Call Down The Hawk

by Richard Folmar

  Now TELL ME ONCE MORE exactly what this supposed reporter told you.” Seth pressed his Texas friend.

  “Dang it all. My snoot was pretty full of this tequila stuff they sell down here and my remembering is a little rusty. I do recollect meeting this jasper in that bar and he said he was a reporter by name of Allyburg or Allison—or was it Algernon? Let me study on it a bit. No, it could have been Ander—”

  “Hand, forget the name. What happened?”

  “Like I was telling, we were chewing the fat and I reckoned as how my partner and me were passably interested in how that Madero hombre came to be shot.”

  Seth contemplated his friend with growing concern. Great! Here’s my associate sitting in a bar, tanked up, and shooting his mouth off with a total stranger about what we are supposed to be doing down here. “Hand, you didn’t?”

  “Naw, don’t worry none. I didn’t let out that was the real reason why were down here. I just said that it was a doggone shame that Madero was murdered the way he was and this fella—Akers, yeah that was his name—agreed with me.”

  “So, what paper did he work for?”

  “Oh one of them big New York papers, I forget which.”

  “Well go on, what happened then?”

  “You know, he got up close to me and started whispering real mysterious like. He said there was a lot more about that murder than most people knew. I put on a real surprised look and said, ‘Do tell’?”

  “And?”

  “Well that suckered him in like a turkey call on one of those big Texas toms. He told me that he knew someone who had the true story straight from the horse’s mouth. I wasn’t much impressed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well that’s a pretty sorry source of information. You know yourself, Seth, how dumb them four-footed critters are. Their brain ain’t any bigger than a hickory nut.”

  “I don’t mean that. What else did this newspaper man tell you?”

  “That there was this Mexican senator who had the straight of those murders and that he was going to write a book.”

  “Who was going to write a book?”

  “This reporter fella.

  “OK. What was the straight of the murders?”

  “He wouldn’t open up account of he was going to write this book.”

  Seth looked at the ceiling of their room, to control his temper. When he spoke, his voice was calm and measured. “Hand, you haven’t given me anything we can use. Let’s see what we have. You met this guy in a bar and don’t remember his name or—”

  “I’m pretty sure it was Akers.”

  “OK. Akers, who is supposed to be a reporter on some New York paper and who is going to write a book on the real story behind the Madero murders. Oh yes, he presumably got the real dope from some Mexican senator. Is that about it?”

  “Yeah, I reckon—no wait! After a couple more of them tequilas, he sure did give me the name of that senator. I wroteit down on a scrap of a napkin and put it in my pocket. It must still be there.” He fumbled in the right hand pocket of his jacket and gave a yelp of victory as he produced the scrap with the name. It was barely legible, enough to make out the name, Ernesto Gomez.

  Seth transcribed the name into the small black notebook he always carried in the inside jacket pocket. “No address?” he asked.

  “Nope, just that name.”

  “Can you recall anything else? Anything at all?”

  “Naw. No wait, he did say this Gomez feller was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. The Federals are looking all over for him and that if he didn’t clear out of the country, his health wasn’t going to be too perky.”

  “Not good,” Seth commented “This could be the break we were looking for, but how in blazes are we going to find a man named Gomez on the run in Mexico City?”

  The answer came unexpectedly the following morning.

  Seth sent Hand back to that bar to see if he could find that Akers fellow, while he quickly finished the review of the claims reports at the Consulate. In fact, there wasn’t much left to do in that direction, and if they didn’t finish their true mission pretty soon, they were going to be hard put to explain their continued presence in Mexico.

  Morning traffic was heavy in front of the Consulate and the too few cabs all seemed to be going in the wrong direction. Chances of catching one seemed better if he walked down to Juarez Avenue. He had gone less than half a block when he happened to glance over his shoulder and spotted the man who had been following him since he had arrived in Mexico City. He was about twenty five yards behind him and was pretending to study a newspaper kiosk.

  Seth made a quick move into an adjacent alley and stopped short with his back against an adjacent building wall. As hoped for, the man broke into a trot when he looked from the kiosk and found his quarry missing. He stopped before reaching the alley opening and cautiously peered around the corner of the building into the opening. Seth grabbed him.

  He struggled against Seth’s heavy grip, protesting loudly. Being of slight build, he was no match for the six foot three American. Seth walked him out into the sunlight of the sidewalk.

  “OK Senor” Seth demanded. “who are you and why have you been following me for weeks?”

  The man looked sullen and spoke in excellent English. “Let go of my arm. You have no right to assault me like this.”

  “And what gives you the right to follow me all over this city? I’ll let you go when you give me some answers.”

  “If you want answers, you had better ask my superior. Here he comes now,” he said pointing to the street.

  As Seth turned to look a long green touring car with closed side curtains pulled alongside the curb and he found himself looking down the barrel of an enormous six shooter held by the driver.

  Someone in the back of the car said, “Senor, Cane, you may unhand that man now and please enter this car.”

  Because the nose of the car had stopped a few paces ahead of him, the driver with the gun was at an awkward angle and Seth shoved his captive away and turned quickly toward the rear of the car to be out of the driver’s line of fire. Unfortunately the person in the back seat flung the rear door open blocking him. A familiar face looked out.

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Mr. Cane. Forget the weapon. Ricardo, put the gun away. My apology for having you followed but it was the only way I could determine what you were up to. Now will you please step inside the auto?” He then spoke to the man who had been following Seth. “Rodrigo, you may return to the hotel.” He moved over to the right to let Seth in.

  Seth , his face grim, said, “You have a bizarre way of arranging our meetings, Dr. Bonillo.”

  The Carranza intelligence chief smiled apologetically. “Weare in danger here every minute and must use unorthodox methods to accomplish our mission. I have something you can use. It will take only a few minutes of your time and then we will drop you at the American Embassy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was deposited on the curb in front of the American Embassy as the green touring car roared away. He looked once more at the page of notepaper the Carranza agent had given him. On it was written:

  “Senator Ernesto Gomez, using the name Maestas, will be at Cantina El Gallo Rojo on Camino de Las Cruces at exactly 8:00p.m.tonight. He will be there for thirty minutes, no longer.”

  49

  SHORTLY AFTER 7:00 THAT EVENING, Seth and Hand left the embassy and crossed over Chapultepec Avenue to hail a cab going in the southwest direction.

  “But I still don’t see how this Bonillo guy knew we were looking for Gomez when we didn’t even know the jasper existed,” Hand said as they stood waiting on the curb.

  “It seems your reporter buddy from the cantina—what’s his name?”

  “He said it was Akers.”

  “No, it was Allison, he is i
n the employ of Dr. Bonillo.”

  “Is he also a Carranza agent?”

  “Don’t know about agent, but he does work for the Doctor from time to time. They knew you frequented that cantina and this Allison was sent there especially to contact you.”

  “Why me and not you?”

  “Bonillo said it was too risky to contact me too often.”

  “Then why in the name of the Almighty didn’t this Allison hombre give me the same information Bonillo gave you the next day, instead of just giving me Gomez’s name?”

  Seth looked at the big Texan and grinned. “He did. He gave you the same note Bonillo gave me.”

  “Aw—come on!”

  “According to Bonillo, he did, but you were so potted you dropped it on the floor when you went to the restroom.”

  “Naw?”

  “Yep, that’s what Bonillo told me. Allison picked it up before anyone else saw it and figured you were too far-gone to be trusted with the message. That’s why Bonillo had to risk contacting me.”

  Hand looked agitated. “Doggone it, Seth. I really did let you down.”

  Seth clapped his friend on the shoulder, “No harm done. Besides, it forced Bonillo into the open otherwise I would have been suspicious about that message. You remember it wasn’t signed. “

  “One more question. Why is this Bonillo feller so damned interested in helping us on this Madero murder?”

  “Good question, I asked him outright in the car as he was taking me to the embassy.” He said, “Carranza is the chief of the Constitutionalists and many of them, including several of his generals, were Maderistas before Huerta seized power. They would very much like to see the Madero family’s allegations substantiated.”

  “I reckon he must think old Henry Lane must have had something to do with the murders. Did you ask him about your mother?”

  “There wasn’t time. They took me directly to the embassy.”

  “Too bad. Hey look! This cab is slowing down, let’s grab it.”

  It was an ancient topless Model H. Cleveland with a high rear passenger seat. Seth shrugged. “OK, but it’s just barely better than nothing.”

  The driver, with a large toothy grin, waved them into that musty high back seat that smelled of rotting leather.

  “Yankee gentleman, no?”

  “Not Yankee, feller,” Hand growled, “We’re Texans.”

  “Oh ,muy bueno. Where you fine Yankee Texan gentlemen want to go?”

  Seth gave him the address of El Gallo Rojo and his eyes widened in surprise.

  “I think, Yankee Texan gentlemen, this place is muy malo para Gringos’.’

  “That is where we want to go,” Seth said.

  The driver still protested. “I know much better Jim dandy cantina for Yankee Texan gentlemen. Good Yankee whisky, plenty beautiful rameras too.”

  Hand leaned toward Seth and whispered, “What are them rameras?”

  “Whores, I think,” Seth replied then to the driver, “Some other time. Tonight we go to El Gallo Rojo, comprende? Now get moving or we get a real cab.”

  The driver shook his head doubtfully but did turn around and by releasing the clutch thrust his vehicle dangerously into the traffic flow, barely avoiding crashing into a passing omnibus. This resulted in profanity and frantic honking of the horn from the omnibus driver and taunting laughter from their cabbie .

  The Camino de Las Cruces was a twisting dirt one lane winding between single story mud plastered buildings on the southwestern edge of the city. The cantina was located at the end of the street. Its weathered board sign depicting a red rooster was badly illuminated by a single kerosene lantern. As seen through a dirty glass window, similar lanterns also illuminated the interior.

  “Kind of homey, ain’t it,” Hand observed. “Sort of reminds me of that watering hole run by One-Eyed Mexican Jim over in Eagle Pass.”

  “Driver, wait for us,” Seth said.

  “Oh, Senor, I don’t think so. I have to go. Fifty centavos, por favor” He kept looking nervously at the cantina.

  “We won’t be more than half an hour and we will pay for your time.”

  “No Senor, you don’t understand. This is a very bad place. Fifty centavos por favor.”

  “Look,” Seth said, “I will give you one American silver dollar if you wait for us.”

  “One Yankee silver dollar?”

  “You bet—if you wait.”

  The driver looked around apprehensively, greed fighting fear.

  “You don’t even have to wait for us here. Go back to where the main road turns off to Camino de Las Cruces and we will meet you there. It’s only six blocks or so.”

  Obviously relieved, the driver nodded but as insurance he demanded his fifty-centavo fare. He turned his machine around in an adjacent dirt lot and headed the old Cleveland back in the direction they had come.

  Inside, Seth and Hand found a very fat bartender in an apron that looked as if it had never been washed. He stood leaning his elbows on the bar reading a newspaper. The smell of his cheap cigar competed with the odors of stale beer and the stench from the tin urinal that ran the length of the floor in front of the bar.

  Apart from the bartender, the only person in the room was a young girl wearing a short faded red cotton dress, sitting at one of the few tables. When they had entered, she had been resting her head down on her arms, but now she was studying them with a speculative gleam in her brown eyes. Seth estimated she could not have been more than fourteen in spite of her heavily rouged cheeks and made up mouth. He thought with her face scrubbed she could really be quite pretty. Then she smiled at him and made an obscene gesture that could not be otherwise interpreted than as a proposition. When Seth shook his head, she turned her gesture of solicitation upon Hand.

  The big Texan looked shocked and murmured, “Naw, I reckon not.” She responded with a contemptuous gesture and rested her head back down on the table.

  The man behind the bar put his paper down and grunted, “Si amigos?”

  “Habla usted ingles?” Seth asked.

  “I lived in El Paso del Norte for fifteen years. Yes, Yankee, I speak your language, whenever I want to. Now, what brings you to my fine establishment? The tequila perhaps or maybe you would like to have little Rosalita over there. She’s pretty damn good.”

  “Neither,” Seth said, “We are supposed to meet a Senor Maestas here. Is he around?”

  “Look around, Yankee. Do you see anyone here besides ourselves and the beautiful Rosalita over there?”

  Seth glanced at the closed door at the back of the cantina. “Perhaps there are rooms back there?”

  The bartender laughed, “Only for me and one for Rosalita and her customers. Why don’t you try a glass of my Tequila?”

  Seth flipped a silver dollar in the air and caught it. The bartender’s eyes narrowed. Seth flipped it again. This time Rosalita got up and came over and put her hand on Seth’s shoulder, looking hungrily at the silver dollar. “This is yours, bartender, if you can find Senor Maestas back there in the next five minutes and tell him that two friends are out here anxious to make talk with him.”

  “Friends?” asked the bartender with an expression that bordered dangerously close to a sneer.

  “I will do it!” Rosalita shouted, surprising the two Americans with her English.

  “Shut up, you little tramp!” snapped the bartender. “This has nothing to do with you”

  Undaunted, Rosalita smiled, moving her hand up to caress Seth’s neck. She whispered, “I will do it, beautiful Yankee man. Give me the dollar”

  Seth gently removed her hand and looked questioningly at the bartender who snorted and shrugged his fat shoulders. “OK. Maybe this man you look for is in my room.”

  “Why don’t you just go and see,” Seth said. �
��Here, give him my card and tell him that we come as friends and mean no harm.”

  The bartender snatched the card, and casting the girl a warning glance, ambled to the back and disappeared through the door. “Alfredo is a pig!” Rosalita said, and spit in the direction the bartender had taken. She looked longingly at the silver dollar in Seth’s hand and added, “For one dollar, I do you and the big man there at the same time.”

  “Go home and wash your face and mouth, little girl,” Hand said. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  She stuck her tongue out at the Texan and walked sensuously back to her table. The bartender returned shortly wearing an ingratiating smile, “Son of a bitch! What you know, I did find a man back there. He said for you to come back. How about my silver dollar?” Seth laid the coin down on the bar. The bartender snatched it up and bit down on it to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit.

  Seth looked at Hand. “Let’s go, partner.” Through the door in the back they found themselves in a long hall lit by a single kerosene lantern. The door on the left was open and the room redolent of cheap perfume. In view was an unmade bed with dirty sheets hanging off onto the floor.

  “Must be the girl’s,” Hand said and Seth grunted agreement.

  The door on the right was closed and Seth knocked firmly, calling out, “Senor Maestas, Seth Cane and Mr. Comfort from the United States!”

  From inside a cultivated voice commanded, “Entrarse!”

  Seth pushed it open and they found themselves looking into the twin barrels of a sawed off shotgun.

  50

  “THIS LOOKING DOWN GUN BARRELS is getting mighty tiresome,” Seth said.

  Hand quickly moved several steps to the leftof Seth.

  The man holding the shotgun on them was in his mid-twenties, handsome even when his face was contorted with fear. His red hair and fair skin were indicative of a northern Spanish heritage. He appeared dangerously close to panic and probably had a nervous trigger finger. Without being ordered, Seth and Hand raised their arms above their heads.

  “Easy there young man, we mean you no harm,” Seth said.

  The man’s gaze flickered from Seth to Hand, his shotgun wavering from one to the other.