by Bacon Thorn
Bombito had deployed an additional two hundred men throughout the arena. At least thirty of them were equipped with telescope-mounted sniper rifles and were stationed against the high wall on the rim of the stadium. The rifles were loosely concealed beneath their colorful rebozos. At each entry and exit, at every opening in or out of the arena, trusted army regulars stood guard with submachine guns.
“This,” Peñas pointed out, “will not be construed by an edgy public as an unusual procedure. Since it is known the president is in the plaza, people expect to see guards and should not pay much attention to them.”
Another precaution had been the replacement of a large number of beer and soft drink vendors by agents of the Federal Judicial Police. Colorado had cornered the head of the union of plaza vendors and slipped the man a bribe large enough to quiet his protests and to buy his grateful silence. The amount of largess he paid to his displaced vendors was a matter of his own conscience and judgment. The sharp-eyed agents, hawking cervezas and cacahuates, had the difficult job of dispensing the beverages and peanuts while keeping vigilant for any off-key disturbances that might spell trouble. They wore buttonhole microphones and bore concealed arms.
Roadblocks had been set up by three o’clock at every roadway leading into the corral area of the plaza. Any vehicle traveling at high speed would be stopped dead in its tracks. Colorado commanded this duty. He was now stationed in the bull-deboxing area in back of the arena, which could be approached under the stands or via the callejón through the arrastre gate, where the dead bulls were dragged off by teams of mules to be butchered for the poor.
Earlier, before the intense conference at the pensión had been terminated, the haunting question of how the dogs could be smuggled into the arena had been picked apart.
There had been no satisfactory resolution.
It had been Colorado who had said thoughtfully to Peñas, “Jefe, as a youngster I herded horses on a large ganadería and I was a mono in the small rings and I waved my shirttail at the tientas. I got to know the way of the bulls and bullrings. I . . . Well, it was a small dream. I’m certain my search will reveal nothing of dogs. There is no place I know in the Plaza de Toros where large dogs could be hidden. But there are trucks which come to the corrals at all hours, trucks bringing the bulls in crates from the ganadería. Horse trucks, feed trucks, trucks from the rendering plant to take away the bull skins, trucks with oxen which are used to trap the bulls and herd them into separate holding pens, sand trucks, oh, many trucks. Perhaps, the dogs could come in trucks. There is one thing that favors the idea, jefe. After the paseo, after the parade ends and the matadors and their cuadrillas slip behind the callejón, most of the corral attendants go forward to watch the bulls being worked. A few, perhaps two or three, remain to open the puerta de los toriles to let each bull into the toril tunnel.”
Peñas shook his head. “It sounds too easy, importing the dogs in a disguised truck. Still, we can’t take any chances. You will set up roadblocks, Colorado. No big vehicle is to get within honking distance without a skintight search up to three o’clock. After that, I want the roadblocks closed tight. Also, in addition to the inspection, I want you to check the cargo of any transport that comes in before three today. Check it against the original bill of lading. And check all bills of freight for the past three days. I know that this is probably a useless precaution, but do it anyway. Don Luis Escarte will furnish those papers for you. You know he is the impresario of the Plaza de Toros, and I’ve drunk wine with him for twenty-five years. If he is not loyal, nobody is! But for Christ’s sake, Colorado, don’t scare the wits out of him. He is a nervous wreck on Sundays anyway. With Calderón in the plaza, he will be as skittish as a whore on ice skates.”
Navarre remembered Peñas’s final warning to his men and got little satisfaction in the recollection: “I think we can assume that Nuños and his men will already be in the plaza or will pass through as ordinary ticket holders. And they’ll be armed. It’s too late to install metal detectors, and even if we had the time I wouldn’t use them.
“The most important thing is not to allow any of your men to stray or be distracted. If you hear gunfire in another section, stay in your designated area. And that goes for the dogs too. If they manage to get into the arena, though God knows I don’t know how, hold your positions and fire when you’ve got a positive target. You may not get a second chance. I don’t want a scratch on Calderón. If the dogs come, remember, stand your posts. Follow the drill. They’ll probably be the signal for the assassination attempt. We’ve all agreed the dogs will be used to create panic. For God’s sake, keep calm. If a surge of frightened people threatens your position, shoot the leaders in the crowd. Aim for their legs to drop them in their tracks. All I’ve said applies to women equally. Don’t hesitate if a suspect is female; squeamishness can cost lives.
“Finally, remember, our responsibility is to the president’s life. It may have to be bought at the expense of your own. If you have the slightest doubts about any of the men on your team, cull them out. Select your squad leaders carefully. Instruct them to look for any signs in their troops of odd behavior. If it happens, if something is off key, shoot the offender. If they’re wrong . . . if you’re wrong . . . well, God knows we have no choice. Remember, that bastard Nuños has been preparing this for months. He got to Abruzza. How many others did he reach? That’s a question we won’t be able to answer today, maybe never.
“And don’t trust any city policeman, even if you know him personally. Too many are on the bite and may have been bribed to shut their eyes to things they don’t know the significance of. We all know the bite is a way of life. So be cautious and careful.”
Peñas hesitated; his face was drained and his lips were dry. “I tried to convince Calderón to withdraw. He won’t, but you are my brothers,” he said hoarsely. “What I have just ordered you to do is the most difficult decision in my life. Let us pray that Abruzza was the only dishonor.”
All in all, Navarre thought, Peñas had accomplished a remarkable job of defense in a few short hours. He turned his eyes away from the circle of hot sand and said softly to Peñas, “Lazlo, there is no way I can define the threat I feel. It’s like an ache in an old scar. If Nuños doesn’t strike today, his plans go up in smoke. I know he knows that. Everything we’ve learned, every action he’s taken, points to this day, this very afternoon. But one thought has occurred to me. Can it be that the delay is part of the plan? Can it be that he does not intend to strike until the last possible moment?
“Cid Camaro has drawn a real flag bull for the final corrida, a señor toro, Colorado told me earlier. Maybe in the excitement after that fight . . . when people are full of the drama, maybe then . . . ?”
Peñas stared strangely at Navarre for a long moment.
“It is a strange day, Thomas,” he whispered softly. “I think you’re right. In the excitement following a great fight, the best-disciplined men can be caught off guard temporarily. But I’m still perplexed about the dogs . . . How will they come?”
Navarre did not answer. He was subdued by the same thought.
On the same afternoon that Navarre and Peñas began their impatient vigil in the callejón at the Plaza de Toros, other men began to play out their roles as Sunday participants in the bullfight spectacular.
One of these was the announcer at the Plaza de Toros, who said into his microphone: “This afternoon promises to be one of the greatest spectacles ever witnessed by a capacity crowd at the Plaza México. Two national heroes are present in the plaza today; President Felipe Calderón alighted by helicopter a few minutes ago and was escorted swiftly under heavy guard to the plaza’s president’s box. It is known that he is a longtime admirer of Cid Campeador y Camaro, who has drawn the first and sixth bulls. The gossip among aficionados is that no one will be deserting his seat this afternoon because of the last bull the great matador de toros will be fighting.
“The renowned critic Don Toledo Bello said in an interview with
KITX that he studied the sixth bull, a grand señor toro from the La Punta farms, at the sorteo yesterday. In Bello’s words, El Muerto is an azabache from hell, a superb package of death, a perfect match for Mexico’s famed Ghost Who Dances. No, there is no mistake on the card. The bull is listed as El Muerto, number 73. El Muerto . . . death. A fitting name for a señor toro with lightning in his legs. A name to conjure up visions to match the spirit of our señor festival of the day of the same name. It is said that El Muerto’s mother . . . Ah! “La Virgen de la Macarena,” ladies and gentlemen—in a moment the corrida will begin . . .”
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At 2:19 p.m. Policarpo Annoyes was cursing the traffic from behind the wheel of the truck he was driving down the San Juan de Letrán. He had a brand-new gold watch which fitted snugly on his left wrist and gleamed brightly. He knew it was valuable and was wondering how much he could sell it for. At 2:30 p.m. by the watch, he was supposed to park the truck near the holding pens at the Plaza de Toros. Then he was to disappear into the holiday crowds. Just leave the truck and walk away. It was certainly not a difficult task. A lot easier than the job he and his brother, Carlos, had been doing since before sunup: loading hay bales on a truck. The foreman, who was a distant cousin, was very particular about how the heavy hay bales should be stacked on the long flatbed truck with the high side rails. They were to be hoisted one on top of the other in rows that mounted eight bales high and two bales wide.
On each of two sides of the truck bed, Policarpo and Carlos piled the bales according to instructions. When the rectangular bundles, held together by strands of wire, towered fifteen feet above the wooden truck bed, Policarpo’s cousin, Ernesto, told them to make a new wall of hay bales behind the cab of the truck, covering the window and ascending the same height as the side walls. The last wall to be constructed closed in the end of the truck, leaving a hollow rectangle in the center about four feet wide and forty feet long.
There was one variation in the construction of the end wall. Cousin Ernesto pointed to a boxlike rectangle of steel, the same size as the hay bales. It was lying on the ground where it had been welded together out of precut sheet metal. A hinged door with outward-thrusting two-inch spikes opened from the center of the box.
Following Ernesto’s direction, Policarpo and Carlos hoisted the heavy rectangular box and placed it in position on the floor of the truck. They pushed it so that each side abutted firmly against the hay bales that formed the bottom block in the two sidewalls. On top of the steel box, the men positioned more stacked hay bales. Then, with care, they lifted a new slab of compressed hay five inches thick, held together with staples, and forced it against the spikes extending out from the steel face of the door. With the false front closed, it was difficult to imagine that an opening in the rear wall of hay existed.
The next chore for Policarpo and Carlos was to lay long, sturdy wooden rafters across the top layer of hay bales and tie them down by twisting wire around the rafters and connecting it to the wire bands that held the individual bales together. Each man stood on a tall ladder that leaned against the side of the truck and tightened the wire fastenings with pliers. When the rafters were securely in place, the hardest part of their work began. They had to manhandle heavy bales of hay up the ladders and, once at the top, swing them onto the rafters. Before Policarpo and Carlos had finished the strenuous job, both were streaming sweat from their pores, their shirts limp and wet with circles of perspiration. Dust and itchy hay particles decorated their clothes, stuck to their moist skin, and penetrated the hair on their heads.
When they laid the last hay bale in place on top of the heavy rafters, creating a roof of hay bundles, they pulled a huge tarpaulin over the top of the truck and fastened it in place with ropes that were pulled through ring bolts and tied off on the steel sides of the truck bed.
Curious to them were the four round holes precut in the tarp at equal distances. Why would anybody insist on protecting the hay from rain with a perfectly good covering, then make holes in it? Their curiosity was heightened when Ernesto told them to cut matching holes in the hay with handsaws. When they completed this chore, the holes, about eight inches wide, penetrated from the top of the compacted hay on the roof through the bottom. Policarpo and Carlos could see through to the floor of the truck. Neither Policarpo nor Carlos asked Ernesto about the reason for making holes. Both men sensed that questions should be avoided.
When they had finished their work on the truck, they both thought the job was over, but Ernesto informed them the same labor was required of them for two more trucks. They groaned, but cheerfully accepted. The money Ernesto paid was generous, and he informed them there would be a bonus when they’d completed the next two trucks.
Both men lived with their families in huts near the sprawling Santa Fe dump in Mexico City. It was a walk of only two miles or so from the place where they labored on the trucks to the fringe of the dump. Happy with the money Ernesto paid them, 620 pesos each, they ambled to the huts they occupied with their families. As he headed toward his packing crate, tin, and adobe shack, Carlos thanked his brother for helping with the work and complained cheerfully about the pain in his back from lifting all the blocks of hay. His muscles ached, he was tired to the bone, but he was pleased with the comfortable thickness of the money in his pocket.
“I’m warning you, brother, my back is precious to Goldenia. She never gets enough.”
“Maybe you need some help.”
“Screw you.”
“Better her. Okay, I was only joking.”
As he headed toward his own shack, Policarpo was surprised to be intercepted by Ernesto, who explained that a man who had been hired to drive one of the trucks had not shown up for work. Would Policarpo like to earn some more pay, a higher rate for a few hours? Tired as he was, Policarpo agreed. And that was when he learned about the dogs.
He saw them when Ernesto sent him to find a toolbox in a large, garagelike structure. The greasy black floor—recipient of years of truck and auto oil, rubber transfer from tires, smoke from exhaust—was strewn with straw, and standing, sitting, and moving freely about were some of the most dangerous-looking dogs Policarpo had ever seen. He was only in the garage for a few minutes, but that was long enough for him to be thoroughly frightened. The two men with whistles around their necks paid no attention to him; actually, they ignored him with condescending superiority. But they restored order quickly enough when the trouble started.
The dogs—at least thirty of them—Policarpo did not try to count them—suddenly grew restless and jostled uneasily on their hairy legs, rubbing against one another and against the legs of the two handlers, who did not seem worried about them. Most of the animals were panting, saliva dripping from their long pink tongues onto the straw on the floor. It was stifling in the garage from the sun beating down on the tin roof and stuffy from the rising body heat of the dogs.
Damn, Policarpo said to himself. Where was the toolbox? He walked cautiously toward a workbench, worried about the temper of the vicious-looking dogs—German shepherds and other long-nosed breeds he didn’t know—and he regretted promising Ernesto that he would drive a truck. Ernesto had said nothing about vicious dogs. He shrank from their presence. He refused to go near one of the brutes.
One of them snapped at him. Sainted Mother of Christ! He heard the men with the whistles laugh. He regretted bitterly that he had ever allowed himself to get into this mess.
Carefully, he picked up the toolbox and turned to go back the way he had come. Then it happened. The great gray bitch who had snapped at him, her sharp teeth barely grazing his arm, suddenly growled. There was a brittle clicking of teeth, a sudden yelp-snarl loud enough to be heard through the tin garage. Policarpo’s eyes widened as he saw the bitch sink her teeth into the furry throat of a large tan dog. The tan dog backed on its hind legs, raking the face of the bitch with its claws, and the packed animals, panting and bristling, gave way, pushing back, encircling, as th
e bitch shrieked and the dog handler nearest her fumbled with his whistle. Then—Mother of God!—the handler lost his footing and slipped heavily against a curved steel rib of the garage. Yowling with pain, he twisted, arching his spine from the injury, as the ears of the pack pricked up and the yellow-gray eyes narrowed in sudden, sensitive apprehension.
The second dog handler suddenly stiffened and blew a piercing shriek from his silver whistle.
The son of a bitch knows how to handle them! Policarpo breathed with relief. His heart was beating like a hammer. The animals froze at the sound of the whistle. It immobilized them, bringing them to attention. The fallen handler climbed painfully to his feet, and Policarpo chose that moment to leave the garage.
Ernesto saw Policarpo’s white face and agitated manner when he returned with the toolbox, and that was when he gave him the gold watch. It was valuable, Ernesto said, a just reward for a discreet man who knew how to keep his mouth shut. No, Ernesto was not interested in his story about the dogs, and Policarpo should forget about them.
Policarpo knew when to remain silent. He agreed readily to Ernesto’s suggestion that he go for a cup of coffee to calm his nerves. By the time he returned, his truck would be ready to roll.
Half an hour later, Policarpo got behind the wheel and started his run to the Plaza México. He decided it was a good idea for him not to think about the purpose of the disguised metal door at the back of the truck, the hollow interior surrounded on four sides by barricades of hay, or the holes in the roof of the truck which let light and air into the secret space.
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