by Lou Cameron
“It’s the chance people take, working for me. What good is a guard who lets himself be taken out so easily? Are you sure I can’t fix you up with some of this nice young stuff, old bean? At my age, it’s almost as much fun to watch and, now that I know we won’t be killing one another, this season—”
Captain Gringo politely tried to hide his disgust as he shook his head and said, “She’s all yours. But before I leave, another question or three. Those guerrillas are armed with the same Krags and .30-30 rounds you’ve been selling cheap to my guys. Tell me why, Hakim.”
The old gunrunner shook his head and said, “Don’t be silly. I won’t ask you to believe I’m pure of heart. But I peddle arms for money. I don’t give them away free to people who mean to use them against my business associates.”
“Then how did El Viejo Cabrón Viejo get Segovian Army issue?”
“Cabrón what? Oh, I say, very good, Dick. The unwashed thug strikes me as overrated, too. As to how he’s armed his guerrillas, that’s simple. The local army is well armed indeed and not paid as well as it might be. I don’t think many of the other-ranks are in a position to run arms to the rebels in serious numbers, but you always have some desertion and, of course, the last high command was filled with murderers, so why not crooks?”
Captain Gringo thought, nodded, and said, “That works better than a guy who mostly steals chickens having the funds to buy guns from you direct. But he must have paid something, right?”
“One would imagine so. What of it? The chap’s a robber. So he must have money, eh what?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “I’ve been going over his record. He’s vicious as hell. He’s hurt lots of little people and even made some big people nervous. But he’s never had the balls to knock over even one bank.”
“Meaning what, Dick?”
“Meaning someone’s been funding the son of a bitch and, yeah, I don’t think it could be you, now that I see you have a stake in the status quo. But guerrillas can’t live entirely off the country, Hakim. Someone with more brains has been supplying a straw-man enemy with guns and ammo. So the first thing I want, once that kid finishes jerking you off, is an educated guess about just how many guns and how much ammo El Viejo Cabrón has on hand.”
“Don’t be silly. How could I hope to find that out? I just told you I’ve never sold the bloody bastard one round of ammo and, ah, speaking of hands, would you mind looking the other way a moment?”
Captain Gringo wasn’t about to turn his back on Sir Basil Hakim. But it evened out when the old man closed his eyes to come, groaning, in his young playmate’s hand. As he fought to recover his composure Captain Gringo explained, “You can find out easy. Woodbine Arms is the only outfit that’s run any modem arms and ammo into Segovia. Don’t you keep records, dammit?”
“Of course, but—”
“I’ve started keeping records, too. So if you send me a list of weapons and ammo crates you’ve brought into the country, I can compare them with my lists at the presidio. The numbers we fall short of your imports will add up to the numbers diverted to the guerrillas. Don’t you know how to count, for chrissake?”
Hakim blinked in surprise and said, “By Jove I think you’ve got it! Of course, the guerrillas won’t have all the missing weaponry. A lot of local rancheros like to hunt and, well, one must give a gift or two to the powers that be, eh what?”
“Yeah, once they start wearing pants they just won’t take beads. I only need a rough estimate and, oh yeah, how would I go about running at least a couple of machine guns to the guerrillas, Hakim?”
That made Hakim sit up. He asked, “Are you mad, Dick? Why on earth would you want El Viejo del Montaña supplied with a bloody machine gun?”
“Two or three would be even better. Come on, don’t tell me you don’t know any other crooks in town, Hakim.”
“Oh, it’s easy enough to contact less couth gunrunners, old bean. But I still don’t understand your generosity.”
“You don’t? And you make guns and ammo for a living? You just sent me a mess of Maxims. You know where I put ’em? I put ’em in the cellar. I don’t have any qualified machine gunners and you only supplied us with enough ammo belts for maybe an hour or so at full automatic.”
“Hmm, I know the main reason I have trouble selling rapid-fire weapons is that so many conservative officers are worried about keeping them supplied in combat and ... Oh my God, you call me a treacherous devil, you sneaky whelp?”
“I knew you’d see it my way, once you thought about it. Get the lists to me by morning and the heavy weapons out to those bandits as soon as you can. I’ll leave the same way I came in now. Don’t pull any cords unless you want to lose more guards, you old shit.”
Watching a dirty old man molest children could give even a nice guy a hard-on if the children were as yummy and depraved as Hakim picked them. But a zigzag run through dark alleyways and over a few garden walls cooled Captain Gringo considerably by the time he got to Angelita’s back door. The door was locked because she’d told him to come in the front way. He didn’t know her well enough to take a chance like that, and he’d known for some time how to pick cheap locks. So what the hell.
He’d assumed the widow would be up front or in her darkroom and that her alley entrance led into a kitchen or hallway in any case. So they were both a bit startled when he popped into her sleeping quarters, gun drawn. But the buxom brunette was a lot more embarrassed to be caught seated at her dressing table, stark naked in the lamplight. She gasped, “Oh, it is you! For a moment you gave me a start and ... do you always stare at naked women like that, you fresh thing?”
He bolted the door behind him as he told her, “Only pretty ones. I’m sorry. I’ll go up front while you put something on. I came in this way to make sure there were no trolls under the bridge, see?”
She probably didn’t get it. But it gave him a graceful way to case the joint back to front, and he’d no sooner checked the bolt on the front door than the lady joined him, buttoning up a work smock, albeit still bare of foot and unbraided of hair. She said his dirty pictures were ready and led him back into the darkroom. He caught on the second time she switched the lighting to ruby. He’d just checked the room by plain old light and no plates were being developed. The still pretty but no longer young Angelita knew she looked sexier with that soft red glow bouncing off her fresh-scrubbed skin. She’d used lilac bath salts, he noticed, but he hadn’t come back to play slap and tickle exactly. So he nodded his approval at the neatly stacked photographs taking up most of one work table and said, “Bueno. Let’s talk about how we see that they’re spread all over town and country.”
She said, “If you trust me, leave the distribution to me and I may make a modest profit as well. As a fly on the wall, I know all sorts of people, Deek.”
He stared thoughtfully down at her, noting the top of her smock was missing a button, as he asked, “Fly on a what? You don’t look exactly like a fly to me, Angelita.”
She sighed and said, “I have been trying for to lose some weight, dammit. But it is not easy when one has few other pleasures of life to enjoy. I meant that as the most popular photographer in all of Segovia I am called on for to photograph everything from baby pictures to funerals. Si, and everything in between. I take pictures of hidalgo debutantes in Paris gowns and campesinas in the only good dress they own. When either manages for to catch a man I take the wedding pictures as well and—”
“I follow your drift,” Captain Gringo cut in, peeling off some bills for her as he added, “A photographer gets invited everywhere and the fly on the wall part is the way nobody high or low pays much attention to said photographer or what he or she might be thinking.”
“Oh, you are so understanding. Do you know I am often completely ignored when they are cutting the wedding cake or serving drinks to the official guests. I did not mind being treated like the furniture while my late husband was alive for to laugh about it with me. But I feel so left out now.”
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br /> She looked as if she was fixing to blubber up on him. So Captain Gringo put a soothing arm around her shoulder as he said, “I know the feeling. They treat me more like a well-oiled weapon than a sofa, but that’s the way some big shots are.”
He meant his attempt to comfort her in a brotherly way. But she sighed and said, “Oh, I so hoped you were lonely, too. But if we are to be lovers, we must be most discreet about it, Deek. In a town as small as this one a woman has her reputation for to worry about, eh?”
He couldn’t come up with an answer that wouldn’t sound silly. So he kept his mouth shut as she led him by the hand back to her bedroom, and he never did find out where she’d stashed the money he’d just given her. It wasn’t on her when he pulled her smock off and threw a discreet but hyperactive screwing to her.
Angelita was one of those soft, sweet earth mothers a guy could enjoy banging over and over without acrobatics and, though far from stupid, she required few love fibs to make friends with. So they got to be friends indeed by the time they ran out of breath and lay sprawled across the rumpled sheets together, sharing a cigar as they fought to get their second wind. Like most dames, the plump widow enjoyed pillow talk between orgasms. But unlike most dames, she didn’t ask him where he’d learned to screw so good or, even worse, volunteer information about the other guys she’d made it with. In other words, Angelita was an experienced adult who enjoyed herself. She didn’t spill bilge about feeling either abused or so in love she’d kill herself if he ever left her. She simply took it for granted they were lovers for the moment and didn’t ask about the future. He decided he liked her a lot and that he could probably trust her as well as he could trust anyone around Segovia. So after he’d put the smoke aside and come with her a few more times, they enjoyed a long relaxed conversation about things in general. Angelita had come to the then new republic as a bride and taken lots of pictures since. Hence she was a friendly font of general information about the whole society, and he wound up knowing more after a few hours in bed with her than anyone had been able to tell him since he and Gaston had arrived.
He might have found out more, had she allowed him to spend the entire night with him. But along about midnight Angelita sighed, shifted her head on his shoulder, and said, “Oh, I was about to doze off. It is most fortunate I caught myself.”
“You don’t like to sleep with me, querida?”
“I wish I could. But, as I said, we have to be discreet. There is no way I could explain a handsome soldado leaving by either exit in the cold gray dawn, Deek. But of course I shall expect you back mañana, for to spend La Siesta with me if you cannot wait until nightfall, my sweet toro.”
He said that sounded fair and started to sit up. She sniffed and asked, “Is that any way for to say goodnight to a lover?”
So he said goodnight properly, dog style, before he got dressed and slipped out the back way.
As usual in a Spanish-speaking community, there was still some activity on the streets of Segovia well past midnight. So he made his way back to the presidio via back alleyways and the darker side streets. It took a little longer, but he wanted to make sure there’d be no gossip about him and the widow. Aside from Angelita’s reputation to consider, he didn’t want anyone to connect him with the fake photos aimed at embarrassing El Viejo del Montaña. He did mean to go back to her again. Aside from being a really sweet lay, Angelita was a one-woman intelligence service, knowing all the gossip high and low.
He saw the gate lights of the presidio ahead through an archway and quickened his pace. That probably helped. It threw off the guys waiting for him in the shadows of the archway as they all grabbed for him at once. The first knife slash missed his back by at least a quarter of an inch.
The fight began in silent earnest as the big Yank battled to stay on his feet with at least three of the mysterious motherfuckers tugging him three ways at once. Then he wondered why the hell the general of a local nearby army had to keep his mouth shut and began to bellow loudly as he grabbed one of them by the balls.
That was even noiser. The anguished thug screamed, “Kill him! He is twisting my cajones off!”
In the distance they all heard a rifle shot, followed by, “Corporal of the guard! Post numero uno!” But Captain Gringo hung on anyway, as the others decided they’d settle for better luck next time and took off in every direction.
That was dumb of one, at least. As he ran out the far side of the archway into the lantern light of the presidio another sentry posted on the walls above the main gate yelled at him to halt and, when he didn’t, dropped him in his tracks with a well-aimed round of .30-30.
Meanwhile the one Captain Gringo had by the balls had fainted from the agony and, since his limp weight was heavy, the big Yank let go to let him flop limply to the pavement at his feet. He waited until the gate across the way opened before he called out, “Corporal of the guard, this is your C.O. over here. I’m stepping out into the light now. If you shoot me, I’ll never speak to you again.”
The noncom left the guard by the gate as he came Captain Gringo’s way, pistol drawn but pointed at the pavement. As he joined his superior, Captain Gringo pointed at the inky shadows of the archway behind him and said, “Bueno. You just made sergeant. Get the name of that muchacho on the wall who just made corporal and write it down for me. But first see that the two we put on the ground are dragged inside. I’ll want a word with them when I get my wind back.”
He moved toward the gate. By the time he reached the figure sprawled face down on the paving in a spreading pool of blood he could see that one would have nothing to say to anyone, ever. He was dressed campesino. That didn’t mean anything. Anyone could buy a straw hat and white pajamas in the marketplace.
As he entered the presidio Gaston and some of the ether officers had staggered out, semidressed, to find out what all that noise had been about. Captain Gringo gave the others some banana oil and led Gaston upstairs to the new quarters they shared. As soon as it was safe to talk, he filled Gaston in on his recent adventures, leaving out some of the gynecologic details but admitting he’d been naughty with a local girl.
Gaston didn’t think Angelita had set him up, either. He said, “The widow could have told any number of people you were coming to her shop. But there was no way she could have known in advance when you would be leaving. For all she knew, you were a sissy, hein?”
“I’m glad I wasn’t. The dame’s a gold mine of information and I mean to dig a little deeper before we’re ready to take the field.”
Gaston grinned lewdly and replied, “Eh bien, no doubt she enjoys it deep, not having had it in so long.”
The younger American grinned sheepishly and said, “That’s not what I mean, even though you may be right. I meant she’s already told me that this screwy set-up is even screwier than we thought. She’s helping us make a fool of the opposition leader. But, get this, she and her neighbors here in town aren’t really all that worried about guerrillas.”
“Oh, in that case what do the locals worry about in the wee small hours, my pumper of gossiping widows?”
“Mostly taxes. Angelita says her property tax has gone through the roof since El Presidente declared this national emergency and, better yet, they’re talking about a sales tax on everything from soup to nuts.”
“Merde alors, no Latin would stand for such a thing. Sales taxes have been tried, in many places, even civilized countries. They don’t work. There is no way to enforce such an imposition.”
“You can enforce anything, with enough cops and bookkeepers. She said the local civil service has gotten almost as big as the local army in the last six months or so and that nobody on her block can understand why. She says she likes me a lot, but she can’t see why she and the other taxpayers need to pay for such a big army if it’s not going to do anything about those bandits. That’s what she called ’em, by the way. Bandits. Period. Not rebels or even guerrillas. She agrees El Viejo del Montaña should be put out of business, but not if it means driv
ing her out of business with a crushing tax load.”
Gaston sighed and said, “Merde alors, that is all we need, a tax revolt by the middle classes while we are trying to deal with a rougher redistribution of wealth by the lower classes, hein?”
There was a knock on the door. Captain Gringo called out “Entrar!” and the corporal of the guard stuck his head in to ask, “Did not you say there were two bodies out there, my general?”
“I did. One dead and one unconscious. So?”
“So we could only find one, my general. The one shot in the spine by Private Gomez. We found nobody else, I regret to say!”
Captain Gringo shook his head wearily and replied, “I regret it even more. I must be losing my grip, and that’s Corporal Gomez now. Carry on, Sergeant.”
The erstwhile corporal left, even more confused but not at all upset by his promotion. Captain Gringo turned back to Gaston and said, “We’d better start another situation map in here, just between us girls.”
“That should be easy enough, Dick. But why? What’s wrong with the official one we’ve been keeping?”
“Nothing, officially. Some of the local big shots might not like it if we add their positions to the red and blue in other color codes, however, and this army draws its leadership from the junta families.”
Gaston shrugged and said, “So does every other army I know of. Are you suggesting a hankiness of pank between some junta faction and the official enemy, my suspicious child?”
“It happens. And I can’t help wondering why the chicken never crosses the road.”
Gaston frowned and said, “I was right. That widow screwed you silly. Would you mind explaining that in English, or at least Greek?”
Captain Gringo said, “You’ll have to trust my memory until we get our own map set up in here. But there’s a wagon trace from the river landing to the south and a railroad running to the one to the north, making a north-south transportation line, right?”
