HONKY IN THE WOODPILE

by John Brunner

  I said after a moment’s thought, “I had heard that Señor Lorreo was not—ah—entirely in sympathy with your president. Politically, that is.”

  The clerk would have blanched if his face hadn’t been too dark. After hastily making sure no one else was listening, though, he recovered. Leaning confidentially close, he said, “That is certainly true. But you have never seen the fans”—he used the English word—“of Señor Lorreo. To hold a concert such as that without him would cause a riot!”

  “He really is that popular, is he?”

  “Oh, yes! By far the most popular singer in Madrugada.”

  Well, it made a change from all those countries where they follow the American Hot Hundred about six months late. I folded and pocketed the handbill.

  “Thank you. If I am still in Brascoso on Sunday, I definitely shan’t want to miss that. I’ll confirm in the morning. By the way, how much will the ticket cost?”

  He quoted me a scalper’s price, about five times the highest mentioned on the bill. Still, it was probably an extra week’s wages for him, so I didn’t look too alarmed. I thanked him again and headed for the elevators.

  Key poised to slip into the lock of my room, I hesitated. Now and then I pick up clues from the air that I have no right to, especially when I’ve just been in deep trouble. I had a sudden conviction that I should enter with my gun in my hand. (My gun! I would have to lose it, and soon; being caught with a stolen police pistol would make my earlier problems feel like a mild headache.)

  I eased the lock softly around, then flung the door open and strode in. I was right. There was a man sitting on the edge of the bed who also had a gun. He was tall, clean-shaven, thick-set—forty or fifty pounds heavier than me—very dark, wearing an open-necked green shirt and pants of fawn cotton drill. I’d never seen him in my life.

  At least, though, he didn’t look like a Sabatano.

  SIXTEEN

  He made to jerk his gun up towards me—it had been lying slack in his lap—but I shook my head. He recognized that I had the drop on him and tossed it with a shrug towards the pillows. It bounced and landed well out of reach.

  “Señor Curfew?” he said, rising and offering his hand. “I am Diego Santandero.”

  I closed the door by touch while examining him from head to foot. He did fit Fierro’s description bar one thing—but that was the easiest thing to change. I tucked my gun back in my belt.

  “Sorry,” I said, shaking with him. He had a good firm grip. “But Fierro told me you had a beard.”

  “So I did, last time he saw me. But it became—ah—inadvisable. You should not apologize, though. One respects cautious men because one has to be so careful oneself. If I am recognized in Brascoso I shall be shot without trial. You know perhaps that I was with Carlos Deniz at first, but concluded his idea of immediate conquest was absurd, and returned to tell Fierro of his grave mistake. Before I could rejoin the guerrillas, of course, they were betrayed and Carlos was shot, but they compiled complete lists with pictures of everyone who had ever supported him.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.” I headed for the drawer where I’d parked my bottle of duty-free gin from the plane, as yet unopened. I’d sent for mixers and glasses, and there was a neat row of tonic-bottles on the dressing-table. “Like a drink—English gin?”

  “A small one, thank you.” He was retrieving his gun and tucking it, like me, into his belt. “By the way, I have a message for you, and a certain—ah—item. Oblige me by saying what it is you’re expecting.”

  I took his point about being cautious. Still, I approve of attention to small details… and right now he could use his gun faster than I could.

  “A number,” I said. “And a key. Relating to the Banco Seguridad on the Calle Vendaval.”

  He relaxed perceptibly, to the point where his last doubt seemed to have evaporated. “Very good, señor. I apologize in my turn. One further piece of advice, however: when going there, you should wear a light-colored jacket over dark pants. Our movement adopted that as a recognition symbol at one time; I don’t know if it’s still effective, but it might reduce the risk of your being challenged.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” I said. “I have a suitable outfit with me.”

  “I know,” he admitted with a grin. “I—ah—took the liberty of checking your closet.”

  I couldn’t prevent myself grinning back; I’d have done the same in his position.

  As I handed him his glass and poured a little tonic into it, he went on, “This is probably a foolish question, but I must ask it before Sarita joins us. Have you made any progress yet?”

  I’d stopped in mid-movement. “Before Sarita joins us?” I echoed.

  “Why, yes. I had to inform her I was here; how else could I have been admitted to wait for you? Don’t be so alarmed. In my estimation—and remember I have had a year longer than Fierro to keep my eye on these people—she is the least likely to have sold us out.”

  I hoped sincerely he was right. But my reaction wasn’t entirely due to alarm. I wanted to put off a moment or two longer the news of how disastrous my visit had so far actually been. So I turned back to the dressing-table and topped up my own glass.

  “Any progress?” he repeated, with a hint of impatience.

  “Well, I’ve talked to five of the people Fierro listed, all except Latanores. But so far I have no—”

  A rap on the door. I went to answer it while Diego prudently retired to the adjacent bathroom out of sight. When I opened a crack and peered through, I found not only Sarita Redón, but Jesús Lorreo as well, both looking very nervous. The moment I stood back, they thrust into the room, leaving me to shut the door.

  And it was Lorreo’s turn to produce a gun. Pointed at me. I was getting very damned tired of the gun bit.

  “What the hell?” Diego exclaimed, emerging from concealment. Lorreo didn’t look at him.

  “This bastard has a lot of explaining to do! He was collected from the hotel this morning by José Moril. You know Don José, don’t you?”

  Diego’s jaw dropped, almost comically. He stared at me in bewilderment. Suddenly I couldn’t behave any longer. I ignored the gun and walked back to collect my drink in spite of Lorreo’s frantic orders for me to stay put.

  “Oh, shut up,” I sighed. “Sit down and have a drink—if you don’t want to send for glasses I think there are a couple of toothmugs in the bathroom. Sorry I don’t have any ice!”

  Nonplussed, Diego looked from Lorreo to me and back.

  “Yes, I did spend the day with Moril,” I went on. “And you know what the bastard did with me? An hour ago I was in those filthy cells under the Cinema Coloseo.”

  “You can’t have been!” Lorreo burst out. “You can’t have escaped from there!”

  “If you don’t believe me,” I snapped, “call up Moril and ask him! He must know I got away by now! Do you have his home phone-number?”

  I was watching his face in the dressing-mirror as I spoke. That crack of mine provoked a remarkable reaction. His gun wavered, the look of determination faded from his face and after a short pause he moved to take a chair. One second before laying his gun aside altogether he did something I’d never seen before—used its barrel to cross himself.

  “You have a point, though, Jesús,” Diego said, still steadily gazing at me. “If it’s true he was in those cells it’s hard to believe he escaped. One would rather assume he was let out, and that would only have been for a purpose.”

  I looked from one stony face to another. What the hell reason did they have for believing me? I was an outsider, with no one to vouch for me except a leader who had been driven into exile a year ago. But I had to go on arguing, and I suddenly thought of a way my story might be confirmed.

  “No, I was the one who did the letting out,” I declared. “Literally. I opened every cell I could get to, and left two guards locked in my own. I don’t imagine the Sabatanos are anxious to publicize the news, but it strikes me as the sort of thing that might tick
le people’s imagination, assuming I am telling the truth?”

  I turned the last phrase into a question and looked at Diego. He gave a reluctant nod.

  “Yes, although people suffer the Sabatanos they do enjoy seeing them made to look foolish. Who should know better than ourselves, who’ve exploited that over and over?”

  “Well, then! Señora Redón, I imagine that here as everywhere hotel staff are among the first to pick up gossip?”

  She too nodded, her dark eyes fixed on me warily.

  “Please then call downstairs and find out whether such a story is being circulated.”

  “Do as he says,” Diego said abruptly.

  “But what will that prove?” Lorreo cried. “It will be a lie, put about by the Sabatanos!”

  “I disagree,” I said. “Would the Sabatanos tell such a lie against themselves? Surely it would insult their majiz’.”

  “Of course it would,” Diego grunted. “In any case our best course is to be able to believe this man. Make the call, please, Sarita.”

  She complied, dialing an internal code on the bedside phone, and spoke to someone who asked her to hang on—most likely Juan, her factotum. While she was waiting I poured drinks for her and Lorreo, which they accepted with poor grace, and smoked half a king-size cigarette, also part of my duty-free allowance from London.

  Suddenly she said to the phone, “Si?” And listened. Gradually her expression altered until she was staring at me as though I were Superman.

  “Gracias!” she said at last, cradling the phone, and in a near-whisper added, “It is true. Juan says such a story has been heard already by three people.”

  “Did anyone mention that El Cristo Negro turned the prisoners loose?” I asked. “I wrote Criné! on the wall.”

  “Yes—yes, so I’ve just been told.”

  Diego gave a barking laugh and slapped his thigh. “Well, I’ll be damned! That’s the best thing I’ve heard for months! No wonder Fierro was so ready to trust you!”

  “But Moril!” Lorreo persisted. “How did he get on to you? Why did he walk into the hotel yesterday looking for you?”

  “I’m posing as a travel-writer,” I said, and explained the whole story, including the mischance that had led to my being recognized. I attributed it to the encounter at the Ocean Bridge, not mentioning Dolly, but at Gilbert’s name Diego reacted.

  “Yes, that was in Fierro’s message too. Is he not the one with the beautiful wife?”

  “You could say so,” I acknowledged.

  “Staying in Buenas Aguas somewhere.” His brow furrowed. “I know the villa the Yanquis generally rent for their agents—isolated in a big garden with a high fence. Maybe before I go back into hiding I should arrange for it to blow up. It’s long past time to renew our attacks.”

  “Stop babbling!” Lorreo snapped. His face was shiny with sweat, and he had already swallowed the whole of the stiff drink I’d given him. “Don’t you realize every Sabatano on all the islands must be looking for Curfew now? Not to mention the police! We’ve got to get him out of here and hide him!”

  “That’s exactly what you must not do,” I said. All of them stared at me in blank disbelief. I stubbed my cigarette and leaned earnestly forward.

  “Diego, you just said the people like to see Sabatanos made fools of. But the Sabatanos hate it, don’t they?”

  “Why, they would kill you on sight for it. At least they used to until our movement started to make such fools of them they never knew which way to turn.” He sighed heavily. “Would that such days would return!”

  The others nodded, although Lorreo was looking more worried by the second. Granted, he had good grounds; what I was about to propose sounded risky even to me. But I was determined to settle my score with Moril, and I was prepared to cut all the corners I could in order to make sure the time of reckoning was soon.

  “Fine,” I said. “I want to make grand fools of them. So I’m going to sleep the night here quietly in a comfortable bed, and tomorrow I am going to carry on about my business exactly as though the Sabatanos did not exist.”

  “But they’ll gun you down on the street!” Lorreo exclaimed. If he’d been a buckra, he’d have been white as a ghost by now. He got up and helped himself to another slug of gin, not bothering to add the tonic.

  “I’m hard to kill,” I said. “The Russians have tried, and the South Africans, and—various others. But don’t worry; I’m fond of my skin, and I don’t like holes being blown in it. All I want to do is show up here and there tomorrow, in places where it’ll do some good but where the Sabatanos wouldn’t care to risk an open attack—bars full of tourists, for instance, and the poshest hotels. When the word has got around that Criné is alive and living in Brascoso, I’ll cheerfully go underground. You can arrange that, no doubt?” I glanced at Diego, who shrugged and spread his hands: of course!

  “You’re insane!” From Lorreo, in a wail.

  “I don’t think so. For example, just now you mentioned my being sought by the police. I don’t believe for a moment they’ve even been told about my escape. Right or wrong?”

  A dead pause. Eventually Diego said, “Possibly right. At least I doubt that Moril would wish the police to know that you got out of their tightest jail. That is not a police jail, you understand; it is reserved to the Sabatanos for political offenders and those who have insulted them and have to be—ah—taught a lesson.”

  “In other words, you get dumped in there without trial and kept as long as it suits them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” I hesitated a second, looking at them in turn, and decided to admit my purpose. “You see, by throwing me in a cell meant for a slave awaiting auction, Moril did something to me I’m never going to forgive. I want to trap that bastard, even if it means using myself as bait.”

  “But what makes you think you can get away with that?” Sarita demanded.

  “Something I saw this afternoon in a geraba on Aragon. I told you: Moril took me there with a gang of rich visitors.”

  I’d learned a lot from that trip, one way and another.

  “You went into a geraba on Aragon?” Lorreo said incredulously. “Oh, now I know you’re lying! Either that, or it wasn’t a geraba at all, just some fake Moril laid on to delude you!”

  Diego said gently, “Jesús is correct. It is hard to believe that you escaped from the Sabatanos, though apparently that is confirmed. But for a visitor, a stranger, to enter a geraba without hindrance—that’s unheard-of. Unless it was Moril who took you in personally?”

  “No. I was invited in by a young zachea that I’d done a favor for.” I realized as I spoke that I didn’t know her name, and I ought to have asked for it. “Moril wasn’t around, and if he had been he wouldn’t have approved of what I saw there.”

  Lorreo looked as though he would shortly be sick. Diego said, “That being…?”

  “A picture on the—the altar, I guess. Don Amedeo. Surrounded by knives, with all the points aimed at him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lorreo snapped, and put up his hand to tug loose his collar, as though it had become too tight for him.

  “Hate.”

  Diego stirred, setting aside his empty glass. “Yes,” he conceded, “that is something you could hardly have invented. But what makes it so important that you will risk your life because of it?”

  “Something Fierro said to me. He talked to me in London about Madrugada in terms of a classic revolutionary situation like the Chinese—greedy landlords, resentful peasants, an urban proletariat jealous of the better way of life they’re exposed to yet forbidden to share. He was wrong, and your friend Carlos Deniz was right. In principle. He was simply premature. What do the common people think now that the clinic of the Ponzas is a burnt-out ruin?”

  I looked at all their faces in turn.

  “Are they not beginning to understand what Fierro said they must understand before they will willingly rise up—how they are being cheated, lied to and deprived?”


  “And what they would gain if they were not so treated,” Diego supplied. “Yes, that phrase is certainly Fierro’s. And I agree with you. He and Rafé have been away from here now for more than a year, whereas I have been on the out-islands, dodging from one place to another. There is a ferment of hatred against the garzos. I too have seen the badoan altars with pictures of Don Amedeo on them, and only two nights ago I was at a ceremony where he was cursed to the blackest hell of all by a crowd of more than six hundred villagers.”

  I gave a silent sigh of relief. I’d been so afraid that picture in the geraba might not mean what I’d expected it to.

  “A man who can come here for the first time and within a day and a half leant so much of the truth about Madrugada is a man I will trust,” Diego said, rising and clapping me on the shoulder. “Jesús, you think him a fool, hm? But he is a brave and clever fool!”

  “Thank you,” I said, and added, “So for the moment I need take up no more of your time.”

  The hint was heavy. They rose to their feet, Lorreo still scowling. “I don’t like this!” he muttered. “When they find out you’re back here in the hotel, I wouldn’t put it past them to burn it down around our ears. You don’t know them, Curfew—they’re savage, they’re brutal!”

  “But not stupid,” I countered. “Do you seriously think they want to see international headlines announcing a fire in a hotel full of foreign tourists, fifty or a hundred dead because of their secret police? Hell, no, not when about half the country’s foreign exchange comes from tourism!”