The Fourth Guardian

by Geoff Geauterre

  Silence.

  "You put your ambition ahead of your duty, inspector. And when the body of that fiend is identified, as I've made certain it will, you'll be held to accounts."

  "God rot your soul,” howled Loisieur. “It isn't true!"

  "Well, perhaps not. I'm sure a board of enquiry will decide the issue.” Regis faced him, and his voice carried clear down the street. “It's all in my report sent to the Commissioner of the Interior tonight. He'll have an interesting read for breakfast, if it doesn't make him puke first. After all, the commissioner is your first cousin. And he, like you, are related to the Asp."

  "Merde!” Loisieur staggered back. “Why have you done this to me? For the love of God, why!?"

  "Ah, my dear fella, there was so much rot in the barrel. I'm afraid I couldn't save the apples. Resign tonight. Resign as if you were horrified at your discovery. Resign before people put two and two together and realize why the Asp knew every move the police made."

  "Go to the very devil!"

  "The way you go on,” said Regis as he turned to leave. “You'd think I hadn't done you a favor, while all the time, I've been your closest buddy."

  Then he and his biting laughter merged into the night.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Seven

  Regis and Roger had their fill of the betting parlors of Pamplona. They decided their next target was Las Vegas, but it was there they came across trouble, this time in casino manager Jake Gibson.

  Vegas was a different kettle of fish. In other places they'd won hefty packages and transferred the bulk, apart from the obligatory taxes, to their account in Tokyo. They'd gone back again and again to various casinos, racking up winnings until they totaled over thirteen million.

  At the Blue Flower, however, their luck ran out. They were met at the door by five well-dressed husky men who “invited” them to the manager's office.

  There Mr. Gibson was found behind a large mahogany desk, sourly staring at a grouping of tarot cards.

  "Tell me,” he demanded abruptly. “What was it that made you two so angry with casino managers?"

  Startled, they looked at each other and had the same thought. Somebody figured it out.

  Roger took the lead. “We're not angry with any of you, believe me. We just need the money."

  A card was turned over at the base of the others revealing a knight in arms. Gibson grimaced. “Yeah, I believe you.” He looked back up, and then his eyes turned towards the ceiling. “They need money,” he voiced softly, and looking down at the cards he withdrew into himself.

  Then he shook his head, turned blue as if he were under terrible pressure. “Have either of you any idea what casinos actually earn when taxes are taken out?"

  He got blank looks. “Are you aware of what it takes to keep places like these running? Do you know what it means to have a pair like you come in and take what you want without a by-your-leave or a thank you, ma'am? Do you encompass the slightest notion of what you two—you two alone—are doing to us?"

  Regis responded with a quirk to the lips. “Surely you don't mean that we're stealing? Think of it as tilting the odds in our favor opposed to those the house favors."

  Gibson refused to be taken in by this argument. “No way are you going to get me enmeshed in some philosophical exchange. I know I'd lose, just as I know where my bread is buttered. You may have taken over thirteen million from the others, but now your game is finished. You're leaving Nevada. If you ever return for anything more than sightseeing, and maybe a little one-armed bandit, I'll have you both disappear. Do I make myself clear?"

  Roger spread his hands prepared to argue when Regis cleared his throat. Then, almost as one, they smiled, nodded, and Gibson felt the back of his neck tighten with anticipation.

  Roger replied in a soft tone. “There is something you might wish to consider before we go."

  Warily he nibbled at the bait. “For instance?"

  "Well, if we don't play the same way in your casino after having visited everyone else, what will they think?"

  The manager's eyes narrowed.

  "Wouldn't your colleagues suspect something amiss? Wouldn't someone smell a rat?"

  The room went silent as a tomb. The husky young men looked around worriedly. One signaled to the boss ... but it wasn't necessary. Gibson wasn't a dumbbell. He got the message. If he didn't let these guys do their thing, whatever in hell their “thing” was, real trouble might end up on his doorstep.

  There was a final tarot card to turn up. He was about to turn it when the card flipped over by itself. The others didn't see what happened, but he did, and staring at him was the figure of the Grim Reaper.

  "A hundred thousand more,” Gibson whispered hoarsely, choking back the anguish in his throat. “A hundred thousand beyond what you've already taken, and that's it! I swear I'll have you both shot if it's a single penny more!"

  Regis smiled agreeably. “Anything to oblige."

  "Get out."

  Once freed, they circled several tables, and taking it as their cue that no one stopped them, they sat down ... and played.

  When their sum totaled no more than eighty thousand, they got up, made their way to the cashier, cashed in their chips, signed the forms, transferred the bulk to their Tokyo account, and left without looking back.

  "They're gone, Mr. Gibson. What do you want us to do?"

  Gibson stared at the card that had been turned over, but no longer was. Somehow, it had turned back over.

  "Do absolutely nothing. We'll recover the money in the next ten minutes."

  "Yes, sir."

  The door closed quietly.

  * * * *

  Once their jet was off the ground, Roger felt safe enough to talk. “Okay, where next?"

  "That depends. How much have we collected so far?"

  A slim calculator and notepad was brought forth. “About seventeen.” He looked back. “Seventeen is a long way from thirty, especially when we're talking millions."

  "Perk up. There's work ahead. How does the idea of discovering an Egyptian burial temple strike you?"

  Roger shuddered. “Robbing graves? Yecch. Disgusting business."

  Regis looked at him in astonishment. “Well, you do find ethics in the most curious places."

  "I've always considered archaeologists one step removed from ghouls."

  "All right, then, you choose."

  "We could try South America. There's plenty to do down there. With their political systems in such an uproar, who'd notice us?"

  Regis pursed his lips and made a pyramid of his fingers. “You may have a point. We have attracted too much attention in the gambling world. When do we get to New York?"

  "Three hours."

  Regis put his seat back and closed his eyes. “Wake me then. I've got to do a little shopping."

  Three days later, after having stopped in New York for a breather, they were on a plane to Mexico City.

  Regis gave Roger a nudge. “What does gold go for nowadays?"

  Roger shrugged. “It fluctuates. Three-twenty to three-ninety. What are you thinking about?"

  "A gold mine."

  "Regis, that's a lot of work."

  "Not if we don't do the digging."

  "Of course. Silly me."

  "The only problem we might have is with the Junta, the militia, and the local police."

  "What else is new?"

  * * * *

  In the cantina of the small town outside Guadalupe, Pedro Hernando grunted with annoyance. Hadn't they been listening to what he said? Why didn't they understand?

  "Listen,” he argued, coaxing a piece of dried snot out of a nostril. “Things are not like those places you are used to in the north. Here we live and die in the sun and the heat, and life is as cheap as the dust we're buried in. That is ... if some of us are lucky enough to be buried. You say you want to help? Fine. We need money to buy guns, medical supplies, and food. That will help us. Then we'll help you."

  No
response.

  "Anything else you have to say you can save for the missionaries. They are our spiritual philosophers.” He gestured vaguely at the sprawled, tired forms of his men, huddling around small tables, sucking up Tequila to drown their aches and pain.

  "We're just farmers, miners, and fools shaking off oppression, and if you want to know what we got for our effort? Nothing. It's no good even trying—ah, bueno!"

  What was finally extracted from a nostril was inspect.

  "Señor Hernando, we do understand and we sympathize, but your problems are secondary. You help us. We'll help you. That's the way it works. Of course, taking care of your problem would be simple, but we need an understanding first. What do we get out of it?"

  Hernando scowled and slipped a hand beneath his torn shirt, inching it towards his armpit, where he suddenly scratched furiously.

  "You are Americans, no? Aren't you supposed to help the downtrodden?"

  "If we were Americans, you would be wrong. We would lie, cheat, and steal, and when newspapers bought by corporations we control came around we would look like we're helping the downtrodden. We're English. That's worse, because we have a longer history of hypocrisy."

  "So what are you again?"

  "Entrepreneurs. And successful entrepreneurs don't have to lie, cheat, or steal. You want your freedom. We understand that. You want wealth. We understand that. What we don't agree with is how you would go about achieving it."

  Eyes that had seen much in their time closed wearily. “So, it's come to whether we want our freedom enough to...” He shook his head. “Do either of you wonder how I can speak to you like this? I am not a peasant. I look like a peasant. I smell like a peasant, and I work like a peasant. But I went to school. I learned. I read. I understood. Yet, you think I am stupid."

  Angrily, he gestured to the two men standing guard at the door to their backs. They advanced, one drawing a machete, the other a pistol he'd killed earlier in the week to obtain.

  "Take these two out and drop them in a hole,” Hernando directed. “They bore me."

  The man with the pistol halted as if having been stopped by an invisible wall, his eyes bulged out of his head with internal strain. The machete wielder advanced, leaned over the table, and with a vicious swipe of the blade, he sliced through Hernando's throat, nearly decapitating him.

  A woman screamed. Every gaze followed Hernando's body as it fell to the floor. The cantina froze with disbelief.

  "Witches!” someone cursed. The sign of the cross was made, but it didn't do much good. The two were still seated at the table as if nothing had happened.

  The arterial blood continued to pump itself across the earthen floor. The body twitched ... and then ... the woman's screams stopped dead.

  In horror she and the rest of the occupants watched as the fingers of the left hand of the corpse clenched. The body heaved itself up on one hand, and then the other. Hernando stumbled erect, his head twisting to the side, his eyes opened wide in dismay and sorrow. Contorted features twisted further as the re-animated corpse opened his mouth and tried to speak...

  Hernando blinked, his breath coming in gasps. Trying not to believe what he'd just experienced, he felt his throat with a trembling hand. He stared past at the guards standing casually by the door. Then whipping a glance around, he looked suspiciously at those who had been unmindful of ... whatever it was that had happened, which now, it seemed ... hadn't happened. He trembled uncontrollably.

  "Dios mio!"

  He moistened his lips with Tequila and calmed his heaving heart, easing himself into some semblance more responsive, more humane, more understanding, so whatever business he would do with these gentlemen could be accomplished as equals who respected one another.

  His laugh was sick and weak. “That is one neat trick,” he croaked. “Fooled me for a moment, heh, heh, heh ... So, you were saying something about freedom from oppression?"

  "It's quite simple,” said Roger. “You and your people are working that part of the Rembrandt Mines given to anyone willing to swing a pick ... if they sign an agreement that eighty percent taken is handed over to the owners. You get twenty, they get eighty. You make a dollar. They get eighty cents of that dollar."

  "We understood that a long time ago."

  "You're working yourselves to death for no reason."

  "Poverty is a reason, my friend."

  "If that was the case, then yes, you'd be right. The manager of the mine has the richer veins worked by convict labor. You've been given nothing. Everything you have has been played out years ago."

  Hernando shook his head. “I know what you're thinking, but forget it. The other side of the mountain is off-limits. Anyone caught smuggling rich ore out of there is shot on sight."

  "Yes, that's true. Yet, Felipe Ricuardo has control of the smelter. In actuality, you're given twenty percent of the forty percent you dig out, and out of that twenty percent, he and the militia take an eighty percent cut."

  "That can't be true. We have people overlooking the operation of the smelter every time we deliver ore. They would have told us."

  "If they were paid by others, why should they?"

  "How do you know this?"

  "We had a look at the real books. We found out who worked with them. We found out what's been stolen. The interesting thing is, even the militia don't know they're stealing from both parties."

  Hernando breathed heavily. “I've been a miner for seven years."

  "And a fool for that long as well."

  "It would be easy to kill that bastard!"

  "And have the militia put you all in chains? Where do you think you'd end up? Digging the same mine for the same people until you rot."

  "They can't cover that up. Some people would know. Some would have said something!"

  "Ever notice the loss of some friends? They up and left because they were sick or tired of it all. What if I told you they stumbled across the truth and were shot or put in chains? Know where they are now?"

  "I don't believe it."

  "Let's test the theory, shall we? Send people to spy on the chain gang. Give them a good look."

  Several men left the cantina with grim features. They would find out if this nonsense was true or false.

  "We'll be in our room."

  "I'll tell...” He stopped when Regis shook his head.

  "Don't tell anyone. Especially the tavern keeper. He's with them."

  Some looked over their shoulders at the fat man, chuckling, behind the bar.

  * * * *

  Three hours later ... there was a knock on the door. They were asked to come back to the table.

  Hernando was white with rage. He had his answers.

  "All right. What else have you to say?"

  That was when Roger started talking. He told them why the food stores were always closed early on Thursday evenings, the night they were released from the mines, the night when they had enough money for food, but the only place open at that time was the cantina. The greasy pig who ran the cantina managed the trading store. He was close to Ricuardo. In fact, they were cousins.

  "So, they keep us weak. They keep us drunk. They steal from us. They lie to us. They enslave us."

  "A revolution is not what you want,” Roger added. “It's simple justice."

  "What would you suggest?"

  "One night, when all is quiet, I would suggest you kill every one of those who has exploited you, and come morning, when everything has been settled, you take their place."

  Hernando's eyes opened wide. He thought of himself and his people and how it could possibly be managed, but then he shook his head.

  "My friends, you don't know what's happened out here. They would hear about it in the capital. Soldiers would be sent. We'd all be killed. On the other hand, if there were a revolution, a real revolution, we would have thousands of people to defend these hills and—"

  "My friend that is a dream. Recently, the Bolivian military purchased a couple of DC-3's and re-equipped
them with Puffers."

  "Como? Puffers?"

  "A puffer, what they were whimsically called in Vietnam, is better known as an electrically controlled multiple-port revolving cannon. It can fire 20mm rounds at a rate of six thousand a minute. The plane can fly over a single district, fire off a short burst, and the area targeted would be struck at every square yard with a killing shot that can penetrate six inches of hardened steel or five feet of packed earth."

  Hernando swallowed, imagining the chaos.

  "They have what it would take to destroy you, and if necessary, they'll use them. Given the opportunity, they'd like nothing better. They have a suspicion this district is ripe for trouble, so they're waiting for it to happen. If my plan was adopted, three things will occur that would forestall such an event."

  Roger counted them on his fingers. “Number one. By the time those in the capitol figure out something has happened over here, it would be an accomplished fact. They'd wake up one morning, and the people sending them their cut of the profits would be different than the ones already here, true enough, but the payments would remain the same.

  "Number two. They'd hesitate to act after that, especially after we send them a hefty bonus on their cut, because without an overt cause, they would be seen as irrational. There are other districts to maintain, so why get anyone nervous?

  "Number three. We will guarantee that those people, the ones with their hands in everyone's pockets, will think and react the way we want them thinking and reacting."

  Hernando felt his throat again and glanced suspiciously around, but the looks he got back confirmed his impression that no one knew what had happened ... or rather, what hadn't happened.

  "What are your names again?"

  "I'm Roger. He's Regis."

  Hernando grunted. “You look like evil twins."

  "What is your decision?” asked Regis.

  "Paco!” he yelled. A fat man rolled himself from the back of his room, twisting himself to get through the beaded curtain.

  "Eh!” he shouted irritably. “What is it?"

  "Paco, why is it the trade goods store is always closed on Thursdays when we come out of that damn hole?"

  Paco shrugged. “As I've told you often, it's the upkeep. Thursdays I open earlier than usual for inventory. I can't afford to stay up at all hours."