To my surprise, he took it. Just sat there and took it, looking flummoxed and sad. Then his eyes perked up and his lips slowly parted, a wry smile replacing the frown. “Well well well,” was all he said, shaking his head in bemusement.
I gathered that it had been a very long time, if ever, since someone had told Mario Bravo where he could get off. “Thanks for the cigar,” I said, rising in front of the Aztec carving, “y buena suerte.”
“Good luck? For me?”
“For all of us.”
I turned my back to him, took a final, long look at the totem of a ruined people, then drifted quietly away.
68
I walked back to the hotel, giving myself more time to think. After half an hour, I made the corner of San Augustín and headed for the home stretch, just four blocks or so from the hotel.
Thirty yards ahead, two men were leaning against an old DeSoto, looking as natural in Ensenada as whipped cream on a burrito. They were fair skinned, thin lipped, and well built. Both men had short hair, one of them a California blond flattop. They wore matching Wayfarers, too, as if that would keep anyone from making them.
They hard-stared me the whole thirty yards, taut faces assessing the threat as the distance between us fell, then rose again. I didn’t know them from Cain and Abel so I just kept walking—I didn’t give a shit what their deal was as long as it didn’t involve me. By the time I crossed the next street, they were forgotten.
At Plaza de Agustín, I signaled to Lino and head-nodded him back to the hotel. Vito came in about fifteen minutes later. We took a walk together toward the water. I decided to get their news before spilling mine.
“Lino, what do you know?” I asked.
“Niente,” he said. “I got nothing. Three customers all morning. Older señora, some guy in a suit—banker maybe—and some old guy, runs a bakery, I think. Niente.”
“Vit?”
“I walk around, hit the docks, coupla bars, talk with some ’ookers.”
“Talk?”
“Sì … talk.”
“Sample anything?”
“I … ehhh …” He broke into a broad grin. “Maybe.”
We all had a laugh. Why not?
“You gotta earn their trust, get close,” he said.
“Very close, I imagine.” I shook my head in bemusement. “Okay, then, did she tell you anything—other than the price?”
“Sì, lots. They got four crime bosses here. Godínez—drug runner—piece of shit, nobody. Perez-Henríquez, he got the restaurants, sports racket. Fat bastard—not too tough. On the waterfront, you got Carrucho. Bad guy. ’ookers, drugs, contrabanda, robbery, murder—you name it. But, Joe, nobody knows anything about Johnny Spazzo or the girl. I ask everybody, they just shrug.”
“What about the fourth guy, you got anything on him?”
“Yeah, yeah. Bravo, Mario Bravo. He’s the gran formaggio around this place. Dees is a fascinating guy. ’e starts with money, way back from Spain. ’e imports shit—Serrano ham, olive oil, wine—sends tequila out. Nice life, but ’e don’t wanna play it straight. ’e goes with the devil, like we say back ’ome.”
“Doing what?”
“He starts with ’ookers, moves up to party girls for rich guys, meets some ’ollywood people, tries to be a movie producer. They laugh ’im outta Los Angeles. So ’e goes to Tijuana, makes dirty movies instead—that’s big money. ’e makes ’imself the L. B. Mayer of fucking. Anyway, this guy, ’e starts bumping off the smaller fish over the years till he ’as an empire of pussy—like ’ugh ’efner with a machine gun, ahahahahah!”
He and Lino laughed like kids awhile. I said nothing. Vito looked over at me, still giggling, wiped his eye. The laughter trailed off.
“That’s a lot of information from one girl, amico. You sure about all that, Vit?”
“Actually, there were two girls. The second one, she confirm what the first one tells me.”
More laughter. I threw my hands up.
“What about you, Joe,” Lino asked. “How’d you make out? Anything?”
“No, not much. Just had a drink with some guy. He told me a little about things down here.”
“Ahh. Anybody important?”
“Dunno. Just some guy name of Mario Bravo. Whaddyathink?”
I brought the boys up to speed, told them we’d make the trade the next day then worry about the film when we knew more. As far as I could tell, it was just Bravo and us. If Spazzo had been in on the play, he’d either been paid off, muscled out, or sent over. Didn’t matter to me, he was the kind of guy you wiped off your shoe anyhow.
I told the guys to relax awhile, I was going to check in with Frank and take the Rambler for a spin. Nothing was going to happen until the money came in anyhow. I asked a local where the nearest gas station was. He told me it was just a few blocks off. I figured I’d gas up the car, find a pay phone, and place a collect call to the good old U.S. of A. Besides, I needed a map.
69
“Hi, Frank. It’s me.”
“Joe, good to hear your voice, buddy.”
“I found her.”
“Thank God.”
“If you want, but I did the looking. Anyway, Helen’s okay; she’s with some guy named Mario Bravo. Ever hear of him?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Well, he’s heard of you, brother.”
“I’ll send him a glossy. Is he gonna let her go?”
“Yeah. We’re gonna need that money, though, Frank. This guy Bravo draws a lot of water down here and we gotta do it his way. He’s got the men, the weapons, and the home field advantage. You’re gonna have to pony up the hundred large.”
“That’s no problem, I’ve got it here.” He lowered his voice a few octaves. “We can’t wire it down for obvious reasons, but Johnny has two guys who are arriving here in an hour from L.A. They’ll be the couriers. They can meet up with you tonight. How soon can you have my baby back?”
“We’re set up for tomorrow. We’ll head for San Diego immediately. I want to get the fuck out of this country—a lot of things are not adding up down here, my friend.”
“Well, let’s not take any chances here. If it’s not safe—”
“No, that’s not it. Bravo seems legit. He had me in a vise, twenty guns at my head. He let me walk, says Helen will be free to go tomorrow.”
“You believe him?”
“I’ve got to.”
“So what’s the problem?”
I exhaled deeply, knocked the phone against my temple twice. “We’re gonna need to talk when we get back. All of us.”
“Okay. First get her home. We’ll worry about later later.”
“Will do. Oh, Frank … one more thing … there’s been no mention of the film. It’s either a separate play or Spazzo’s off with it somewhere.”
“Shit. Well, that’s Jack’s bad luck. Just please bring my baby home.”
“Our baby, Frank. Call you when the money’s here. We’re at the Hotel Bahia at Plaza Augustín in Ensenada, just off Via Pacifico. I’m in room number eight if anything urgent comes up.”
“I can never repay you for this.”
“Stow it.”
“Right.”
He said good-bye and we hung up.
The attendant had finished pumping the gas and cleaning the windshield. I asked him for a good map of the region and paid him for everything when he returned with it.
I walked over and unfolded the map on the hood of the station wagon. Ojos Negros lay about twenty miles to the east amid rising mountains. Several little villages dotted the map between Ensenada and Ojos Negros. I checked my watch and set out for the first one, maybe five miles outside town.
Bravo had asked me to pick a spot in Ensenada, but that was the last thing I was going to do. He made a strategic error there—one I intended to exploit. I needed a small town, away from his likely police support. A place small enough that I could see his guys coming but big enough to have a safe place to duck into if the deal went bad.
Bravo had the upper hand, but I was going to press every advantage I had. It was the only way I was ever going to get any of us out of Mexico. If we went missing, no one in the country would be rushing to call Interpol. Two dead mobsters and a freight pilot wouldn’t even rate a paragraph in the afternoon paper down on the Frontera.
70
The first town I hit was too small—little more than a village. No cover, no siting, no good. I pressed on.
The second town showed promise. A decent main drag, a central rectangular plaza, maybe three hundred by two fifty, and a large dry fountain anchoring the center.
There were plenty of small shops and just enough foot traffic to keep things honest. None of the buildings, save the church that dominated one end, had a second story to hide a shooter, and the walls were all brick—thick enough to stop a bullet.
A temporary wooden stage sat empty at the west end of the plaza, opposite the church. They’d probably had a show of some kind the night before and hadn’t gotten around to dismantling it yet, hardly surprising in Mexico.
I watched the people come and go. Campesinos mostly. Worn faces, tired eyes, lean bodies, leathered hands. Not the grafter set I’d seen so much of in Ensenada. They went about their business buying vegetables or clothing without paying me much mind, either not caring about gringos or too busy trying to beat a living out of the day to bother with an outsider.
Several kids plied me with chicles and small toys. One tried to boost my wallet. Other than that, they left me alone.
The church bothered me. There was a small offset bell tower that gave out a bad vibe. I was a stranger in churches anymore, but decided I better check this one out. I strolled over to the large wooden doors, scoped left to right, then bowed my head and ducked inside the candlelit interior.
The nave was deceptively large—and predictably dark. I dropped a coin in the donation box, struck a wooden match, and put it to a votive candle that sputtered a few times before flaring brightly.
I wandered over toward the shadowed confessionals off to one side, then made for the darkened stairway beyond. A few worshippers sat in prayer among the pews, but they were all heads down, murmuring to the saints while I was head up, eyeing the stairs to the bell tower.
Holding the candle up before me, I peered into the shadowy archway and then put my foot on the first stair.
A soothing voice behind me inquired in Spanish, “May I help you, my son?”
Startled, I straightened up, spilling hot beeswax onto my hand. I turned around, my eyes falling on a graying man in a brown Franciscan robe tied with a white rope.
The padre was thin but wiry, with a full head of close-cut hair, more salt than pepper, offsetting his angular brown features. He was of average height, yet seemed somehow taller, even though he wore simple flat sandals. He was smiling at me as I looked on at him.
“H-hello, Father,” I said. “I was wondering if I might go up to the bell tower.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, Father, I’m not.”
I was hunting for a story. He gave me one. “But you speak Spanish very well,” he said. “Are you a missionary?”
“Uh, yes … sort of.” I flexed my thumb, trying to dislodge the cooling wax.
He smiled again, crow’s-feet taking flight around his eyes. A lean hand emerged from the folds of the robe. “I am Father Lázaro, pleased to meet you.”
“Lázaro?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “And I rise from the dead every morning—a dead sleep.”
He laughed heartily at his own joke, although he must have told it often.
I grasped his hand and we shook. His grip was firm. He held on a good ten seconds, his sharp brown eyes meeting mine the entire time, the smile ever present on his face.
“Tell me your name, my son.”
He had me completely disarmed. I said, “Joe,” before I even knew I was speaking. The man just had a way about him.
“Come, Joe,” he said, placing his arm around my shoulder and leading me toward the stairs. “Let’s have a look at that bell tower, shall we?”
* * *
Father Lazáro showed me the rotting floor of the belfry, explaining that it was no longer possible to access the tower. When I asked him why they didn’t repair it, he said there simply wasn’t any money. Then I made the mistake of asking why they didn’t petition the great and powerful Mario Bravo for assistance since it was his corner of the Frontera. The padre’s features grew tight, his hawklike eyes narrowing.
“We could never accept anything from him. We are poor people here in Agua Caliente, but it is far better to do without than to be touched by his corrupt soul.”
I bit down hard on my tongue.
He led me downstairs then, to a small garden in a courtyard behind the church where we sat on a sun-beaten wooden bench. I kept trying to get away, but he buttonholed me another forty minutes, asking my opinion and offering his own on a range of topics. Among others, we covered divinity, salvation, the islands of the South Pacific, and the deeper meaning of the Pirates upending the evil Yankees in the World Series. We didn’t agree on much, but he was an intelligent and intuitive man, and I enjoyed talking with him a great deal.
Finally, I stood up, begging his forgiveness but telling him I had to go. He assented grudgingly, then walked me out through the church to the wooden doors, his arm still around me.
“Tell me something,” he said, gesturing toward my bruised face, “you’re not a missionary, are you?”
“No, Father, I’m not.”
“But you are searching for something, aren’t you?”
“We all are.”
He nodded, smiling. “Well, Godspeed to you.”
“Thank you. Say … Father Lázaro?”
“Yes, Joe?”
“Would it be all right if I made a donation to your church?”
“Certainly.”
I dug out a hundred-peso note. He looked at it suspiciously, said it was too much money. I told him to start a fund for a new bell tower floor with it.
We shook hands again, exchanging warm glances. Then we parted company.
“Safe journey, my son,” he called out after me.
I thought I heard him say something else about a celebration, but I was already halfway across the plaza. Didn’t matter, I wasn’t long for Mexico anyhow.
I took a final walk through the town hub, then headed back toward the car. It was still there—and not even on blocks.
It took three pieces of the gum I got from the kids to make a bubble, but I managed one, popped it, and then dropped into the driver’s seat. I put my new wooden turtle toy on the dashboard, flicked its head, and watched as it bobbed up and down stupidly. It made me smile just the same.
Then I put the wagon in reverse, carved a half circle in the dust and rolled out of town.
Agua Caliente. Nice name—for the capital of dirt nowhere.
It would do.
71
I wasted another hour and a half exploring other towns, but decided to stick with Agua Caliente in the end. I also asked several people what they knew about Ojos Negros, but most knew little, or at least said so. From what I gathered, it was a company town and Mario Bravo was the factory. Whatever went on there was tied to his activities and wasn’t much in any event.
His hacienda was said to be impressive and well-nigh impregnable, crowning sloping terrain and backing right up to a sheltering U of mountains that rose two thousand feet above the plain below. Stables, crew quarters, and a garden maze were all said to be contained inside the twelve-foot walls that encircled the property and merged into the steep cliff walls on either side. I got this gouge for twenty pesos from a guy who said he did some construction work on the place a few years back. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but he wore the tools of a carpenter and spoke with precision. I filed it away as potentially useful information.
I got back to the hotel around six, just as the sun was slipping int
o the Pacific. Dark shadows fell across the plaza as the day receded, subsuming the light and etching sinister shapes into the walls the way they do in those RKO pictures.
On a hunch, I stuck my head inside the open doorway of El Faro, Esperanza’s bar. The boys were playing cards at a side table, whiskey glasses at hand. Smoke hung in the air around the table, spun softly by a ceiling fan turning at an indifferent rhythm. The room smelled like dirt, was about the same color.
Vito winked at me as I approached. Lino pulled out a chair, waved his hand toward the bartender, and pointed down toward me with a thick finger.
“Bourbon,” I shouted out as I seated myself.
Esperanza brought over a chipped shot glass full to the brim with amber liquor and put it down in front of me. She gave me another salacious look then sauntered away, hips moving hypnotically to an inaudible beat.
I raised the bourbon up to the light, toasted Esperanza’s contours, then threw it down in one swallow. I said nothing afterward, letting the boys finish their hand, the booze seeping down in my tongue like rain into parched earth.
Lino drew a card, flashed a stiletto smile, then flung his hand on the table with more flair than warranted and said, “Gin.”
“Cazzo!” Vito griped, tossing his cards down.
A quick chin nod got the boys’ attention. I spoke in Italian, telling them the plan I had laid out for the next day, which really wasn’t so much as a plan as it was just showing up and making the exchange.
Lino asked me where the swap would be. I drew a bead on his eyes and tapped my temple several times with my index finger to indicate that I was keeping that one to myself. I liked both those guys, but they were still Roselli’s boys. The closer I held my own cards, the more likely we all were to see San Diego tomorrow.
One for Our Baby Page 21
