by Tom Ardies
“No,” the peddler snarled, the heel of his hand suddenly slamming against Buchanan’s chest. “Yo primero!”
Buchanan staggered back more out of surprise than from the force of the blow. He was about to protest and then thought better of it. The old man was staring at him with fierce hatred.
“Está bien,” the bartender said quickly, anxious to avoid trouble. He punched open the cash register, counted out ten one-peso bills, and pressed them in the peddler’s calloused hand. “Correcto?”
The peddler didn’t answer. Working with maddening deliberation, he counted the money once more, rolled it into a dirty handkerchief, knotted it several times, and rammed it deep into the side pocket of his tattered pants. He took as long again to empty the limes into the lard tin the bartender had provided and to fold his sack carefully and tuck it inside his shirt. Then, finally leaving, he flung a last black look at Buchanan, full of contempt and scorn.
“Those mountain people,” the bartender muttered, shaking his head. “They’re all the same. The meanest in Mexico.” He reached under the bar and produced a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. “They’d just as soon kill you as look at you.”
Buchanan regarded him uncertainly. He had heard his share of wild stories about Guerrero. But was it really that dangerous?
“You saw him, didn’t you?” the bartender demanded. “That’s all he’s got. The rags on his back and those few pesos in his pocket …” He stopped at a loss for words. “They are mean because they have nothing.”
Buchanan took possession of the Johnny Walker. “You wouldn’t advise me to go exploring in the mountains?”
“God, no!” the bartender exclaimed, shaking his head emphatically. “You stick to the main roads. Otherwise …” He drew a quick finger across his throat. “Sleet.”
“Sleet?” Buchanan repeated, swallowing hard. What more confirmation was required? That was a forecast of murder—not a weather report.
He went out onto the balcony and peered down into the square. Herbert and Adele had returned to the Dodge and Sebastian already had the motor running. Or were those fumes emanating from Marina?
As he watched, she glanced his way, then suddenly got out, stiff with anger.
Oh, no, Buchanan moaned, here she came stomping, and he with the cork still in the bottle. He hastily returned to the bar. “Where’s the back door?”
“There isn’t any.”
Buchanan almost dropped the scotch. His voice was a pitiful squeak. “There … isn’t … any … ?” He looked around desperately. “Then how do I get out of here?”
The bartender puzzled over that for a long moment. “The same way you came in.”
“You don’t understand,” Buchanan wailed. “There’s a woman after me. She’ll be coming up those stairs any moment.”
The bartender took another long moment to digest that calamity. “So?”
So? If only the man realized. Buchanan considered running the gauntlet but immediately discarded the notion. Marina would make the worst scene imaginable if he tried that. Chasing after him. Shouting foul language. Casting doubt on his masculinity.
“She’s got a gun,” Buchanan said, driven to lies. “You’ve got to hide me. You must have a storeroom? An attic?”
“A toilet?” the bartender proposed, still not impressed.
Buchanan regarded the door to the men’s room doubtfully. “I can hide there?”
“Why not?” the bartender asked, his tone suggesting that it be under the bowl.
“Very well,” Buchanan decided. The only other choice was under a table. He pushed an extra twenty pesos across the bar. “You’ll tell her I’ve gone?”
“Sí.”
Buchanan bleated his thanks and bounded across to the men’s room. Already Marina’s heels were pounding on the stairs. He’d just have time to lock himself inside.
Lock? What lock? Buchanan slammed the door behind him and sagged in disbelief. There was a hook but no eye to fit it in. That had been yanked out long ago. Only a gaping screw hole remained to mark whatever meager privacy it had once afforded.
Nor, he noticed, the heart falling out of him, was there much chance of holding the door against a determined onslaught. It hung on but one hinge and that was ready to fall off at the first invitation. Marina would soon have him cornered like the cowering rat he was.
The thought of that sent him racing to the window. He yanked it open, scrambled over the sill, and hung outside by his fingertips, wondering why he hadn’t first taken the precaution of looking below. Gymnastics, he remembered belatedly, were foreign to his nature, and with his dead weight flattened against the wall he couldn’t twist around sufficiently for a clear view of what awaited. A wall topped with the usual glass shards—and there went the rest of his manhood.
He heard the door to the bathroom open and slam shut an instant later. Then the same thing happened on the women’s side. Marina’s search was already on, and she’d be back to check the window soon, no doubt.
Buchanan shuddered at the thought of her finding him in this helpless position. She was the type to take full advantage, flogging him with her fat purse, or, what was even more likely, putting the boots to him with her spiked heels.
Far better the unknown, Buchanan decided. It was a one-story drop at best, and whatever he lost in the crash, perhaps they could sew it back on. He released his grip and dropped a full six inches before landing solidly on his feet.
What the devil? Buchanan turned around apprehensively. He was almost afraid to examine his new predicament. This, after all, was hardly his day for good fortune, so he was probably boxed in an air shaft. There for Marina to pellet him with the Paco’s ample empties.
But no, the tide seemed to have turned after all, for he was standing on the gently sloping rear roof of a neighboring shop, and escape beckoned a scant few feet away. All he had to do was slide down the tiles, grab hold of the gutter as he went over the edge, and then lower himself into the alley. From there it would be a quick downhill trot to the bus depot.
Abandoning all caution—there was a time for thought and one for action—Buchanan fell on his stomach and pushed away. A humiliating way to make his exit, but far, far better than crawling before Marina. He’d rather belly all the way back to the Geneve than go down on one knee before her.
Moments later, he was safely on the ground, the exercise having gone exactly as planned, but one problem did remain. What he had imagined to be an alley was not an alley. It was a narrow courtyard at the rear of a gift shop—and, as in the Paco, there was only one way out.
Buchanan hung back uncertainly. Should he stay and hide in the courtyard? Or should he make a break for it?
The Dodge was parked across the square. With luck, he could slip out of the shop unnoticed, shielded by the milling tourists and hawkers. But what if Marina chose the same moment to leave the Paco?
The longer he procrastinated, the more chance of that, and besides, the courtyard held no real safety. Once Marina had torn apart the Paco, the gift shop was a natural place for her to look, her next stop as she set about leveling the village.
His mind made up, Buchanan began pawing through the courtyard’s stockpile of tourist trappings, intent on some sort of disguise. He wrapped himself in a rebozo, slapped on a vast sombrero that hung well over his ears, and filled a huge straw basket with an assortment of cheap trinkets.
Admittedly, the outfit lacked his usual flair, but it ought to get him by Adele, the only one who might spot him from the Dodge. Herbert, on his record, would be asleep again, and Sebastian had demonstrated to his satisfaction that he was legally blind.
A quick inspection in a mirror served to confirm his hopes. He took a deep breath, braced himself for the run, and started out of the courtyard—only to find his way blocked by a hulking bear of a man.
“What are you doing here?” the brute demanded.
Buchanan’s mind was suddenly blank. His interrogator, a European, probably German from the guttural sound o
f his accent, had the manner of a proprietor. There’d be trouble unless he got a satisfactory explanation.
“Well?”
“The Paco’s bartender will serve as my reference,” Buchanan said, drawing himself up. “I was telling him of my troubles, another fight with my wife, and he said, ‘Why not drop in on the gift shop?’ So I did.”
“Mama,” was the reply. “Go fetch the policía. I’ve just caught us a burglar.”
Marina, meanwhile, went stomping back to the Dodge, convinced that Buchanan was already in flight. She could picture him flapping his way toward the bus depot and it was her first instinct to have Sebastian run him down. The sniveling coward deserved to expire in some filthy gutter.
“You checked the bathroom?” Adele wanted to know.
“Both,” Marina fumed.
“He could be sick,” Adele said. “Montezuma’s Revenge. It happened to a friend of ours. Hymie Cooperman from Winnipeg. He made up a song about it.” She nudged Herbert awake. “You remember Hymie’s song? It was a tune from My Fair Lady.”
Herbert agreeably warbled an off-key sample. “I have often sat on this seat before … I have often smelled not so sweet before …”
“That’s the one,” Adele said.
Before Marina could reply, however inappropriately, Buchanan came rolling out of the gift shop, locked in mortal combat with the proprietor. The latter’s wife was chasing after them and whacking both indiscriminately with a broom.
“Es el señor?” Sebastian asked. He took off his glasses and sighted through them at a more appropriate angle for action at that distance.
“I think it is,” Herbert said, peering over his shoulder.
“It is!” Adele screamed.
“No,” Marina moaned, putting her hands over her face. “No, no, no!”
Sebastian shrugged. Who was he to argue? All the same, he had the flailing cartwheel in reasonable focus now, and he was pretty sure it was the señor. He was also pretty sure that the señor was being killed.
Buchanan and his oversized opponent rolled across the sidewalk and out into the street, biting, gouging, knocking heads, pulling hair. Meanwhile the broom kept beating at them mercilessly.
“You’ve got to do something,” Adele told Herbert. “Get out there. Pull them apart.”
“Me?” Herbert said.
“Then call the police.”
“No,” Marina said sharply, finally getting herself under control. “We don’t want the police …” She leaned forward and shook Sebastian by the shoulder. “Vaya.”
“Sí,” Sebastian said, wondering how he could be so stupid. He didn’t want the police either. They were always asking to see your driver’s license—and he didn’t have one.
The police, however, were already well aware of the incident. Captain Eloy Cavazos, the village commandant, was seated in his patrol car only a few doors down, privy to the entire scene.
“You will see what that is all about,” Cavazos ordered his sergeant, cracking a sunflower seed. He spit out the husk and it held against the windshield.
“Immediately,” the sergeant replied smartly. He got out of the patrol car and stood watching.
Marina again shook Sebastian. “Vaya.”
“You’re leaving him?” Adele gasped.
“Why not?” Marina demanded. “He was leaving us.” She turned back to Sebastian, “Pronto.”
“Sí,” Sebastian said, going through his checklist. Glasses on. Ignition on. Gearshift in D. Then …
“I’ll drive,” Marina muttered, pushing open her door, but before she could get out, the Dodge hurtled forward, its sudden motion sending her flying. She was left dangling in space, half in and half out, clinging desperately to the door handle.
“Stop!” Adele cried, vainly trying to pull her back in. “Alto! Alto!”
Sebastian looked back totally confused. Couldn’t they make up their minds? Stop, go. Stop, go …
“Dios mío!” he yelled, panicking. He let go of the wheel and lunged over the seat to grab hold of Marina. As he twisted around, bracing himself to pull her back into the car, his foot hit the gas pedal, jamming it to the floor.
Herbert sat stupefied. Up ahead, the plaza was mobbed with people, jostling for position to see the fight, blind to their impending doom. The Dodge was headed straight for them. They’d be scattered like tenpins when it hit.
“Steer!” Adele screamed at him, one hand holding Marina, the other beating off Sebastian.
“W-where?” Herbert stammered, finally reaching from the back to take the wheel. There were people running to the fight from all directions. Disaster loomed at any turn.
“Somewhere,” Adele wailed. She gave up on Marina and Sebastian and started wrestling the wheel away from Herbert. The car veered back and forth as they fought for control, bouncing off a light standard, sideswiping a parked truck, and then zeroing in for the kill, their frantic efforts canceling each other.
Mass manslaughter on a towering scale was mere seconds away when the crowd suddenly parted. The gift shop proprietor had gotten the best of Buchanan. Like a crazed beast, he was holding him high above his head, preparing to dash him against the cobblestones. An innocent bystander could get squished if he didn’t make room.
Adele and Herbert released the wheel at the same moment. Unguided—or was Fate’s hand at work?—the Dodge unerringly slipped through the narrow corridor that had miraculously opened for it. The gift shop proprietor, twirling now like some mad dervish, spun blindly into the side of the car, the impact knocking him off balance. Buchanan fell from his grip and landed in a neat fold across the top of the open door.
The rescue operation was all downhill after that. Sebastian took repossession of the wheel. Adele and Herbert dragged Marina and Buchanan into the safety of the car. The enraged gift shop proprietor and the howling crowd were left far behind in a cloud of black smoke.
“Gracias,” Buchanan mumbled, smiling crookedly at his benefactors through a cracked lip. “My congratulations. An excellent showing.”
Perhaps he wasn’t in such bad company after all. The mission had been carried off with marvelous skill and daring. Had there been anything quite so grand since Dunkirk?
Back in the square, Captain Cavazos, equally impressed, was interrogating his sergeant.
“You say it was an attempted robbery?” Cavazos asked, popping another sunflower seed into his mouth.
The sergeant nodded. “Sí. They stole a sombrero, a rebozo, and a straw basket.”
“You believe that?”
The sergeant referred to his report. It was what he had written. “No.”
“Nor I,” Cavazos said wisely. For such trifles four gringos would not pull a raid in broad daylight on a crowded square. Much, much more had to be at stake, and he had long been suspicious of the Kraut. In all probability, the gift shop was a front, financed by the Fourth Reich, or at the very least the Mafia. There could be any number of vile schemes that brought huge sums of money onto the premises. Drugs. Counterfeiting. White slavery. The numbers racket.
“The raid, as you saw, was daring,” Cavazos intoned, picking through his supply of seeds. “The work of seasoned professionals. You saw how the chauffeur performed? He must be one of the very, very best. Much courage. Flawless driving. Superb timing.”
“I’ve never seen a better driver,” the sergeant agreed.
“That’s big budget stuff,” Cavazos went on. “We are doubtless onto something important. Very, very important.”
The sergeant nodded solemnly. “Shall we call in the Federales?”
“No,” Cavazos said, wondering why the sergeant, with his example, remained such a fool. “If it’s really big, we want it all, estúpido. Why share the reward?” He sat spitting out husks and thinking his plans through carefully. “Which way did they flee?”
“South.”
“Then we go north,” Cavazos decided. The gringos might be very, very clever, but they couldn’t trick him.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Dodge, as it happened, actually did go south, but only as far as Iguala, where it turned west and headed toward Teloloapán. Ten kilometers later it turned onto an unmarked dirt road winding up into the desolate mountain country. Once around the first bend it was lost forever to anyone attempting to follow.
Buchanan was quite agreeable initially—the more twisted the trail the better—but his concern grew as they ventured deeper along the mountain road. It became worse and worse and finally degenerated into a boulder-strewn disaster area that would discourage a bulldozer. Yet Marina pressed ever forward.
“It can’t be much farther,” she kept saying, referring to a rough hand-drawn map that had mysteriously come into her possession without explanation. “I’m sticking to my original forecast. Lunch in Santa Luisa.”
“Won’t that be fun?” Adele chirped, determined to be cheerful.
“A ball,” Herbert said.
Buchanan snorted but held his tongue. It would be bad form to complain in view of his recent rescue from the jaws of death. Besides, they were deep in never-never land now, and long past the point where he could sensibly try deserting again. The only safety here was in numbers.
“Cual vía?” Sebastian asked, as the car wheezed to a halt at a fork in the supposed road. For a change, it was marked by signs, one for each direction, but nature had taken its toll. No lettering remained on either.
“Momentito,” Marina said, making a pretense of studying her map. The truth was that she was guessing and the probability of error was being compounded at every turn. They had already come upon several more forks than her map provided.
“The starboard ruts look the most likely,” Buchanan lied, not for her sake, but for his own. Once the car got really under way, say a brisk ten miles per hour, he sometimes imagined that he felt a slight breeze.
“A la derecha,” Marina ordered, and they moved off once more, destination doubtful, survival unlikely.
There was no doubt in Buchanan’s mind that they were all mentally deficient—especially the Glasses. One could raise a small measure of defense for Sebastian and himself. They, after all, had been enticed by salary, however inadequate. The Glasses had undertaken the trip for the mere promise of adventure and persisted in regarding it as such. Their unflagging good spirits in the face of impending disaster bespoke an innocence that would make the devil weep.