The Lazarus Drop

by Paul Moomaw

  I climbed down and stood watching as the wagon creaked and swayed across the bridge. Beto didn't look back.

  I turned and started walking toward the business district and my hotel, the Presidente, a three story building covered completely with patterned tiles, and a garish, orange and green neon sign on the roof which glowed brightly even in the morning sun. The ban on electricity wasn't to be allowed to hamper the tourist trade, apparently.

  On the other hand, when I walked into the ornate hotel lobby, it didn't look as if there was much tourist trade to hamper. There was a bored looking guy behind the front desk, a couple of young women dusting and sweeping the tile floor in a desultory way, and that was it. The central government seemed to be doing a pretty good job of pinching off the flow of paying guests to the Free State of Michoacan.

  “I have a room reserved,” I said to the guy behind the desk. “The name is Blue."

  His eyes traveled slowly, up and down, over me. “You are a guest?"

  “Blue,” I repeated. “Nathaniel Blue. I have a reservation.” I pulled out my permiso and flashed it at him.

  He looked me over again. “No luggage?"

  “I had a suitcase. There was an accident. The bus."

  His face changed subtly, like invisible shutters going down.

  “Ah, yes. You were on the bus. I have heard about the bus. It was a terrible thing."

  “A terrible thing."

  “It would seem that you were very fortunate."

  “Very fortunate. I will consider myself even more fortunate if my room has a hot shower and a soft bed."

  “Of course, Senor Blue.” He pushed an electronic ledger toward me and handed me a stylus. “Your name here, and your thumbprint next to it, if you would be so kind."

  I signed, and he handed me a large key, attached to an even larger plastic cylinder with the hotel's name imprinted on it.

  “Room 303. The elevator is not working, but the room has a balcony and a very pleasing view of the river.”

  I took the key and headed for the broad staircase across the lobby. Halfway there, I looked back on impulse. The desk clerk was at his vidcom, making a call to someone. Oh well, I thought. Everybody in Mexico and points east already seemed to know who I was and what I wanted, anyway.

  * * * *

  The clerk was right about the room. It was large and breezy, with large sliding doors that opened onto a small balcony. Directly below was the street, and beyond that a small park dotted with trees and flowers that descended to the river bank. It made me wish I really was a tourist.

  There was a large mirror on one wall, and I got a good look at myself for the first time. It was easy to understand the funny look I had gotten from the clerk. My trousers were blotched with oil and what looked like blood stains, and there was a long, jagged tear in one sleeve of my jacket, along with numerous smaller rips and pinholes. My hands were as grimy as a two-year-old's after a morning in the mud puddles, and there was caked blood on my face where pieces of flying rock had kissed it. My hair was a mess, too. But then my hair is usually a mess. It has a mind of its own.

  I was definitely going to need to buy new clothes, but that could wait. There was indeed a shower, and the water was hot enough. And the bed was soft enough, too. I fell immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  It could have been a minute later, or an eternity, when loud knocking pulled me back to consciousness. I lay on the bed without moving, staring groggily at the ceiling, and the knocking came again. I got up slowly, my muscles sore and protesting, and my eyes gritty with fatigue, and opened the door.

  Three men in dark blue uniforms, with handguns on their hips, stood in the hall.

  “You are Senor Blue?” one of them asked.

  I nodded sleepily.

  “You must come with us, if you will be so kind.” He looked me over and gave me a spare smile. “You may, of course, dress yourself first."

  I turned and went to the clothes I had left draped over a chair. All three men followed me into the room. I caught another look at myself in the mirror as we left, one cop in the lead, the other two flanking me. I wasn't going to be much of a role model for the tourist trade.

  The police station, the delegacion, was only a block away from the hotel. It looked fittingly grim, with stone steps, double steel doors, and narrow windows with steel bars over them. As we were about to mount the stairs, the policeman in the lead swerved suddenly to one side, snapping to attention, and the one on my left grabbed my arm and tugged me sharply off the walk.

  A man and a young boy came walking out. The man was short and husky, beginning to show a pot belly. His face was a dark, coppery brown, with a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and never properly re-set. He stopped, hands on hips, and stared at me with dark, almond shaped eyes. I had an impression of tremendous energy, and watchfulness, as if some other, wild, animal lived inside the stocky body.

  “You're the gringo from the bus?” The word seemed to have gotten around. “Give him a good look, Manolito. A real, live gringo. Not a very impressive specimen, perhaps, but we don't get enough of them to be choosy these days, do we."

  The boy, standing a little behind the man, dutifully stared at me, his face expressionless. Then the man marched off, and the boy followed. As they crossed the sidewalk, a silver groundcar pulled up and stopped in front of them, and the driver, also in a police uniform, jumped out. He opened the passenger door and saluted, and the two climbed in.

  My escort tugged at me, and we resumed our trip up the stairs and into the building, the cop on my left still holding onto my arm. I didn't complain. He didn't strike me as the kind of guy who handled complaints well. We marched past several lounging policemen, past a table where an old woman was screeching—something about a chicken—at a bored officer, and through a door marked “Jefe de Delegacion.”

  Two people occupied the office beyond the door—a man in a blue police uniform, who sat behind a large, scarred wooden desk, and Sister Bergstrom, who behind and to one side of the policeman, with one arm in a sling, and a bandage across her forehead that made her look more grim than ever.

  “That's the man,” she said. “The one who stole my necklace.”

  The necklace, in fact, hung around her neck, looking as tacky as ever.

  “His name is Nathaniel Blue,” Sister Bergstrom said. “They told me that at the police station in Toluca, after I got out of the hospital. They said they had to let him go, because I was unconscious and couldn't sign a complaint. It didn't matter, because God had already come to me and told me to forgive him, so I wouldn't have filed any charges anyway.” She turned to the policeman. “But I thought it only fair to warn you that this person was in your city. I saw him going into that big hotel. You had better warn the guests there to lock up their valuables."

  The man behind the desk was a dark, Mexican archetype, a little plump, with brown skin gone copper from a lifetime under the mountain sun. His round face, snub nose with flared nostrils, and thick lips, reminded me of holos I had seen once of some giant stone heads—huge things, eight or ten feet tall, that had come from the jungles of southeastern Mexico. They had the same placid, imperturbable features. It was a perfect face for a policeman. And he was getting bald. That was a shock. Except for a few back-to-nature freaks, you don't see bald heads or wrinkles in the States any more. But this fellow was just getting bald, and not that pleased about it, judging from the careful way he combed his thinning black hair.

  “That is most dutiful of you, Senora.” he said in English with only a trace of an accent. His voice was deep and resonant. “You may be sure that we will keep a careful watch on Senor Blue while he is in our city."

  “I certainly hope so,” Sister Bergstrom said. “In the meantime, I have done my duty to God, and to you people.” She gave me a look that did not seem terribly forgiving, and marched out of the office. The man behind the desk watched her go. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes gave him a sleepy look, but the way he held
his body as he sat there told me there was nothing sleepy about him. He nodded abruptly to my escorts, who saluted and left.

  “Your documents,” he said. “And sit down, please.” I handed him my papers, chose the most comfortable looking chair I could find, and sat.

  He gave the papers a cursory glance, then shoved them back across the desk.

  “I am Porfirio Cruz, Chief of Police."

  My ears pricked up. Cruz was the name of the contact Nordeen had mentioned. It would be an odd sort of luck to be marched right up to the person I needed to see. But Cruz is a common name, so I filed it away and kept my mouth shut.

  “You are Senor Nathaniel Blue?” he went on. “of Los Angeles, California?"

  I nodded.

  “You would seem to be a fortunate man, Senor Blue. You were on the bus from Toluca last night, I understand."

  “Yes."

  “A most unfortunate accident."

  “Very unfortunate, and very sad.” I wondered if he really thought it was an accident.

  “I suppose I should be very happy for you, Senor Blue, as well as for my city. We get so very few tourists these days. But sad to say,” he smiled briefly, “I find myself more suspicious than happy. I find myself asking why this solitary tourist has chosen to visit our city? And, as well, I ask myself, how did this most fortunate tourist become the only survivor of a such terrible accident?"

  “Those are certainly reasonable questions, Jefe."

  “And do you have equally reasonable answers to such reasonable questions, Senor Blue?"

  I shrugged and spread my hands. “Fortune smiled, Jefe. I was asleep, there was a terrible shaking, and I was flying through the air. I can only assume that the careening of the bus threw me through a window. I remember that. I remember flying. I remember landing. I remember flames. I remember walking in the cold night.”

  Cruz was looking at something behind his desk, and I guessed he had a voice analyzer going. Not everything in Morelia was primitive.

  “You must have walked very fast, to have arrived in our city so early in the morning,” he said.

  “Fortune again. I got a ride.” Not a lie in the bunch, so far. Run that gadget to your heart's content. It can't analyze what I don't say.

  “Why are you here, Senor Blue?” His voice had a sudden, hard edge. “What do you want?"

  “I find your city, and your people, fascinating.”

  He glanced down again, then rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  “I suppose I will find out, eventually. In the meantime, you should be aware that, as I promised your lady compatriot, you will be closely observed, Senor Blue. You may go."

  “My pleasure, Jefe. A point of curiosity, however. When I came in, there was a man, with a boy. I wondered who they might be. They seemed to know who I am?"

  “Ah, barely in town and already you have met the General. And his son as well. If nothing else, perhaps you will be able to tell your friends that you saw the man who may, some day, reunite Mexico."

  The door opened, and one of the policemen who had brought me came in to usher me out. Cruz’ eyes followed me intently as I left. I stopped and looked back.

  “In case it matters,” I said. “I didn't touch the lady's necklace. I haven't stolen anything in years."

  Cruz gazed at me intently for a moment, then nodded. “I think I believe you.” He rubbed his hands together. “But somehow I think my life would be simpler if you were only a thief.” He turned his attention to the stack of papers on his desk, and my escort nudged me out of the office and closed the door.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 7

  Outside, the descending sun tipped the roof of an old cathedral in gold and bronze, and the thin mountain air, already losing its warmth, carried the tangy smell of wood smoke. Light glimmered through windows, low-key, except for the garish sign over the hotel—lanterns and candles that added their own soft, silver and gold glow to the broad avenues which ran through the central district. People strolled in twos and threes, and most of the shops were open. One across the street displayed shirts and trousers in its window, so I headed there.

  The owner, a chubby man dressed in a dark suit which looked as if it had come out of retirement for the occasion, stood behind a waist-high, glass counter filled with brightly colored scarves and cloth belts. He gave me a look like the one I had gotten from the hotel clerk.

  “You wish something?” he asked, doubt in his voice.

  “I am in need of clothing—shirts, trousers, stockings, underwear.” I spread my palms and smiled. “Everything."

  He didn't smile back. “You have money?"

  I reached through my torn clothing to the survival belt, unzipped a compartment, and pulled out a wad of currency. I held it up and smiled again.

  This time he returned the smile.

  “Please come this way,” he said as he hurried from behind his counter. “I'm sure I have everything the senor needs.” He waved his hand toward the shelves and offered me an even bigger smile. “Everything, you may be sure.” He pulled out a shirt of sky blue cotton. “Perfect, no?” He held it out to me. “Try it on and look at yourself. There.” He pointed to a mirror which stood against the rear wall.

  I pulled the shirt on. The sleeves stopped halfway between my elbows and my wrists, and I was afraid the shoulders would rip out if I breathed.

  “Maybe a little larger.” He scurried back to the shelves and rummaged through shirts while I removed the blue one, and returned triumphantly with a garment of bright yellow. “Yellow is even better for you, don't you think?"

  It fit, at least. “It's a start,” I conceded. Half an hour or so later I was reasonably outfitted. I wore the yellow shirt over a pair of dark brown trousers, and had come up with two tan shirts and a green one that fit, and two more pair of trousers, along with underwear and socks made of some sleazy synthetic material, “straight from the City of Mexico, the very finest,” the store owner assured me.

  The one thing he could not supply was footwear. He looked doubtfully at the remains of my boots.

  “Very big feet,” he said, shaking his head. “Very fine, big feet, of course,” he added hastily. “Perhaps Elfego's shop. That is just down the street, on this same side.” He pointed.

  I stepped into the street and immediately got a feeling of wrongness. I couldn't place the source; no one in view seemed out of place, or particularly interested in me. I shrugged it off and started walking.

  Elfego's shop smelled of leather and wax and polish, and Elfego himself had the look of a piece of well-aged, waxed leather, burnished red brown.

  “Very big feet,” was also the first thing he said. “But no problem.” He measured my feet, disappeared briefly into the rear, and returned with a pair of boots, dark brown, that reflected the lamp light with a soft glow of their own. I turned them in my hands, marveling at the pliability of the leather.

  “You made these?” I asked.

  The old man nodded.

  “They're works of art."

  “Just try them on. They're nothing if they don't fit.” But a pleased smile crinkled the corners of his mouth.

  They fit, not perfectly, but well enough. I paid him and reached for the remains of my old boots.

  “I will throw those out for you,” the old man said.

  I beat him to them, unzipped the left one and pulled out the little stinger. The old man's eyebrows arched as I stuck the gun into my survival belt, but he kept his mouth shut. Then he took the boots, glanced at them disdainfully and tossed them into a large box in the corner.

  I walked outside and immediately got the same sensation again. I was sure I was being watched, but although I surveyed the street intensely, I came up with nothing. I moved off down the boulevard, and the vague foreboding receded. The air felt good, the walkways were full of pretty women, and I gave myself over to taking in the scene and enjoying the feel of the soft fabric on my skin.

  I stopped under a tree. The hotel beckone
d, and I was still tired, but the lure of a new city is always strong for me. I leaned against the tree and watched a pair of pretty girls saunter by, hand in hand, tossing me bold looks and giggling into their fingers as they passed. Sleep or explore, that was the question.

  Then, farther down the street, I saw two figures I couldn't mistake. Standing on a corner, as round and tall as ever, was Chandra Beg. Facing him, waving her hands and talking, was Sister Bergstrom. As I watched, they began to walk away. Bag of new clothes in hand, I took off after them, moving fast, getting as close as felt safe, then matching their pace, which was faster than it looked.

  We walked for ten minutes, turning off the boulevard onto a narrower side street. There were no people here, and I dropped farther back. Then Beg and the Sister turned again, into an alley between buildings. I sped up, got to the alley and peered down it, but there was no sign of my quarry. The alley ended against a wall about fifty meters down, and on the right side there was a single door, with a lantern over it, glowing behind blue glass. I crept down the alley to get a better look. The door with the blue light was the only point of exit from the alley that I could see, and there was nothing to indicate what lay behind it.

  I retreated from the alley and walked slowly down the street. I wasn't surprised to see Chandra Beg. I had been sure he was behind the arrest at the glideport. I was equally sure that Beg had ordered the attack on the bus; and given his apparent knack for keeping track of me, he must know I was in Morelia. I had better be careful, I thought.

  I have a bad habit of thinking about being careful after it's too late. I had turned a corner, preoccupied, and suddenly the sense that something wasn't right settled over me again, with an overwhelming intensity. But this time it didn't take any psychic powers. Standing in the shadows in front of me were three policemen, neat and tidy in their blue uniforms. One of them grinned, and they marched toward me, spreading out as they came. I headed for the man in the middle, spun to one side just as I got to him, and took the man on his right down with a kick to the ribs. That slowed me down enough for the third man to grab my shoulder. I spun, pinned his hand down, and drove my forearm up, just behind his elbow. He gave a little shriek and let go as the bone snapped, and I pushed him away and tried a quick dodge-and-run past the other two. I got about two steps before a foot that was quicker than mine raked my left shin and sent me spinning toward the pavement. Another foot, or maybe it was the same one, I'll never know, straightened me up again as it planted itself in my breastbone.