One for Our Baby

by John Sandrolini

  “I’ve come here to take the girl away from you.”

  Surprise flooded his face, his pupils dilating. “Is that so?” he asked, incredulity coloring his voice. “And how did you intend to accomplish that? Might you be in the vanguard of some army of liberation?”

  “It is so. I intended to go out through the bathroom window. And there’s no army—just me.”

  He was completely at a loss for words for several seconds, his mouth forming a little donut as he grappled with his astonishment. Finally, he managed, “Have you any idea of who I am, sir?”

  “No. All I know about you is that the man who told me your name called you a pig.”

  Bravo just stared at me a heavy minute, eyes narrowed. Then he broke into an immense grin and erupted with laughter. He translated my words for all and then roared some more. All the men broke into loud, derisive guffaws, their howls raining down upon me, echoing across the courtyard, Bravo laughing loudest of all, the ivory handle of his pistol gleaming in the fullness of the sun.

  Then he signaled Drac, and something hard came down on the back of my head. I sank to my knees, then took a low punch in the belly from Gold Jacket. I grunted from the pain, air bursting from my lungs. A locomotive roared through my head, its whistle on full blow as I knelt doubled up on the terrazzo, clutching my bucking stomach. My eyes dimmed, but I didn’t fall.

  Bravo told the two men to take me away. Far away.

  The little guy reached down, grabbing for my arm. I popped him a good one in the chops, the blow knocking him sideways on a drunkard’s reel. He took two woozy steps, then fell on his ass as I struggled up on one knee. A dozen guns clicked in the still courtyard. No one was laughing anymore.

  Then a woman shouted, “Don’t kill him!,” in steel-edged Spanish.

  Heads turned toward the courtyard entrance. The woman was Helen, a hand thrust in the air, her features flint hard.

  “Don’t kill him,” she repeated. “And keep your hands off him, you little animal!” she ordered, pointing toward the half-size gunsel.

  I knelt there, astonished. Now you speak Spanish?

  Bravo shifted in his chair, casually casting inquisitive eyes upon Helen.

  “Frank sent him,” she declared, marching toward us. “He’s here to bring you the ransom money, Mario. Don’t lay a finger on him or you’ll scotch the whole works. Sabe, muchacho?”

  “My dear,” said Bravo, “if Mr. Sinatra sent him with the money, why is he here trying to ferret you away like a guajiro stealing a teenage bride? Surely he wouldn’t condone such a dishonorable act.”

  “Why should I pay you if I don’t have to?” I said, spitting scorn. “It’s not like you’re making an ethical proposition in the first place.”

  Helen cut in before I could do any more harm. “Just let him go. Never mind his cracks. Let him go, and … and … I’ll do what you asked.”

  A part of her spirit left her when she uttered those last words. I could see the defeat filling her eyes.

  Bravo, preening like a champion peacock, looked over at me, then back at Helen, smugness spreading over his mug. “Get him out of here,” he said, fluttering a hand at me.

  I stood up and flexed my swelling knuckles, glowering at the men around me.

  “Señor Buonomo,” Bravo said, “Mr. Sinatra will be told where and when to deliver the money. If you are still in his employ, then we shall meet again. But I caution you, any more Errol Flynn chicanery will be dealt with in the most expedient way possible, and with very permanent results. Do not cross me again … vaquero.”

  Drac and Gold Jacket walked me out, shoving me several times as I looked back toward Helen. I managed a final malevolent glare at them, then watched Helen, Bravo, and the whole gang disappear behind the twin doors as they slammed home with a heavy thud.

  She was still right there, but I was flat out of options at the moment—I didn’t even have a gun. I had to walk away, helpless and defeated.

  So I left the Hotel Cortés, trudging across the marble lobby past the startled dandy, down the tiled stairs, away from the pink awnings and iron lanterns, and out into the hot afternoon streets of Ensenada.

  67

  I headed off down the main boulevard. Just walking, thinking, trying to get my head around exactly what was going on with that woman. I made several blocks without noticing much of anything, drifting in my own personal dust cloud.

  I passed a city park with a circular hub in the open center. Instead of the typical fountain, this one contained a large stone object angled up from the concrete on a dais. It took me a few seconds before I recognized the piece. It was a replica of the Aztec sun disk dug up near the Zócalo in Mexico City in the 1800s.

  Several worn benches curved around the stone platform in a semicircle, shaded by some Blue palms. I wanted a smoke, and I needed to sit and think, so I ambled over and grabbed a seat facing the stone slab. A drunk snoozed quietly on the next bench over. Other than him, I was alone.

  I pulled out the last nail from the pack and lit it, then crumpled the empty package and banged it into the wire basket next to me. I let out some smoke and gave the stone icon a long once-over. I’d seen the original on a stop in the capital a few years back. A single massive stone block cut into a platform for dueling gladiators, it was immense, intimidating, and an undisputed national treasure.

  The replica was smaller in diameter, but accurately rendered, with the same carved-relief skulls, jaguars, snakes, and other figures adorning the surface. Four symbol boxes surrounded a sun god in the center of the work. The god was pissed, or maybe just gassy, but either way the old guy was blessed with some seriously oversized choppers and a waving pointed tongue that stabbed out at a now-indifferent world.

  He must have been quite terrifying in his time, but he hadn’t been enough to stop Cortés from wiping the Aztecs off the face of the earth. Chopped the heart right out of an entire civilization. For that he gets a hotel with fucking pink parasols named after him. Go figure.

  I vaguely recalled reading that the boxes around the sun represented the four major catastrophes in man’s history. I knew one thing as I studied each—the guy who carved them never met Helen Castano, or there would’ve been a fifth square on that baby for sure.

  * * *

  I continued my smoke, still studying ’ol chicle teeth as I mulled the day’s developments in my head.

  “A magnificent civilization, no?” someone declared in a hearty voice.

  Startled, I looked up, into the eyes of Mario Bravo. He’d closed in on me while I was lost in thought. He stood there above me, alone but not unarmed. I had no idea what was going to happen next.

  “Other than the ritual sacrifice thing, I’d have to agree,” I offered.

  Bravo smiled congenially at me. “May I sit down?”

  “I can’t imagine I’m in a position to refuse,” I said, scanning the park for his entourage.

  But the only one I could see was Pocket Drac, agitating about in front of the limo parked across the street. I knew he was just itching for a chance to even the score with me.

  Bravo sat down next to me on the bench and leaned back, the gun under his arm dangerously close. “Joe, after you left, Helen explained to me who you are. She told some fascinating tales about your adventures.”

  “Any of them involve Johnny Spazzo?”

  “Who might he be?” he asked, his face curling into a question mark.

  That threw me off step—Bravo didn’t even know Spazzo.

  “Nobody,” I said, covering, “just another con.”

  He let it pass, then continued. “If even half of what Helen tells me is true, you are a man to be reckoned with most highly. I’m terribly sorry I had my men rough you up. Is it true, then, you are a close friend of Mr. Sinatra’s?”

  “Yes, that’s true,” I said, locking my eyes on his. “How does that figure into this?”

  This seemed to please him a great deal. He beamed like he’d just solved the Sunday crossword puzzle. As he
did, I eyed his pistol butt just inches from my hand. Bravo caught me looking at his gun, made no effort to move.

  “Oh, please, Señor Buonomo,” he chided, “you wouldn’t make such a rash play now, would you?”

  He had me. I shook my head in agreement, flashed him a grin. “You can’t blame me for thinking about it; I’m not sure how this thing ends today.”

  “Cómo no! I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t, but you are in no danger here unless that drunkard urinates on you. Here, would you like to see it?” he asked, pulling out the weapon. “It belonged to one of Franco’s generals. I took it from that comemierda after I bayoneted him in El Mazuco.”

  He placed the gun in my palm. A Mauser, blued metal with gold scrolling, offset by an ivory grip. It was beautifully balanced, just a bit effeminate for my taste, and large enough to command respect anyhow. I turned it over a few times, reflecting on how a German pistol had come to a Spanish general and then a Mexican gangster, ever ready to kill regardless of owner.

  “You see, Joe, we are not so terribly different, are we? Yes, it’s true, I fought against the Fascistas in Spain, and you fought the Japanese in China. We’re both idealists to some degree—with a flair for violence.”

  “Funny.”

  “What’s that?”

  I looked over at him, locked eyes. “I’d have figured you for a Franco guy all the way, not a Loyalist.”

  He forced a bitter smile, looked down, paused before speaking. “I was a better man once.”

  I handed him the weapon, butt first. “Weren’t we all?”

  He stowed the pistol, then he produced a small silver case from his coat and popped it open, revealing three Romeo y Julietta torpedoes and a cigar cutter that looked strong enough to take off my big toe. He extracted two cigars, clipped them carefully, and handed one to me.

  I pulled my lighter—slowly—then lit his cigar. I chomped down on my own, puffing vigorously several times as the fire scorched its end. The clean, smooth taste of fine tobacco came seeping into my mouth, a pungent tang filling my nostrils. The cigar was excellent. I still wasn’t sure if I was leaving the park upright or feet first, but either way I was going to enjoy the smoke.

  Our communal act was driving Drac apoplectic. From the corner of my eye, I could see him hopping around in frustration near the limo. I blew some smoke in his direction, just to jack him a little.

  “Drink?” Bravo asked.

  Fuck, why not? “Sure.”

  Bravo snapped his fingers above his head and held up two fingers like Winston Churchill signaling victory. Drac tilted his head, hesitated, and then disappeared into the back of the limousine.

  I took a long drag on my cigar and surveyed the park, letting the rush of the cigar climb to my brain unchallenged. The setup was more than a bit strange, but I’d learned to go where the night takes me as Roscoe once put it. Hey, if Bravo wanted to drink in a public park, we’d drink in a public park. It was Mexico, after all.

  Drac came creeping over, holding two glasses and a couple of bottles of alcohol. He held them up cautiously, asking, “Todo bien, jefe?”

  Bravo said, “Sí,” in a voice so tight and dismissive that the little man almost cringed to death. Drac half bowed, then placed the bottles and glasses on the bench, shooting me a profane look as he did. Then he scurried away, his head bobbing from the inaudible obscenities escaping his mouth.

  I looked over the booze. One bottle was a French brandy of some apparent significance. The other a bottle of aged mescal from Oaxaca. Bravo looked into my eyes, said, “Cual quieres, señor?”

  It was a test, but an easy one.

  “Mescal.”

  “Bueno.”

  He poured two stiff shots, held his glass up toward me, and said, “Salud.”

  I raised mine, clinked it against his, and declared, “Cent’ anni,” marking his brown eyes and matching his stare while we drank the smoked agave down.

  We passed a long moment in consideration of the liquor, then Bravo turned to face me.

  “Joe, I am many things, but above all, I am a businessman. A criminal, yes, but a business-oriented criminal. What we have here is a simple transaction. Your friend Mr. Sinatra stole something from me that has fallen back into my lap unexpectedly. I no longer want it, but it is morally right that he compensate me for his original transgression.”

  I held up a hand. “Excuse me, but since when does morality figure into kidnapping?”

  “Such a vulgar term, kidnapping,” he said, in a voice that would have put a smile on Basil Rathbone’s face.

  “I don’t know what else to call it when someone is held against her will for a ransom.”

  He frowned. “Everything is not exactly as it seems here, Joe, but please understand that I mean no harm toward Miss Castano or Mr. Sinatra either way. Under the circumstances we have, I think one hundred thousand dollars American is not too high a sum to settle his debt to me and secure possession of his paramour. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Bravo hadn’t made any mention of the film. Truth was, it wasn’t really any of my concern any longer, so I stuck to the business at hand.

  “I would not agree, Señor Bravo, but I don’t have a hundred grand lying around in last night’s pants. In light of the fact that Mr. Sinatra does, however, I will be willing to swap you the money for the woman, but in return, you must agree to buy a copy of all of his albums to date.”

  “You are jesting, no?”

  “I am jesting, yes, but only on the second part. I’ll have your money tomorrow. I take you for enough of a gentleman that you won’t have me shot dead once you have it.”

  Bravo’s face scrunched up like he’d eaten a week-old anchovy. “What a dreadful thought. Once I have secured the money, the debt will be settled. To harm you or Helen would be highly dishonorable and reflect very badly upon me. Additionally, I would then be the one guilty of a slight against the very man whose apology I am demanding.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding, “but we’ll be doing this in a public place, not at Ciudad Bravo.”

  “If that is what you wish. Again, my interest here is purely a matter of honor. Let us agree upon this—when you have secured the necessary funds, call me and allow me time to send my men to whatever exchange point you choose in Ensenada. Those are very generous conditions under the circumstances.”

  He took out a gold fountain pen as he spoke, put a telephone number on a wedge of paper, and handed it to me. “As my hacienda is a good distance from here in Ojos Negros, it will take them some time to get back into town.”

  “Fair enough. But I have a question for you, Bravo.”

  “Mario.”

  “Mario. If your interest is only one of chivalry, why do you require any money at all? Surely you make a great deal more than that in your various endeavors here at home. Wouldn’t a sincere apology from Sinatra be more valuable?”

  I had him there. He said nothing for a while, mulling things over. Then, with an undertaker’s gravity he pronounced, “Everything in life comes with a price, Joe. Everything.”

  We sat there a moment, Bravo’s words hanging in the air. I took another long drag on the cigar and blew out the smoke, failing as usual to make a ring with it.

  Bravo was watching Drac’s histrionics with a contemptuous eye, hashing out some issue in his head. He turned back toward me and said, “We are finished here today, my friend. You are free to go. But I have a small request to make of you.”

  “Shoot,” came out before I could stop it, but he passed on the chance to gibe me.

  “I am not a man given to impulsive behavior—but I am a man with an immediate grasp of other men’s character. I like you, Joe Buonomo. I like what I heard about you, but I like what I saw today even more.”

  “You should see me on home turf, I’m a world-beater there.”

  He smiled tightly. “Please hear me out before you roll out the sardonic flourishes. You may cause me to call my own recently trumpeted judgment into question.”
r />   I acknowledged his words with a head tilt and a grin, turning a palm up and shaking it the way my uncle Emilio used to do.

  Then Bravo placed a ring-laden hand on my shoulder and issued an entirely unexpected invitation. “After tomorrow’s affairs are concluded, I would like to have you as a guest at my hacienda.”

  “What would I do there, teach those jíbaros of yours English?”

  “No, I have something much more substantial in mind. You are an intrepid man, possessed of a quick wit and no small amount of courage. You speak our language, can pilot a plane, and, from what I hear, are extremely handy with a gun. Look at these payasos I have to deal with here.” He gestured toward Drac, then waved his hand in disgust. “These men are better suited to herding goats than protecting me. I think you would be an excellent lieutenant—”

  “You’re gonna have to call me Lieutenant Commander. The navy did, and I’m not taking any busts in grade to work in this backwater.”

  That caught him off guard. “If you are serious, Joe, I could make you a wealthy man—and a powerful one.”

  “All right, but I want a corner office with a view, and my own secretary, and lots more of these cigars,” I said, holding the torpedo up and admiring it.

  He realized then that he’d been had. His perma-smile wilted and his eyes closed ever so gently, as if he’d felt a pain somewhere deep inside. He placed his hands together, fingers spread in a quasi-papal gesture. After a lengthy pause, he said, “Should you decide to consider my offer after our business is concluded, I would still be happy to entertain you for a few days.”

  “I have considered it, thank you.”

  He wet his lips, cast eager eyes on me. “And … ?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been down that road, Mario. It’s a dark trip, brother.”

  “Is it money? Girls? Whatever you want, I can get—”

  “You can get bent, mister, okay?”

  His eyes lit up, the brows curling, his lips pursed in astonishment.

  I leaned in close to him, pointing with the cigar. “You may be rich and you may have great power down here, but I know you don’t sleep at night, not with the voices of all those dead men calling out to you, not with their eyes on you in the dark. I’m all done with that kind of shit. You’re right, Mario, everything does have a price. And yours isn’t nearly high enough to buy what’s left of my soul.”