by Wade Miller
The man on the grass got to his feet and brushed off his snappy sport clothes. He said, "The trouble with these places is that they let just anybody in."
Biggo took the crisp handkerchief out of the other man's breast pocket. He wiped the back of his neck. "Your aim's improving, Lew."
"I fired at the biggest thing about you. Your head."
Lew Hardesty was a vigorous male animal, at least ten years younger than Biggo. He was handsomer and slenderer and taller, built like a swimmer. A deep scar straggled down his right cheek. Only in his eyes was there anything remindful of Biggo Venn. A restless reckless see-you-in-hell look.
They set up the chairs and sat down. Hardesty called for more coffee. It was the mother who brought it. The waitress-daughter had disappeared. So had the customers. The mother stayed as far away from Biggo as she could.
Biggo growled, "I thought you were in Bolivia." Just because he had met one of his own kind made the outlook no brighter. Hardesty was a comrade but something less than a friend. Hardesty had a knack for showing up where he wasn't wanted.
"I was. Now I'm here."
"What happened?"
"Have you ever spent a summer in Bolivia? Very hot."
Biggo understood the old pattern. Hardesty had been on the wrong side, whichever side happened to be losing that year. "Yes, Lew, I was thinking about you only the other night."
"I love you too."
"I know that. I remember the time you let me go out after that tiger in the Malay with a jimmied gun."
Hardesty laughed. "That was a fine joke. Those man-killers are always old tigers, anyway. You've got more teeth than he had. Was that any worse than shipping me that opium in Transjordan? I sat in that mud jail for two months until one of your shells knocked out a wall."
Biggo laughed in turn. "That was the gunner's fault. He'd promised me a direct hit." They had been on different sides that season. Like Toevs and like himself, Lew Hardesty was one of the professionals who gravitated naturally toward the troubled places. Sometimes they fought together. Sometimes they fought each other. Today's enemy was the same soldier as tomorrow's ally.
"I really thought I had you spotted down in Bolivia. With the government, I mean."
Biggo shook his head.
"Too bad. I wonder who got my present for you?" Hardesty sipped his coffee and hitched his chair closer for the story. "We were pulling out of a little place called Cuernavaca. Not much there except one or two houses and a bully little bar. I figured you'd head there first thing when you got in. I wired up two charges under the counter with a bottle for the trigger. Oh, it was perfect, Biggo. I laughed about it all the way to the coast."
"I've been in the States since early this year."
"Sad, sad. Shame to waste a joke like that on a grease-ball."
Biggo was thinking how different it was meeting Hardesty than it had been meeting Toevs. Hardesty still roved through the prime of life, just as Biggo did, full of strength and manhood. He had a disquieting thought: Had old Toevs felt the same way about him? Did old Toevs really believe his own lies about time not passing? Biggo swigged down coffee, rallying. "What are you doing in Baja California?"
"Waiting. I find I can't loaf properly in the States, what with the noise. Nobody seems to rest up there, you notice? I'm waiting for China to break."
Biggo laughed loudly.
So did Hardesty. Then, soberly, almost convincingly, "God's truth, Biggo. I'm expecting word from the Egyptian any day now. If you're free, I'll put in a good word for you. We might as well be on the same side for a change. You're not much fighting help but you're good for laughs."
"Like those twenty Arabs, Lew?"
Hardesty grinned. Then he quit it when he saw that Biggo had lost his humor. "We couldn't take prisoners, Biggo. We didn't have the water for it. I'm sorry they happened to be your pets, but-c'est la guerre, camarade."
The carefree atmosphere between the two men had changed into something hard and dangerous. They sat regarding each other silently. Biggo's mind automatically segregated two solid facts from his swirling resentment. One was that his own Beretta lay deep within the strapped suitcase at his feet. The other was that Lew Hardesty never failed to carry his gun on his person. Even now the well-known pearl-handled Mauser would be hanging under Hardesty's arm, beneath the sport coat. Biggo realized he had carried the resentment so long that it was making him think in extremes, such as guns. So he didn't unlock his gaze but he shrugged, meaning not now.
Hardesty said slowly, "Any time it bothers you, Biggo."
"All right. I'll let you know."
They were silent again for a moment. Then, as suddenly as it had happened, the tension was cleared off the table between them. Hardesty dug out cigarettes. They lit up. "And what brings you to Ensenada, Biggo, my boy?"
"Thought maybe I'd buy a little rancho, get close to the soil and the good life."
"Oh, ho, ho!" Hardesty said. "You working or playing?"
"When did you ever see me working, Lew?"
"Which means you are. What's up your sleeve, Biggo? Come on, I'm your old tentmate. You can tell me." His eyes were shrewd and calculating, as if he saw bags of gold heaped where Biggo sat. This was the other side of easy-going Lew Hardesty. "If there should be something afoot here in Baja, why, China can wait while I give you a helping hand. The governor getting big ideas? Like giving Aleman the heave-ho? Or are you organizing a William Walker?"
"Nothing's going on in Mexico that I've heard about." From way back, he knew Hardesty was a man who liked to cut himself in on another fellow's hard work. If there was an easy dollar to be made, Hardesty would know an easier way to make it. "I'm waiting for China too."
"Yeah," said Hardesty. "Oh, sure."
Biggo brought his Bible out of his pocket and slapped it on the table and put his hand on it. "Word of honor, Lew." The gesture amused him, waving twenty thousand dollars under Hardesty's nose.
"You still carrying that thing around?"
"Why not? I've gotten some fine tactics out of there." Biggo put the Bible away in his pocket.
Hardesty shrugged. "Hay gustos y gustos. I subsist on billets-doux myself." He winked and rolled up his eyes. "So I let you know what the Egyptian has to say. If and when I hear from him "
"Why wouldn't you?"
"He owes me money on the Bolivia thing." Suddenly Hardesty was morose. "When do we ever get paid in full?" he complained. "When don't they ever try to short us and cheat us and take our good blood on credit?"
It was rhetorical. "Yeah," Biggo agreed definitely.
"Dog robbers, all." Hardesty swallowed the dregs of his coffee. He was a little ashamed and angry, though not with Biggo. "Up and down. Always times when the going gets kind of rough, Biggo. Stinking life except for a few first class fights. God, the jobs you have to stoop to, sometimes."
"Yeah." Biggo was thinking of his shorted lecture tour, the faces looking up at him, wanting to adventure through his broad strong body. He felt for his suitcase and made motions of getting up. "Ill probably see you around, Lew." He hoped not.
"Stand by. Ill give you a ride uptown in my car." Hardesty grinned to wipe out his morose moment.
"No, I want to shave and so forth."
There was some commotion in the stucco house that served the restaurant as a kitchen. Then the mother and daughter were coming across the lawn toward them. With the women were two men in baggy uniforms of drab green, heavily belted and carrying carbines at ready. Police. The daughter was pointing and the mother was spouting a fountain of Spanish.
"What's going on here?" Biggo said. They were all looking at him.
One of the policemen said in painful English, "You are required that you accompany with us-"
Biggo snapped, "Speak Spanish."
The policeman breathed gratefully. "You are under arrest for disturbing the peace, assaulting this foreign gentleman and destroying valuable property belonging to the Senora Lopez."
"Under arrest? You've lost your
mind. I haven't done anything."
"Nevertheless, you will come with us," the policeman said firmly. The other policeman, staring at Biggo's unshaven and fierce face, leveled his carbine.
"Don't be silly. There is a misunderstanding. This man is a dear friend of mine. We were only joking. Nothing serious."
The policeman cocked an eyebrow. He turned politely to Hardesty. "Is this the truth, senor? Is this man your dear friend?"
Hardesty said, "I never saw him before in my life and I have an excellent memory for such faces. It is true, he struck me with his suitcase and threatened to murder me unless I bought him some breakfast. He belongs in solitary confinement, Capitan."
Biggo yelled at him, "You bastard, I'll carve your heart out for this!" The second policeman jabbed his carbine barrel into Biggo's back. The mother and daughter shrank away from the American's rage.
Hardesty, unappalled, waved his hand. "Take him away, Capitan."
The first policeman bowed to him and led the way. As Biggo tramped away up the street, the police guns pointed watchfully, he could hear Hardesty laughing at the joke. He thought that Hardesty would explode with laughter.
He shouted Arabic back over his shoulder, "May Allah stop your throat with camel dung!" With what dignity he could muster, his suitcase banging his legs, he stalked on toward the jail.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday, September 14, 11:30 a.m.
And there was other laughter that morning. As Biggo was marched through the narrow portal of the jail he heard a woman's bitter laugh from across the street. He didn't have time to look around and see who it was. And, at this glowering moment, he didn't give a particular damn whether it was Jinny Wagner or not.
The Ensenada calabozo was a small fortress, its walls about three feet thick and dingily stuccoed over. A perpendicular bulge up the facade eyed the street with gun-ports. A sign told tourists not to photograph this building. Like Zurico's saloon, the jail presented its backside to the water. The bay smell was clean and fresh.
The chief of police was a gray-haired man with a bored intelligent face. His uniform was tightly tailored and Biggo felt like a tramp in contrast. The jefe laid aside his cigar and heard the charges without speaking.
When his subordinates were finished, the jefe asked them, "Is the senor drunk?"
Biggo said in Spanish, "I can answer for myself. The answer is no."
"Ah?" The jefe raised his eyebrows. "Do you deny the accusation, then?"
"Certainly I do. It was all a joke, that's all."
"A rather violent joke, I would say. Well, we shall see. In the meantime…" Biggo gave the first name he thought of and the jefe made an entry in a ledger. "Are you an American, Senor Smith? You will wish, then, to consult with your nearest consul who is in Tijuana."
"Not particularly. All I wish is to pay my fine and get out of here."
"Ah?" the jefe observed again. "In time. Yes, in time."
They took his suitcase and his wallet. They commented on his carrying no identification. Then they removed the belt from his waist and the laces from his shoes. To prevent suicide, the jefe informed him gravely.
Biggo didn't resist. But he kept one fist clamped around his Bible. "I want to keep this by me."
The jefe examined it respectfully and handed it back. "Of course, senor. The regulations permit. Your other property will be kept safely for you until your departure."
"When will that be?"
"Shortly, shortly. The formalities must be observed. That is all." The jefe overcame a yawn by replacing his cigar in his mouth. "Justice. The law," he added.
The two policemen took Biggo down a cool corridor. They opened an iron gate and let him into a large whitewashed room with a concrete floor. It was the community cell for minor offenders. About twenty other men lounged around the room, all of them Mexicans. They reclined on petates, the woven mats which served the lower class as chair and bed. The prisoners looked at Biggo curiously.
Biggo regarded them indifferently. Being in jail was nothing new to him. He didn't know the names for these twenty brown faces but that was all he didn't know. This might have been Fez or Peshawar or-most recently-Havana. When he located a vacant petate he sat down on it cross-legged. Nobody spoke. It wasn't hostility but merely the native courtesy that withheld the direct question. They were wondering diligently who and what he was but he might be in here a month without being asked anything straight out.
Biggo slumped against the wall sullenly. He might be in here a month.
Seeing that Biggo was going to volunteer no information, the other prisoners went back to what they had been doing. Some slept. One group was gambling, racing little beetles they had captured. Most of the men did what Biggo did, sat and stared at the floor.
He stared and felt more bewildered than angry. He believed in luck but he never blamed it when it vanished. He could take it both ways, good luck and bad. When things went right that was as much luck as when they went wrong.
Biggo told himself it was just the turn of the wheel, this happening, just as it was last night's doctored liquor that was making him think stupid and depressing thoughts. Like whether he was slipping.
Yet he had accomplished nothing on this job except cut himself in on it. He had barely managed not to lose the Noon confession. "You been running like hell to stand still, Biggo," he growled to himself. "But you can't help it if you got curry for brains, can you? One thing, matters can't get much worse."
His wallet full of money was as good as gone. He knew native police. God only knew how long he would be in jail. He knew native justice; the hotter the weather, the slower it moved. And as soon as the jefe went through the suitcase, up would turn the Beretta automatic. Illegal possession of firearms, crime of crimes in any of the revolution countries.
Biggo sighed and wished he had a drink. He imagined a tall drink. He imagined having Hardesty here in front of him, bending over. His foot twitched involuntarily. He chuckled. The Mexican next to him smiled brightly.
Biggo played with the precious Bible a while. It beat thinking. Except that he still had the Noon confession, he wasn't any closer to the twenty thousand dollars than last Sunday night in Cleveland.
Something struck him funny and he said aloud, "What is India's destiny, huh?" He roared with laughter. He was wondering what the forum faces would think if they could see their adventurous hero now, broke and unshaven in this Mexican jail.
The prisoners watched him respectfully.
After a while the man next to him said, as if it had just occurred to him, "You laugh bravely." He was a scrawny beanpole, lantern-jawed, with a shiny, almost black, face. He wore overalls only and his ribs were obvious.
"Things are funny all over," Biggo said.
"Of course. A comedy," the Mexican said and grinned and scooted his petate closer. He introduced himself as Adolfo Huerta, who spoke no English.
"Call me Biggo."
Adolfo bowed gravely from his sitting position. "A treat to find a companion of your sort, Don Biggo, in such surroundings."
"You've been here before, then?"
"One has one's ruts." Adolfo shrugged. "Especially where women are concerned."
"Your wife?"
"And those of others."
"No Eden's without forbidden fruit. They say that in the south, anyway."
"It's national," said Adolfo. "But it's a masculine proverb. Women refuse to agree with it. For example, my wife, Rosita. Caray, how she loves me, Don Biggo! But-" he indicated his petate "-here I am."
"I guess I'm here because of a women too." Biggo was thinking of Jinny. If she hadn't stolen his suitcase, he might not have run into the joker Hardesty.
"I am not surprised," said Adolfo as a formal compliment.
"Nor I at your case," Biggo returned. "I only hope that your needs were satisfied, amigo. With me, the sky fell in first."
"My incident was satisfactory. I had decided to take a vacation with some companions somewhere, anywhere. A week, a
month, who knows? My Rosita objected. What else could I do but beat her with a small stick? Otherwise, I might lose her respect as well as my own."
"Yet here you are."
Adolfo shrugged. "In the anger of the moment, Rosita forgot herself. By now she's repented. She wishes me home. When I decide that she has suffered enough, I'll return to her." He ignored the iron gate and the barred windows. "I'm not hard-hearted, Don Biggo."
Biggo liked his dark companion. Somehow he felt a little envious of him. Plainly shiftless, Adolfo was just as plainly happy, secure in his position as a failure. And he had his Rosita who wished him out of this jail. Who cared where Biggo Venn was?
They talked some more, mostly about women. Finally Adolfo said, "Hasta luego," and went to sleep. So did the other prisoners. It was siesta time. Biggo rolled up his mat and put it under his head and spread out on the floor. He stared at the ceiling. There was an American consul in Tijuana. But the consul wouldn't do anything for him unless Biggo established his identity. And the identity of Biggo Venn would be on an undesirable traveler bulletin somewhere in the consulate files. So the consul-Biggo detested the breed-probably wouldn't touch his case, anyway.
"Well, something will turn up," Biggo said confidently. He closed his eyes and slept immediately.
The evening meal was surprisingly good. Biggo would have enjoyed it no matter what; he hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours. He wolfed down the beans, scooping them up with the folded tortilla. When he had wiped his plate clean and chewed up the tough tortilla, he was still hungry.
The single electric bulb high in the ceiling looked puny as long as the sun slanted in. But when the sun had set, the bulb was sufficient to light the whitewashed room. One of the prisoners had a guitar. He played and another sang. The songs were not gay but they were not consciously sad, either. Just full of the peon's wistful wonder at the expressions of the life force. Biggo felt comradeship for the men. He felt more warmth in their presence, he admitted, than he had standing before the pale faces in American auditoriums.
Presently he took his Bible out of his pocket and rested back against the wall. He thumbed through the pages for a good story and settled for David.