying no attention to the stream of Spanish invective. Calmly, Dillinger looked at the other two boys, who were standing on the running board on the other side. Whatever they saw in his eyes, plus the yelping of their friend, sent them dashing down the street.
The old American came around so he could yell at the captive's face. 'Ladron! Ladron!'
'What the hell does that mean?' Dillinger asked.
'Thief.'
'Tell him I'm going to break his arm so he won't steal any more.'
The old man translated it into rough Spanish. The kid looked frightened.
Then, with one motion, Dillinger flung the kid to the ground, giving him a chance to scamper away.
Dillinger laughed, and only then did he notice that the whole scene had been observed by Senor Rivera from the doorway.
'Bravo, Senor Jordan,' Rivera said.
'I apologize for the intermission,' Dillinger said, 'but I really like that car the way it is.'
'Understandable.'
The old man, his face a mask of disgrace, was holding out the five dollar bill Dillinger had given him. 'I guess you want this back. I didn't do too good watching your car for you.'
'You did fine. If you hadn't yelled, I wouldn't have come out. Just what I wanted.' He reached under the front seat of the car and pulled out a big flannel rag. 'Here. Why don't you clean the dust off the car while I talk to this gentleman. If you're dusting it, I don't think anybody else will bother it.'
'Absolutely, Mr Jordan,' the old man said, taking the rag and hastily pocketing the five-dollar bill again.
Rivera said, 'Perhaps now we can talk in your room where it will be quieter, senor?'
Dillinger hesitated and then shrugged. 'Why not?'
He collected his suitcase from the front desk and led the way up the broad wooden stairs to the first floor and unlocked the door at the end of the corridor. The room was like an oven. The fan in the ceiling was not moving. Dillinger yanked the pull chain; nothing happened. He flicked both switches on the wall. One turned on the light. The other did nothing.
'Mexico is not like the United States,' Rivera said.
Dillinger moved to open the french windows and nodded towards a table on which stood a pitcher of iced water and several glasses.
'Help yourself. If you don't mind, I'll have a wash.'
When Dillinger took his jacket off, Rivera noticed the underarm holster and gun with interest. No wonder the man could act with such authority. So much the better!
Dillinger put the holster down within easy reach. This Rivera looked rich. Dillinger trusted rich people less than poor people.
He stripped to the waist, poured lukewarm water from a pitcher into the basin on the washstand in one corner and sluiced his head and shoulders.
Rivera said, 'If you have not been to Mexico before, I recommend you order bottled water, Senor. American stomachs do not like our water.'
Dillinger nodded his thanks. Rivera sat down in a wicker chair by the table and Dillinger walked to the window, towelling his damp hair. A steam whistle blasted once, the sound echoing back from the mountains across the flat roofs, and a wisp of smoke drifted lazily into the sky from the station.
Rivera put down his glass and said, 'I'd like to offer you a job, Senor Jordan.'
'What kind of a job?' Dillinger was amused. This guy certainly didn't know who he was.
'I've re-opened an old gold mine near my hacienda at Hermosa. That's a small town in the northern foothills of the Sierra Madre, towards the American border. Hermosa and the area around it is rough country. The peasants are animals and the Indians who work the mines ...' He shrugged. 'But you will find this out for yourself. What I need is a man of authority, who will work with me for six months or a year. Keep discipline. You know what I mean?'
This guy was fascinating, Dillinger thought. 'Who keeps discipline for you now, Mr Rivera?'
'Ah,' Rivera said. 'I had a good man, also an American, very tall, very strong. He didn't want to go back to the States, the police bothered him there, and so he had an accident and now I have to replace him. I hope with you.'
&nb
sp; 'In one sentence,' Dillinger said, 'not a chance.'
'You have not heard my terms, senor. Two thousand dollars in gold for six months, five thousand dollars in gold for a year.'
Dillinger was really tempted to tell this fancy jerk that he'd made that much in five minutes by vaulting over a counter and emptying a teller's drawer.
'En oh,' Dillinger said. 'That spells no. But how would you like to work for me while I am in Mexico? You could be my guide. I'll pay you a thousand dollars for a month, how's that?'
Anger blazed in Rivera's dark eyes. The jagged white scar that bisected the left cheek that Dillinger hadn't paid attention to before seemed to stand out suddenly against the brown skin. Rivera took a cigarillo from his breast pocket and lit it. When he looked up, he had control again.
'I know you did not mean to insult me, Senor. You do not know the ways of Mexico.' He took a slow puff. 'I usually get what I want, Senor Jordan. We have a saying: A man must be prepared to pay for past sins. I will pay you double what I paid the other American if you return to Hermosa with me. My final offer.'
'Thanks, but no thanks,' Dillinger said gently. 'I'm really here on a kind of vacation.'
He was aware of the sweat trickling from his armpits, soaking into his shirt and poured himself a glass of iced water, then remembered Rivera's warning.
Rivera said calmly, 'Your final word?'
'Yes. Sorry we can't do business.'
Rivera walked to the door and opened it. 'So am I, Senor Jordan. So am I.'
He closed the door behind him and descended the wide wooden stairs to the lobby and went outside. He found the old man who was guarding Dillinger's convertible sitting on the bench, a small bottle of tequila in hand. So, he'd spent some of the money already.
'Hello, Fallon, I thought I recognized you. Having a difficult time of it lately?'
The old man looked at him sourly. 'You should know, Mr Rivera!'
'You needed a lesson, my friend,' Rivera said, 'but that's history now. You can come back and work for me at Hermosa any time you like.'
'That's not work, Mr Rivera. It's slavery.'
'As you choose. Who is this Senor Jordan?'
'Jordan?' The old man stared at him blankly. 'I don't know any Jordan.'
'The one you were talking to. He owns the automobile. Who is he? What's his game?'
'I ain't telling you a damn thing,' Fallon said.
Rivera shrugged, walked along the terrace. Two men were sitting at the end table eating frijoles, a bottle of wine between them. One was a large, placid Indian with an impassive face, great rolls of fat bursting the seams of his jacket. The other, a small, wiry man in a tan gabardine suit, his sallow face badly marked from smallpox, got to his feet hurriedly, wiping his mouth. 'Don Jose.'
'Ah, my good friend, Sergeant Hernandez.' Rivera turned and glanced towards Fallon. 'I wonder if you might consider doing me a great favour?'
Hernandez nodded eagerly. 'At your orders, as always, senor.'
Twenty minutes later, Fallon surfaced with a shock as a bucket of water was hurled in his face. One side of his face hurt from his eye to his jaw. He was lying in the corner of a police cell. The big Indian who stood over him must have hit or kicked him. Fallon's side hurt as much as his face. Sergeant Hernandez sat on the bunk. Fallon recognized him instantly and went cold.
'What is this? What have I done?'
'You are a stupid man,' Hernandez told him.
'I'm an American. You have no right to put me in here,' Fallon said.
'If you don't like our ways, why don't you go back? You want me to escort you to the border and turn you over to your Federalistas?'
Fallon shook his head.
'You are here because to go back there you have to spend fifteen years in jail, is that not so?'
The massive Indian moved within kicking distance of Fallon on the floor.
'You see,' Hernandez said, 'he only knows one thing, kicking.'
Fallon rolled away from the Indian, which brought him closer to Hernandez.
Hernandez leaned down and whispered to him, 'I think you will now stop being stupid. Now I think you may even try to be sensible? Is this not so?'
'Sure,' Fallon muttered.
The cell door opened and Rivera entered. He glared down at Fallon.
Hernandez said, 'Senor Rivera has some questions to put to you. You will answer them. You understand?'
'Yes,' Fallon moaned.
'Excellent.' Rivera said and sat on the bunk. 'Let's start again then. This man, Harry Jordan. Who is he?'
A slight wind lifted the edge of the dingy lace curtains in Dillinger's room. The place had that strange, derelict air common to rooms in cheap hotels the world over. It was as if no one had ever really lived there. As Dillinger lay on the bed, he heard the great bell of the church toll, and it reminded him of Sunday mornings in Indiana when he was twelve. He'd led his neighbourhood gang - all sixth-grade boys - in a foray to steal coal from the Pennsylvania Railroad and sell it to the women in town. He remembered the happy days in Gebhardt's pool hall, and the even happier times playing baseball. He loved it because it was two games being played at the same time, winning against the other team, and being watched by the girls, who always went after the boys who had played best immediately after the game. Some of those older girls had terrific figures, not like these Mexican women. Jesus, was he getting homesick so soon?
He had to wait it out till the hunt for him cooled off. He had to be steel, like the time he found strength to pour acid on his heel in prison so he could get transferred to yard duty. They owed him nine years! He remembered how good he felt - like he was flying - when he got out of jail that first time. He wasn't going to spend any more time ever behind bars.
The knock on the door stopped his reverie. He hoped it was the damn bellboy with the bottled water he'd asked for more than an hour ago. God, things moved slow in Mexico!
'Come in,' he yelled. 'The door's open.'
What came in wasn't the bellhop but a small wiry man in uniform with a pock-marked face.
'Police, senor,' pock-marks said. 'I am Sergeant Hernandez. May I see your passport?'
Dillinger looked across the room to the dresser where his Colt automatic lay in its holster. The sergeant followed his eyes.
Dillinger swung his feet off the bed, went to his jacket, took out the Harry Jordan passport and handed it to Hernandez, who went through it page by page, his face expressionless.
'How much did you pay for this passport, Senor Jordan?' Hernandez asked.
'Same as anyone else,' Dillinger said.
'I must have you accompany us to headquarters, senor.'
'Would you mind explaining what this is all about?'
Hernandez straightened, his jacket falling open, and drew a revolver from the holster on his left hip. 'Please, senor, let's be sensible about this. No fuss, eh? We must think of the reputation of the hotel.' He pulled Dillinger's Colt automatic from its holster and pocketed it. 'We can drive to police headquarters in my car, or my driver can follow us in your car in case you do not wish to leave that beautiful automobile unattended in front of the hotel. You see, the man who was watching it, he is no longer watching it because he is in jail. Like you, Mr Dillinger, he doesn't want to be turned over to the Federalistas on your side of the border.'
4
In the courtyard a troop of Mexican Federal cavalry was exercising. Dillinger, with Hernandez beside him, waited till he could drive the convertible into the courtyard. He wasn't about to leave it in the street.
When he parked, Hernandez held his hand out for the keys.
Dillinger started to separate the trunk key from the ignition key on the ring.
'Both keys, Senor Jordan,' Hernandez said. 'If you please.'
Dillinger decided not to make a fuss about the trunk key. Considering what was in the trunk, he'd just as soon not call attention to it.
Inside, Dillinger was told to sit down on a rough wooden bench in the white-washed corrid
or, watched over by Hernandez's Indian. Through the open window, he could hear the shouted commands to the cavalry. If he had to shake loose of this place, he wasn't going to leave the convertible behind, which meant he'd have to be able to get it out of the courtyard. He'd get his keys back or he'd wire the ignition. Getting into the trunk would be a bitch. He was beginning to be sorry he hadn't left the car in the street and gotten a second set of keys made to keep under the bumper as he used to back home.
He stood up to make sure nobody was bothering the car, but the Indian put a heavy hand on his shoulder and made him sit back down.
'Nobody does that to me,' he said uselessly. The Indian didn't understand him. 'You're going to be sorry you were born.'
Finally he heard a murmur of voices from down the hall and Hernandez beckoned to him. They passed many doors, Hernandez leading, the Indian behind, until they came to a door that was open, as if they were expected. Hernandez gestured, and Dillinger went in.
The office was sparsely furnished with two chairs and a desk and there was a rush mat on the floor. The one luxury was the ancient fan which revolved listlessly in the ceiling.
The man behind the desk wore a rumpled khaki uniform. He was middle-aged and balding, a small black moustache brushing his upper lip. When he smiled, Dillinger saw that most of his teeth had been capped in gold.
'I am Fidel Santos, Chief of Police,' he said in English. 'Please sit down, Senor Jordan.'
On the desk before him he had Dillinger's wallet and the false passport.
'What's all this about?' Dillinger asked.
'As with most things in life it is a question of money, senor.' Santos nodded and Hernandez placed a small black suitcase on the desk and flipped it open revealing the neat rows of bank notes. 'Just over eleven thousand American dollars, to be precise. We found it in the trunk of your car.'
Bastards, Dillinger thought.
'How have you earned this money, senor?'
'My father died three months ago and left me a small farm in Kansas which I sold.'