The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  Harrigan’s nerves were getting the best of him. He ran his fingers through his hair. He was all sweaty and would soon have to bathe again for the third time today. He hated temperate climates like this.

  “Why are you so worried?” asked Pike.

  “We have to make this work,” Harrigan replied. “The count, Elena, all of it. You know why.”

  “I do indeed,” answered Pike, burying himself in his story once again.

  Harrigan turned his gaze on the city beyond his window. What a wretched, backwards place. He longed to go back to England. The Cambridge and Oxford rivalry between Pike and himself had been something of a stumbling block to their working relationship in the beginning—each having been knee deep in the underworld betting on the rugby teams during their brief flings with higher education. The Brits had a civilized culture, one with history.

  Harrigan and his partner had history, too. Truth is, the pair had been on thin ice with their superiors when this assignment came up. If it hadn’t been for Phil Rollins’ suicide note confessing how he had stolen from the treasury all three of them had been assigned to protect, the pair surely would never have seen this place, and the investigation for the missing money would have led straight back to them. Rollins’ confession had been an elegant work of fiction—and forgery. The man’s death had been murder, neatly disguised.

  Now a small fortune awaited the pair in a foreign bank account, and all they had to do to get it was keep their heads and maintain an exemplary record with the Pinkertons for a few more years. Then they could quietly retire from the service and take up new careers as “foreign travel writers.” Once they were sure no one was looking at them any more, they could collect their hard-earned money.

  A passing bird rocked Harrigan from his dreams of a carefree future. Elena’s pigeon winged into view above the gray sprawl of rooftops, sailing straight for their open window. Harrigan leaped back with a startled cry as it headed straight at him, then wheeled and banked to land gently on the windowsill. Pike was already on his feet, reaching past the surprisingly skittish Harrigan. He snatched a message from the silver band on the pigeon’s foot and thrust out his hand to ease the bird off the ledge, into midair. It dropped, then swiftly caught itself with a flutter of wings before flying off.

  “Tried to bite me last time,” Harrigan muttered.

  Pike ignored him and read the note aloud. “Searching vineyard tonight. Will make contact.” He shrugged and plopped down on the closest of two single beds, where he might keep an eye on his anxious partner wherever he paced. “She’s going to the vineyard,” Pike announced smoothly. “We can post men near the gate, in case we have to pull her out.”

  Harrigan considered this, then slowly shook his head. “If she’s compromised, she’ll be of no further use. Consider it an acceptable loss.”

  Pike nodded, impressed by his partner’s sudden burst of decisiveness. What neither had said was the simple truth of the matter: better to have Señora de la Vega die at the hands of the count and be silenced, then they could simply wash their hands of things and never have to worry about explaining the unorthodox measures they took in securing her cooperation.

  He went to the window and slammed it shut. He had no idea that far below, a mustached “bird-watcher” was staring up at them from the seat of a black leather saddle.

  Ferroq dismounted as twilight blended the shadows around him. He withdrew a strange weapon and triggered a mechanism on its handle. Ching! A pair of large crescent-shaped blades fanned out like scissors, crimson shadows sleekly gliding across their perfectly sharpened edges.

  Already imagining the coppery scent of blood, he hauled open the hotel’s side door and vanished within.

  Chapter 13

  Elena knocked at the front door to Armand’s glorious hacienda, her carriage arcing away into the magnificent sunset. Struggling to control her nerves, she waited for a reply. After a few moments, the unhurried footsteps of Marie, who ran the household, echoed from within.

  Taking a deep breath, Elena forced down her anger. Being left on the front steps of a manor like this was a terrible insult. Servants would surely have heard the creaking of the carriage wheels and Marie should have been at the door, waiting graciously, before Elena even disembarked. The door opened and Marie greeted her with a false smile and a flutter of her darkly painted eyelashes.

  Oh. It’s you.

  “Bon soir, Marie,” Elena intoned. “Armand’s expecting me.”

  “You’re early, Madame,” Marie said haughtily, guarding the doorway, “the count is still indisposed.”

  Elena shrugged, unwilling to allow Marie to see her frustration at this shoddy treatment. “Perhaps I could wait in the parlor?”

  Nodding, Marie opened the door and allowed Elena inside.

  They shared a handful of meaningless pleasantries as Marie led Elena to the well-appointed parlor, then retreated momentarily. Elena bristled at the mere thought of the disapproving looks Marie had casually dispensed. In fact, the thin ravenlike woman had rankled Elena from the moment they had first met—and the reason why was only now becoming clear.

  She reminds me of Señora Rodriguez, thought Elena as she settled into a lovely French “gondole” chair, so named because of the shape of its back. The last time Elena had seen the matriarch of San Franciscan society had been two days ago, when they had bumped into one another at Still’s Bookseller and Stationer, where Elena had sought out instructional pamphlets on the care and feeding of one’s—well…carrier pigeon. A spark of rebellion shone in the creature’s eyes the last time she had tried to feed it, and though Elena was dependent on the bird for carrying messages, she wondered if she might not find a way to turn that spark into a full-fledge inferno.

  Please take a peck out of those wretches any chance you get, would you? Elena had asked kindly. There’s a good birdie…

  Señora Rodriguez was flanked by two of her latest acolytes. With a toss of her stiff hair, the older woman had spun to show her back to Elena and snatched up a novel that had all the country buzzing.

  “The Scarlet Letter,” announced Señora Rodriguez to her small flock. “The tale of a woman who commits adultery and must wear a large letter ‘A’ for all to see as penance. A story of shame. Alas, it is merely fiction. Too many women these days do not know the meaning of the word. They still seek the social status and acceptance that might well have been mere inches from their grasp, had they behaved properly.” She sighed, fanning herself. “Alas, alas…”

  Scorn radiated from Señora Rodriguez’s followers as they brazenly shot scathing looks at Elena who received them with mournful eyes.

  If Elena could only believe that Señora Rodriguez was a spiteful, narrow-minded witch, she could easily shrug off the woman’s remarks and not care in the least what she or anyone thought of her. But Señora Rodriguez had achieved great things for women in the city, and had proven herself to be possessed of an agile, fair and forgiving mind.

  Elena was no adulteress. She had refused to allow her path to cross that of Armand’s until a few days after the divorce papers were final, a process rushed along by the vile, calculating Pinkertons. Yet she knew how traditional Spanish people viewed divorce. Many had wanted her banned from the church, and though Felipe vowed to fight any such expulsion—even at the cost of his own position—she had chosen to quietly stay away instead.

  She had lost so very much…

  Shuddering, Elena broke free of her preoccupation and scanned the table next to her. A folded copy of the French newspaper Le Californien sat within reach. The lead story, not surprisingly, concerned the issue of California as a free state. Some parties urged that despite the vote already taken to enter the Union without the stigma of slavery, legal measures could be taken to ratify the state’s position. But slavery was not just loathsome and repellent on a personal and cultural level to the Spanish Californians, “white” settlers looked at it as bad business too. “One man comes to stake his claim with only his two hands to hel
p him,” said a prospector. “Another comes with twenty slaves to do the work. The individual cannot compete.”

  Elena shook her head. Such issues should be about ideals, not economy. Her father’s legend spoke to this. Perhaps more needed to hear it.

  Then why did you want Alejandro to give up the mask of Zorro? Why do you keep the truth of his heritage from your son?

  Elena knew she should not be distracted by any such thoughts right now. She swiftly immersed herself in another of the newspaper’s fascinating tales when Marie returned, placing a cup of tea before her.

  Elena smiled. “Thank you so much.”

  Nodding, Marie left the room. Elena leaped to her feet and crossed to the window. She was about to open it when she heard the familiar squeak of Marie’s shoes on the wood floor. Elena darted to the bookshelves just in time. A volume of poetry was in her hands as Marie returned and eyed her carefully.

  “Perhaps Madame would like an amuse bouche to tide her over until dinner?” suggested Marie.

  “That’ll be all, Marie,” Elena said sternly, determined to be rid of this woman. “In fact, I’d like a little quiet before Armand returns.”

  Stiffening, Marie trembled with displeasure, then forced a smile and curtseyed. “As you wish, Madame.”

  Marie padded out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Elena reshelved the book and raced back to the window. Hauling it open, she climbed out into the night.

  Alejandro paced the length of his cell like a caged tiger. He grabbed the window bars and shook them, but it was no use.

  What is it you think you can do, anyway? Bend steel in your bare hands? You may be Zorro, but you’re still just a man…

  Hanging his head in defeat, he heard a noise from the alley outside his window. A squeaky back door swung open from the bar next door and a bald Spaniard with a drooping black mustache tossed a short man out on his ear.

  “Now git, ya little mongrel!” the saloon owner growled in his native tongue. “Come back when ya got hair on your chest!”

  The door slammed and Alejandro seethed. He loathed seeing the strong victimize the weak. The ousted patron wobbled into the light and Alejandro gasped.

  It was Joaquin!

  The ten-year-old shook his small fist in the moonlight, his lips pulled back in a ferocious snarl. “Suck an egg, Flatfoot!”

  Alejandro couldn’t believe his eyes. “Joaquin?” he cried. “Joaquin!”

  The boy froze at the sound of his father’s voice. With a slowly deliberate turning of his entire body, Joaquin stood face to face, eyes wide in disbelief, with his father.

  “Here!” Alejandro called, thrusting his hands out through the bars and waving his son closer. Joaquin cautiously approached, stunned.

  “Dad?” Joaquin asked, still not entirely certain that this was actually happening.

  “What are you doing in a bar?” blurted Alejandro.

  Joaquin frowned as anger crept over him. Of course this was his father. Who else would ask a question like that at a time like this? His voice broke as he squealed, “What are you doing in jail?”

  Good question. Alejandro looked away and bit his lip. “I asked you first.”

  “I was looking everywhere for you,” Joaquin explained, “it’s about mom…”

  Alejandro straightened up instantly. “Is she okay?”

  “No!” cried Joaquin. “I mean, yes, but no…a man came to the house. He asked her to marry him. She said okay.” Joaquin’s eyes brightened. “I know you still love her. You said you’d do anything for her…”

  Alejandro slowly shook his head. “Joaquin…”

  “You can’t be in jail,” muttered Joaquin, “how can you be in jail? You gotta stop her…”

  “Joaquin, listen to me!” shouted Alejandro.

  Tears streamed down the young boy’s face as Alejandro grasped Joaquin’s hands through the bars and gave him the richest, warmest smile his son could ever hope to see.

  “Help me out of here and I’ll get your mother back,” vowed Alejandro. “We’ll be a family again, I promise.”

  Joaquin looked up at his father, gathering enough courage to perform one of the bravest acts of his young life.

  He decided to trust his father.

  Joaquin crept to the jail’s front door and was stunned to find it unlocked. Turning the knob, he pushed the door open and looked inside. Flickering amber light washed over him from within—as did the rumble of raised voices. Inside, a slight man with carrot-red hair tugged on the tail of his pinstripe suit with one hand while holding up a metal contraption with the other. He faced a tall, deeply tanned guard wearing an equally disinterested expression. The guard dusted off his brown frockcoat and absently polished his dull badge while angrily eyeing a vacant seat at a small table where a card game had been interrupted by a traveling salesman.

  “Mister Vivas—Rafael, if I may—you have a sworn duty to keep your prisoners from flying the coop, yes, you do!” the salesman declared fiercely, his Louisiana twang alighting upon his every word. “You are the head jailer here, and that means you have a great responsibility to the people of this fair city.”

  Vivas growled and ran his hand through his mop of wild black curls. “How do I say this so you understand?” He eyed the ceiling, as if inspiration might be found there. Suddenly, he struck a balled fist into his waiting hand. “I know—go away or I shoot you!”

  Another jailer, this one portly with ghost gray eyes, busied himself spooning slop into bowls for the prisoners. He grinned at his boss’s tactful stratagem.

  “The facts are the facts and you should listen up,” said the persistent salesman. “A prison like this just inn’t safe and secure, y’should know that. There’s these Committees of Vigilance croppin’ up in all the frontier towns, nothin’ but vigilantes lookin’ tah lynch whoever they don’t much like. Then there’s all the jailbreaks from right under yer noses…”

  Joaquin took advantage of the jailers’ distraction to slip inside and ease behind a vacant desk. He drew his slingshot and carefully loaded the weapon with pebbles he kept in his pocket.

  “See, what you need is these new ‘Double-Acting Cam and Lever Locks’ put on your cell doors,” the salesman went on. “It just so happens I represent—”

  Vivas cut him off sharply by whipping back the flaps of his dusters and looking down in alarm. “Oh, look, no guns, only a big sharp sword. What do you think of that, eh?”

  Sighing, the salesman drew out a card, slapped it on the desk in front of Joaquin, and stormed out. Vivas took his seat at the gambling table, picking up his cards and examining them cautiously, as if he might spot suspicious smudges from his partner’s hands upon the cards he had set down when the salesman so rudely distracted them.

  Joaquin waited until the big man carrying the tray of steaming, foul-smelling bowls was in range, then he aimed his slingshot and fired.

  The fat guard yelped and lurched forward as something stung his buttocks. Hot soup splattered all over the startled Vivas, who threw down his cards, and shoved the bigger man.

  “Clumsy fool!” Vivas charged, edging closer, thrusting a pair of empty palms at the bigger man’s barrel chest again. His frockcoat was ruined.

  Eyes bulging, the fat red-faced man tossed away the empty tray and pushed Vivas back. “Something bit me!”

  Vivas looked away, as if to collect himself—then Joaquin struck again, firing a second round, this time at Vivas’ chest. Stung, Vivas looked angry as if he’d been struck by his companion.

  “Bit you, eh?” spat the head jailor. “I’ll do worse than that!”

  A brawl broke out and the third guard, a wiry gray-haired man, scooped up the evening’s stake. Assured that everyone was duly distracted, Joaquin emerged from his cover, and darted toward the corridor where the cells were located—the slingshot rising from his hand. The guard getting away with the winnings gawked in disbelief first at his brawling buddies, then at the child who started all this mayhem and the weapon he used to do so
!

  Flashing a superior grin, Joaquin delivered the rudest gesture he knew, then dashed away.

  The hissing guard scrambled after him as his distracted colleagues still duked it out. But as he whirled around the corner, he tripped hard over Joaquin, who was crouched down into a ball. He flew into the air, then smacked the floor hard, skidding headfirst against the wall and settling into an unconscious heap. Joaquin advanced on him warily and seized his keys.

  Creeping away from the unconscious guard, Joaquin peeked into the jail’s large receiving room, drew a sharp breath, and gingerly snuck past the arguing men, advancing into the long cellblock. Moving past steel doors beyond which smelly drunkards slept, he stopped at the last one, drove the key home, and turned it in the lock. Click-click. The door swung open and his father emerged, gathering the boy into a great hug.

  “You’re a genius, Joaquin,” Alejandro said, meaning every word of it, “but I never want to catch you breaking anyone out of jail again, alright?”

  Joaquin snickered, and suddenly he thought of all Señor Zorro had said about Alejandro de la Vega. It hadn’t occurred to him before now that Zorro and his father might have met. He wanted to ask his Papi about this, but a flurry of noise distracted him.

  “There are guards up front,” warned Joaquin.

  Alejandro nodded sharply, his brain buzzing with stratagems for defeating his opponents. He gasped, feeling himself falling into the role of Zorro—one he knew so well.

  No, he thought, it is the role of father that you must master now. He rustled his son’s hair and smiled at him. “We’ll sneak out the back.”

  Carefully, they threaded their way to the rear door. Alejandro was about to open it when the knob turned from the other side. He drew back, gently shoving Joaquin behind him, as a grinning man with a bruise on the side of his head and a raised sword greeted them.