by Tom Ardies
“They break your spirit there,” Buchanan said, looking for his handkerchief. “No matter what you write it is changed. Executive producers, associate producers, story editors, directors. None of them know how to write it but they all know how to fix it.” He sniffed and dabbed at his cheeks. “Have you ever been to a what-if conference?”
“No.”
“Then you are wise,” Buchanan said. He leaned forward to whisper. “You want to hear a confidence? Let me tell you about The Loose Moose. My crowning achievement—my ultimate creation—and by the time they had finished with their changes he was Yogi Bear.”
Pablo nodded even more sympathetically. “I have heard of this Yogi Bear.”
“Why not?” Buchanan asked. “Who hasn’t? And yet have you ever heard of The Loose Moose?”
“No.”
“Haw,” Buchanan said. “You have never heard of The Loose Moose—and still you ask me why I drink?”
“To have reason such as this, no wonder you were reluctant to tell me,” Pablo said. “It is something a man would want to keep hidden inside him. You have my deepest sympathy and my sincerest apology. I should not have pried.” He borrowed Buchanan’s handkerchief and blew into it loudly. “You’re sure you have no need of a woman?”
“I have need of a drink,” Buchanan said desperately. He again leaned forward to whisper. “You say you were watching. How many drinks have I had?”
“Sixteen,” Pablo replied, equally cautious, “but the last four, I suspect, should not be counted. I cannot swear for a fact that they were watered down. But it was on the twelfth that you first noticed the bartender’s nose.”
“Only twelve? Then surely it is permissible for me to drink more?”
“Of course,” Pablo admitted, glancing around carefully, “but not here, I think. My advice to you is that we find another place to drink.”
“There’s another cantina in the village?”
“No. But I have knowledge of this certain house. There are many good women there and …”
“Oh, God,” Buchanan moaned, putting his head in his hands. “How many times must I tell you? I do not want a woman.”
“It is not required that you have one,” Pablo told him. “It is permitted to go there and just look. If you do not see one who meets your fancy, you simply say so, and that is that. No hard feelings.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “There will be fewer harder feelings, of course, if while we look, we also have a few drinks.”
“Fine,” Buchanan said, getting up. “It is all settled then. We will go there and we will look and we will drink.”
“Unfortunately,” Pablo said, pulling him back down, “it is not quite that simple, señor. This house I know of does not sell drinks.”
“It doesn’t?”
“I fear not,” Pablo confessed, “and that is why, at this juncture, I must bring up the delicate subject of money, señor. My credit at this establishment is how you would say, lousy. So …”
Buchanan started to protest—how drunk did this old pickpocket think he was?—and decided to laugh instead. “Buy two bottles,” he said grandly. “One for me and one for thee.” He dug into his pocket for a handful of bills and pushed them across the table. “By the way. How is your credit at this certain house you know of?”
Pablo paused with the money. “I am a poor man. Like yourself, I only go to look, señor.” His shoulders hunched up and he smiled his wisest smile. “But who knows? Perhaps a friend and benefactor will be there. We shall look—and, after a few drinks, we shall see, eh?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Twelve bells tolled in the church in Santa Luisa. Buchanan counted them off and wondered why there hadn’t been more. It seemed much later than that.
“We are friends,” Buchanan said, pushing up on an elbow. “I trust you implicitly. I follow you blindly. I would put my very life into your hands. Yet I must question your intentions in one regard: Exactly how long should it take to get from El Cubo de Sangre to Señora Chiché’s?”
“Well,” Pablo told him, getting into a more comfortable position on the curb, “that all depends on the individual’s technique. Normally, it is a five-minute walk, but if the trip is made properly, at least an hour is required.” He sipped carefully at his bottle of tequila, which he had begun to conserve of late, as it was now less than half full. “To do it in style demands an hour, and for an epic journey, there is, of course, no time limit.”
Buchanan examined the level of his own bottle—it, too, was falling sharply—and then eased back on the sidewalk to resume his study of the star-dotted heavens. “You lean to the epic?”
“Sí,” Pablo said, picking up a rock from the gutter. “My personal record is four days, which, I am proud to say, is surpassed only by Chemo, the bartender at the Burócrata.”
Buchanan whistled softly. “That is some record, and I share your pride, compadre. But this Chemo. How long did he take?”
Pablo took careful aim and let fly with the rock. There was a loud thud and a wild squeal and a huge sow turned and ran complaining. “A full week exactly.”
“Honestly?”
“Sí, es verdad.”
“That is epic,” Buchanan said. “Truly epic. I am most impressed.”
“It is an impressive thing,” Pablo agreed, “but the truly epic journey was by Manuel, the harness maker, who required a month. That would have been the record had he not died before reaching his goal.” He took another careful sip of his tequila and then stuffed the bottle into his hip pocket so as to avoid further temptation. “I was not there, being indisposed myself at the time, but witnesses say he expired within sight of Señora Chiché’s door.”
“You swear?”
“If you wish, but better still, I will prove it. The facts are written on his tombstone. I can take you there.”
“No, gracias,” Buchanan decided. “I think I would rather go to Señora Chiché’s.”
“So would I,” Pablo admitted.
Buchanan got back up on his elbow. “Then why don’t we go?”
Pablo looked at him curiously. “We are going.”
True, Buchanan thought, smiling to himself. As always, true, and the same lesson—what’s your big hurry?—was written in the timeless eternity spread out above him. The night sky was a blackboard and every star a chalk mark in a formula impossibly complex and yet devastatingly simple. Man plus dreams of glory equals minus zilch.
“It is up to you, of course,” Pablo said. “Everyone has his own pace and I forgot that you are familiar with the rush of the city. We can make better time if that is your desire.”
Buchanan shook his head. “No. I, too, would like to go in style, compadre.”
“Excellent,” Pablo said, vastly relieved. He sneaked out his bottle, took a small quick sip, returned it firmly to his pocket, and then pushed up to his feet. “I know a shortcut over Guadalupe Hill. That is always good for an extra half hour.” He stood waiting for Buchanan. “I don’t suppose you aspire to records?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Pablo sighed. “A person such as yourself, a man of means, having the resources …” He shook his head sadly. “You realize you could be famous?”
Buchanan laughed. “In Santa Luisa?”
“Sometimes I do not understand you,” Pablo complained. “It doesn’t matter where a person is famous. It only matters that he is.”
True, Buchanan decided. As always, true. He managed to get to his feet on the second try. He brushed himself off and followed his mentor down the narrow cobbled street.
Gonzales was at last ready to leave. He crossed to the window and opened the shutter a crack. He tensed as shadows moved at the end of the street. “The lamp! Blow it out!”
The Presidente quickly snuffed out the flame. “Who is it?”
“Shhh!” Gonzales hissed. Two figures came briefly into view, staggering badly, barely mobile. One was that drunken layabout Pablo, who would sell his soul for a peso, and the other, apparently in ev
en worse condition, was none other than Señor Buchanan.
“Who is it?” the Presidente repeated.
“No one,” Gonzales told him, closing the shutter. There was no sense revealing that Buchanan had teamed up with Pablo. The Presidente’s nerves were shot already. “Just a couple of drunks.”
“Caramba,” the Presidente breathed. “You had me scared.” He struck a match and lit the lamp. “I’ll help you with the boxes.”
Gonzales restrained him. Pablo’s presence held evil portents. It was well known that the man would do anything for a price. Anything.
Their supposed drunkenness could very well be an act while they kept secret watch on the office. Would Buchanan alert the others in his gang at the first sign of flight? Would an ambush be waiting somewhere in the mountains? Would the precious records and salve samples be stolen?
“What’s wrong?” the Presidente asked. “You said so yourself. The sooner you leave the better.”
“Not necessarily,” Gonzales decided. “The best time, I think, will be tomorrow morning, when our ‘innocents’ have gone to see Doña Otelia. It will give me at least an hour’s head start on them. Perhaps more.”
The President’s fearful look returned. “You think they suspect you of planning to leave? That they may try to follow you? Trace you to Orozco?”
Gonzales nodded grimly. “Either that or try to stop me.”
“You’ll need protection,” the Presidente said, feeling faint. “I’ll enlist Pedro again. Rasso …”
“Those idiots?” Gonzales disdainfully brushed aside the proposal. He crossed to a table and yanked open a drawer. Inside was a huge pistol, which he hefted fondly in his hand. He had all the protection he needed against the likes of Buchanan and company.
In due time—only two hours more at most—Buchanan and Pablo came upon a large white house built in the colonial style. Broad stone steps led up to a lush garden where waters played in an ornate fountain. Baroque pillars lined the portal. Elaborately scrolled wrought-iron grillwork barred the windows. The door was huge and curved at the top and deeply carved.
“This is it?” Buchanan asked doubtfully.
“Sí,” Pablo said, examining his bottle, which was dangerously close to being empty.
“You’re sure?”
“Sí. Positivo.”
Buchanan remained unconvinced. This was much too large and grand for a pussy parlor serving the likes of Santa Luisa. Yet another reason for suspicion was that the long journey had taken them almost full circle. The music from the cantina sounded little more than a block or so away. The trumpet player, who, because of the cantina’s crowded conditions, was required to play outside in the square, could be heard quite plainly. Was Pablo so drunk he had become lost in his own village?
“You again want proof?” Pablo asked. He took out a match and scratched it along the balustrade to the left of the broad stairway. The flickering flame in his cupped hand passed by a chipped enamel nameplate set in the base. “Orr.”
Buchanan stepped back into the street for a better look. Colonel Orr—or was it General Orr?—had certainly lived well on the former guano trade. It was a fine, fine house. Exquisite.
Pablo swore as the match burned his fingers. “You know why Señora Chiché bought it?”
“Certainly,” Buchanan said, recalling how this little joke had so amused the Presidente. “The stroke of a pen and she had a monopoly—the only Orr House in Santa Luisa.”
Pablo sat down in the gutter and put his head between his knees. He choked back a sob. That was theft.
“I am sorry,” Buchanan said, crossing the street to comfort him. “It is not a good joke. I have never liked it myself.”
“Go away,” Pablo told him.
“Listen,” Buchanan said. “I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll just forget the whole thing. You needn’t pay me for it. Okay?”
“Go away.”
Before they could argue further, the door of the house was flung open, sending a wide swath of light across the garden, and two fat matrons ran out onto the grass, laughing gaily. They skipped to the fountain and grabbed up waiting toothbrushes and started scrubbing out their mouths.
“Ah,” Pablo moaned, barely able to speak. “Did I not tell you? There are many good women—and some of them are very young.”
Buchanan sat staring in disbelief. This pair could be grandmothers.
“You do like them young?” Pablo asked.
“Young, yes,” Buchanan spluttered. “But these two …” He groped vainly for the words to express his outrage and then became aware of the concerned look on Pablo’s face. The man seemed serious. Dead serious.
“These two,” Buchanan said, veering sharply, “they’re barely out of their forties, and they ought to be tucked in bed at home, not laboring for Señora Chiché. I was about to complain and then their bubbling laughter made me change my mind. They are happy and they must have made someone else happy. Who am I, a guest, a casual visitor, to be setting standards?”
“You are not offended?” Pablo asked.
“No,” Buchanan assured him. “Remember that I only came to look, and there are no doubt older women, perhaps a pensioner, should I change my mind.”
“I am glad,” Pablo said. “These girls, they are going to do it anyway, of that you can be sure. So it is better they do it under Señora Chiché’s watchful eye. This way they will not be cheated or abused. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“And you accept that?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Good,” Pablo said. “You must understand and accept. Otherwise it would be wrong even to look.”
Buchanan seized at this straw like a drowning man. “If there’s any doubt, the slightest suggestion of impropriety, I suggest we leave now, compadre.” He struggled to his feet. “In fact I insist on it.”
“No doubt.” Pablo laughed, unable to keep a straight face any longer. “Faced with those two, even I would run, my friend.” He collapsed in a helpless heap. “Oh, oh, I really had you fooled, sí? You should have seen your expression. Pure terror.”
“Ha,” Buchanan said.
“Admit it,” Pablo gasped, still doubled up with laughter. “That was a good joke. One worthy of payment.”
Buchanan was about to advise otherwise—this was one time he planned to challenge Pablo’s logic—when someone came clattering down the stairs from Señora Chiché’s. He turned to look and instinctively drew back into the shadows. There was no mistaking that spiderlike physique silhouetted against the light from the open door. The departing customer was Herbert.
“Why are you hiding down there in the dark?” Herbert called, peering across the street. “There’s no one here to hurt you.” He laughed and raised a hand in signal. “The worst that will happen is they’ll eat you all up.”
At the other end of the block, an engine cranked over noisily, parking lights blinked on, and a dilapidated taxi crawled slowly forward.
“The sauce got your tongue?” Herbert asked.
Buchanan backed into a doorway. This was the last place he wanted to be seen. If word got out he could be ruined professionally. Have you heard the latest? Slick was caught paying!
“If you want to hide, that’s fine by me,” Herbert said, laughing again. He descended the rest of the stairs and got into his taxi and whispered instructions to the driver. Instead of pulling away, the car suddenly backed up, braked to a halt, and then turned sharply into the middle of the street, its headlights flashing on as it did so.
Buchanan froze, caught in the glare like a trapped, cowering rabbit.
“You!” Herbert cried, choking on the word. There were more unintelligible splutterings and then the headlights snapped off.
Buchanan felt the relief sweep over him. Herbert obviously had the most to fear from this chance encounter. From the sounds of it, he would die, taken by apoplexy, if not reassured.
“I’ll make a pact with you,” Buchanan said, laughing himself now
. He crossed to the taxi and looked in at Herbert. “A vow of silence. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Herbert nodded weakly and cringed down in his seat. “I … I’m sorry,” he stammered, fighting for air. “I never thought. You … here …” He gave it up and concentrated on breathing.
“Like you, I have an insatiable appetite,” Buchanan said, beginning to enjoy himself. “I’d hump a cupcake if there was a dead fly in it.” His smile widened at Herbert’s acute discomfit. “Not that I’m proud of that, of course. It’s a crumby thing to do.”
“Well, yes, and it’s been nice meeting you, too,” Herbert said, signaling desperately to his driver. “I’m afraid I have to go. Mustn’t, uh, keep Adele waiting.”
“Ta, ta,” Buchanan said. He stood scratching his head as the taxi sped away. What in Satan’s name had all that been about? It was understandable that Herbert might be embarrassed. But the poor little cheat had been frightened out of his shorts.
“You have a strange friend,” Pablo observed.
“Traveling companion,” Buchanan corrected.
“Whichever,” Pablo said, taking a last long pull on his bottle, “the fact remains, he is strange.”
“Agreed,” Buchanan told him. Herbert’s behavior was puzzling to say the least. Very mysterious. Unfathomable.
“Shall we?” Pablo asked, his empty bottle disappearing in a wide arc.
Well, Buchanan thought. Like Herbert, he had been seen, so why have all of the reputation and none of the pleasure? He followed Pablo’s example with his bottle and then turned to face the broad stairway to Señora Chiché’s.
“Lead on,” Buchanan said.
Herbert glanced back through the rear window of the cab. Life was certainly full of surprises. Having seen Buchanan’s unslept bed, he had imagined him cowering under Marina’s sheets, or—what was even more likely—halfway back to the Geneve. But drunk and out whoring?
Herbert wondered. Drunk, yes, he could accept that, but a gigolo at a cathouse was stretching things a bit. Was it possible that Buchanan was not what he pretended to be? Might the dandy be an impostor?
The thought worried him for just a moment before he dismissed it as ridiculous. There were impostors enough in Santa Luisa. He yawned and looked at his watch. It was awfully late—but he still had time to saw off a piece before going to sleep.