by Paul Moomaw
“And if we don't take the boats out, Noriega won't need any reinforcements."
“Precisely. So, barring bad fortune, we should be able to take the island before any help can arrive for him, and once the General is gone, there'll be no problem. The others won't make trouble; they will be more interested in figuring out how to keep their jobs."
We sat quietly for a while, watching the air darken over the water, Cruz smoking a foul-smelling Mexican cigarette. One of the poppers whirred directly overhead, red and white lights flashing, heading toward the island.
I thought about the job that would need to be done, and the people at hand to do it. Cruz seemed solid enough. But Carlos troubled me, and as for the others, who knew? I turned to Cruz.
“Do you think you can really do this?"
“You have doubts?"
“Maybe so. About Carlos, especially. He seems like a kid. Doing mumbo jumbo in a cave is one thing. Attacking that island, and pulling it off, is something else."
Cruz laughed. “You know about the great Jester God, then?"
“Last night, I got restless. I wandered into their ceremony."
“That's all foolishness, of course. Half the stuff they do is Mayan, from the other side of the country. The people here are Tarascan. And Carlos and Pilar aren't even that. They're mostly European. Spanish and German, and a little English, I think, with just enough indio thrown in to give them a tan."
“So you don't participate in the rites of the Jester God?"
“The Jester God. Such crap. That's a Mayan god, too. And you know how it got that name? Some gringo anthropologist, back in the middle of the 20th century, called it the Jester God because of the three-cornered headgear. It reminded him of the old court jesters in medieval Europe.”
He laughed again. “No I don't involve myself in any of that. Frankly, I'm a good Roman Catholic. But what the hell. It gives a lot of them something to believe in, and the Church has made room for plenty of other gods in the past. Today a pagan idol, next year a good, Christian saint, que no?"
I watched the long, black silhouette of one of Noriega's patrol boats, which had nosed out from the other side of the island, for several minutes before it registered on me that the craft was heading in our direction. I touched Cruz on the arm.
“Is that thing coming here?"
Before he could answer, there was a loud whining off to one side, and a flash of light, and another groundcar screeched to a halt not more than ten meters from ours.
“Carajos! That's the General's car!” Cruz said. “I'm going to have to get out. Duck into the back before I open the door."
I pulled open the sliding panel that separated the front seats from the rear of the police car, crawled awkwardly through, hanging my knees up, then getting my feet caught, before I finally fell all the way through, landing half on the seat, half on the floor.
“Don't ever apply for work as an escape artist,” Cruz said with a laugh, and closed the panel behind me.
I peeked out the rear window. Noriega was out of the other car and striding rapidly toward us, his short legs pumping choppily, arms swinging, hands in tight, blocky fists. His son, Manolo, slipped out of the car behind him and followed meekly a couple of meters behind.
“Cruz! Cruz?” Noriega started shouting as he approached our vehicle. “What are you doing here, Cruz? Some motherfucker tries to kill me, and where are you, Cruz? Where is my chief of police? Out here under the trees, baying at the moon and playing with himself!"
Cruz came reluctantly to attention, braced against the side of the car, giving me a ringside seat as Noriega bellied up against him, half a head shorter so he had to arch his back to make eye contact with his police chief.
“Some asshole tried to kill me, Cruz! Took a shot at me with his rifle. At me! What kind of police department are you running, that you let some loco with a gun try to kill me?"
He raised his fists, shaking them at Cruz. The police chief stood calmly, with the air of someone waiting for a toy to run down.
“And then poor Ortega, my driver, he tries to catch this son of a whore, and gets a rifle butt in the head for his pains, and then the bastard gets away. And where are your police, Cruz? Where are they? Not an azul around when some crazy man with a gun is taking shots at me. Maybe they're all at the lake, too. Maybe you're all down here having a fairy party, instead of catching murderers like I pay you for."
“I will order increased surveillance, General."
“Increased surveillance! I don't want pansy talk from you, Cruz. I want action. I want that loco caught, if you have to break the arms of every skinny peasant with a gun until somebody confesses."
“Of course, General."
“Of course, General! Of course, General! You have shit in your mouth, Cruz."
“I am glad the General survived unharmed. God was watching over you. It would have been a dreadful thing for Michoacan to lose you."
Noriega stopped, blinked, gave his head a short, sharp nod.
“That's right. I could have died. I mustn't die, Cruz. It's your job to see to that.” He started revving up again, his head nodding repetitively. “Find that man, Cruz. Find him, and everybody like him. Do it, Cruz. That's your job."
“Immediately, General.” Cruz saluted, and Noriega stalked back to his groundcar, still shadowed by Manolo, who hadn't opened his mouth the whole time. The car roared down to the lake shore, where the patrol boat had pulled in.
Cruz jumped back into the police car, started it, and wheeled sharply around and back to the road. He drove a couple of hundred meters, then stopped and slid the panel open again.
“Climb back in front,” he said. I clambered through, a little more gracefully now that I didn't have to rush, and we drove off again.
“The man is a joke,” Cruz’ voice was tinged with disgust and anger. He drummed his fingers rapidly against the wheel of the groundcar. “But if I thought he really could unify Mexico, I would stick with him, no matter how much shit I had to eat."
He turned to look at me. “That is my dream, Senor Blue. Not of some Jester God, but of a Mexico that is one country again, not splintered up into a bunch of petty, so-called free states, run by assholes like Noriega."
He sighed deeply. “Our republic had its faults. It wasn't perfect. But we had our dreams, too. It was a pretty good country. It can still be a pretty good country, some day."
“You sound a lot like Salazar."
“He's a good man, Antonio is,” Cruz said with a nod. “He's a student of history. I bet he didn't tell you that."
“No. He just told me he was sure I was going to make trouble, and he hoped it would be for somebody he didn't like."
“Antonio and I have worked together from time to time. His big thing is the history of France. You know much about France?"
I shook my head.
“Well, according to Antonio, France was once very much like Mexico is today, with a central government that had no real authority much past the city of Paris, surrounded by nobles who were wealthier and more powerful than the king. But in time, a few sharp monarchs managed to unify the whole country."
“Salazar believes that can happen in Mexico?"
“Some day. In the meantime, he sits and waits for that clever monarch to come along, while everybody else in the world butts in. India sells arms to the federal government, but not enough to accomplish anything. Brazil does the same with the free states—lets them have just enough to maintain the status quo. Now the Serbians are doing something here, I wish I knew just what. Even the Chinese have agents here, like the old Chinese fellow who runs your Indian friend's favorite whorehouse, and who pumps his customers for information. Only your country ignores us—which is a change for the gringos—and I think that's only because everyone else keeps us in such a mess that your government doesn't need to bother."
“And do you really think these Jester God types can unify your country?"
Cruz snorted. “Of course not."
�
��Then why did you throw in with them?"
“Precisely because they are so weak. Noriega can't do the job. He's too small-minded and greedy. But he's strong enough, and ruthless enough, to create a powerful dominion here, and maybe expand into Guerrero. Maybe even Jalisco. Strong enough to prevent anyone else from unifying the country. On the other hand, the Children of the Jester God will be just strong enough, I hope, to get rid of Noriega."
“With a little help from a friend from the North."
“Exactly. But they'll never establish anything permanent, and that will leave a vacuum."
“You don't have any guarantee that the federal government will be able to fill that vacuum."
Cruz shrugged and smiled at me. “One hopes, Senor Blue. One always hopes."
* * * *
We pulled into the dark, narrow street that fronted the Mendoza house. I jumped out, and before I could close the groundcar door, a white figure moved from the shadows. It was Carlos.
“Cruz,” he asked, “can you come inside a little moment?"
“What is it?"
“Come inside."
Cruz pulled himself reluctantly out the other side of the groundcar.
“I have very little time. I have to go act like a police chief."
Carlos didn't answer as he led us inside the house. We walked through the front room and kitchen area.
“I think we have a new recruit, and I want you to get a look at him, to see if you recognize him,” he said as he pulled open the door to a back room. There, blindfolded and tied loosely to a chair, was my poacher friend, Beto.
“This fellow claims he just took a shot at Noriega,” Carlos said. “And what's more, he says he beat up Noriega's bodyguard and got away.” Disbelief was loud in his voice.
“You got your man already,” I told Cruz. “The General should be delighted."
Beto stiffened in fear, color draining from his brown face.
“Don't pay attention to the gringo,” Cruz said. “No one's going to give you to Noriega.” He turned to Carlos.
“I think what he says is true. Somebody just scared the shit out of Noriega, and cracked his driver's skull for him. The General just got through giving me nineteen kinds of hell for it."
Carlos wasn't convinced. “So what? Who knows if this is the same guy, or if the whole thing wasn't cooked up to slip a spy into our group, for that matter."
“How would they know where to send a spy, unless you've been even more careless than usual.” There was a sharp edge of irritation in Cruz’ voice.
“I guess you might know the answer to that, jefe."
I broke in. “I know this man. He's no more a spy than I am."
Carlos sneered down his nose at me. “And who knows just who the hell you really are, gringo?"
I turned to Cruz, pointedly ignoring Carlos.
“You remember I told you about the poacher? The one who gave me a ride?"
“The one whose family was on the bus?"
I nodded. “That's him."
“Take off his blindfold,” Cruz told Carlos.
Carlos ripped the cloth angrily from Beto's eyes.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “Let him get a good look. Maybe I should bring my sister in, too. Maybe we should hold a mass meeting in the plaza mayor, and everyone can wear name tags when they're introduced to him.” He moved to the door.
“In fact, maybe we can just invite Noriega, and get everything over with in a hurry."
He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
Beto was still sitting in the chair, blinking in bewilderment. Cruz gently untied the cord which held the newcomer's hands and legs. “Stand up and stretch, if you like,” he said.
“I'm no spy for Noriega, Beto said. “That guy's crazy.” He nodded toward the door.
Cruz sat down on the chair next to him, slapped him gently on the shoulder. “I hear you're a lousy shot,” he said.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 10
Two mornings later we were sitting in another police car—Carlos, myself, and a driver named Otero, spit and polish in his dark blue uniform and black boots—looking down from the hills at the coastal village of Playa Azul.
The attraction of Playa Azul was a transmitter I could use to reach the hypernet and send a message to Nordeen, detailing the ordinance we would need to take Janitzio Island, and arranging the delivery.
Cruz had donated the driver. “He's solid,” the police chief had said. “He knows how to keep his mouth shut, and how to shoot that big pistola on his belt if there's trouble. And the uniform should get you past any nosy types."
Carlos, on the other hand, had donated himself. I had not wanted him along, but Cruz seemed unwilling to get into a fight with Pilar's baby brother, so here we sat, the three of us, after a four-hour drive over dark mountain roads during which we hadn't exchanged more than a half dozen words. The sun still loitered behind the mountains to the east, but a gray dawn offered us light enough to see the small whitecaps which rode the broad back of the Pacific onto the narrow, gravel beach.
A hundred or so meters out, a cracked dome with a cross on top broke the waves. A considerable distance beyond that floated a large, artificial island—it looked more like a low-lying dock, but it was too big for that.
“That's all there is of the old Playa Azul,” Carlos said. “The big float used to be a fish farm. It went to hell when the country fell apart. There was some kind of energy pump that converted sea water to electricity out there, too, but it's gone, as well. The church—that's the domed building—was in the center of town before the oceans rose. It's three, four hundred years old. There used to be a big tourist hotel sticking out of the water, too, but it fell in on itself a few years ago."
“I guess they built them better in the old days,” I said.
“No loss, anyway. It was always just full of gringos."
The new Playa Azul was a scattered collection of shacks, mostly small, with plaster walls in pastel shades of blue and pink and green. A rickety pier extended about twenty meters into the surf.
Carlos pointed to the small house closest to the pier.
“That's where we need to go. That's Humberto's place. He has the machine."
“Where does he get the power?” I asked. Playa Azul looked to me like it was strictly a place of candles and oil lamps.
Carlos pointed to another building, a small hut with a roof that looked as if it had been made from bus or truck doors, maybe twelve or fifteen meters away from Humberto's. “He's got a generator hidden away over there in that storage hut, with underground lines to his place. And he's got some old batteries for backup, just in case."
“So let's go.” I said.
“Not so fast. Let's get some things straight. When we go down there, I do the talking. I talk to Humberto, and except for whatever you need to do to identify yourself with this Nordeen person, I do the talking then, too."
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” I couldn't see it would make any difference, and I didn't want to give Carlos any excuse for a hassle. Life was too short. “But in that case, you'll need this.” I gave him the shopping list Cruz and I had come up with the night before.
“I know what is needed,” he snarled. But he took the list and stuck it into his pocket.
“All right, Otero, drive us down,” he said.
Otero started the vehicle up, then stopped again and pointed down the hillside.
“Somebody's there."
We heard it and saw it at the same time, a roadbat, skimming over the beach, handled a lot more expertly than I had managed a few nights before. It held two men, side by side in the front seat.
“Do you know who they are?” I asked Otero.
He shook his head. “Too far away. But I don't like it. Nobody ever visits Humberto, except us."
“Maybe they just have a girlfriend here in the big city,” Carlos said with a laugh.
The roadbat put finish to that idea by pulling up in a cloud of dus
t in front of Humberto's shack. It settled onto its skirts with a dying whine of turbines, and one of the men jumped out and headed for the little storage hut. The other man raced to Humberto's front door and kicked it open.
Both men were armed.
We watched in silence. There didn't seem to be anything else to do. The man who had run into the storage hut ran out again, dashed to the roadbat, and crouched behind it.
The roof came off the storage hut, large pieces of it sailing through the air as the muffled boom of an explosion reached us. Then the man next to the roadbat stood up and sauntered into Humberto's shack.
“Shit,” Carlos said. “They got the generator. How did they know about it, I wonder?” He slammed his fist into his open hand. “Now what the shit do we do?"
“We wait,” I said. “We see what happens next.”
“You don't need to give me instructions in common sense, gringo."
We waited for a long time, while the storage hut burned fitfully, and the sun drifted over the mountains and turned the ocean from dead gray to slate blue. A light breeze stirred, and carried the smell of explosives and burning wood to our groundcar.
Finally, the two men came back outside. They stood briefly, talking and gesticulating. They looked as if they might be having an argument. Then one of them raised his fist to the other in an ageless, universal symbol, and jumped back into the roadbat. The other stood there for a moment, hands on hips. Then he climbed into the vehicle, too, and it lifted itself off its skirts and skittered down the beach again.
We waited a while longer as the sound of the roadbat faded into a silence broken by the occasional cry of a gull. There was no other sign of life in the village. No one peeked out to see what had happened. Lack of curiosity seemed to be a universal trait around here. I decided it probably had a high survival value.
Finally, I said to Otero, “We might as well go down."
“What good will that do, now?” Carlos said. “The generator's gone.” He sounded like a disappointed kid.
“You said there were batteries."
“If they got the generator, they got the batteries, too."