The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  “I guess. That stuff about banks is bothering me.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. It just does, a gut feeling. It’s like someone’s expecting money back. But Corrialles needs all the money from the sale in New York and the proceeds of the sale will come back to him here. Why would he give any money back?”

  “It must be more filler.”

  “Must be.” He settled back, thinking. “So there’s to be a coup.”

  “I would guess.”

  “Send them a priority flash.” He looked around the modern, airy room. It was his first time there. The cypher machine was set up on a desk next to the bed, crank at ready, a roll of tape spooling out filling a waste basket. A suitcase radio like his was open next to it, at ready, headphones dangling from the chair, hissing slightly.

  “Tell them no more flirting with Corrialles, angling for a friendly coup. Tell them I said that explicitly!” Hawkins vehemently punched a finger at the code machine. “Tell them I am not going along with any damn fool scheme to divert those paintings from Falkenberg and overthrow this government and put Corrialles or anyone like him in power here. They can go suck a lemon, or an egg, or whatever it is you tell people to go suck on.”

  She lightly laughed. “No need.” She plucked up a piece of tape and waved it. “Not that they don’t deserve to hear that. But they’ve done a complete about-face. No coup. Absolutely not! No-no!”

  “They have? Really?”

  “Righto. They instantly realized Corrialles can’t be trusted when they intercepted Falkenberg’s messages. Roy! It’s thrilling! You won! No civil war, no shooting in the streets, only”—she waved the tape at the window—“more traffic.”

  She took his hat, then sat on the bed with it, setting it aside, neatly arranging it on the corner, as if that was where guests’ hats always went, gesturing for him to sit at the desk. He plunked down, curiously eyeing the cypher machine.

  Incredible, he thought. In the space of twenty-four hours I went from waiting for tragedy to unfold on the Paseo, to tailing a Texan, to conspiring to commit gross insubordination and rebellion with the president of Mexico and back again to being a good servant of King and Country. The sudden succession of images had the dazzling effect of a rapid series of camera flashes firing off, it took a second to see anything.

  “I’ll be damned.” He looked over at the cypher machine again. “This thing looks complicated.” Then at the radio, then her.

  “It is,” she said.

  “No troops in the streets.”

  “Not if we can help it.”

  Then he started to laugh, several days’ worth of tension bubbling off.

  “Are they embarrassed?”

  “You know better than that!”

  “Ah, well, right. Anything else?”

  “Yes. You are to destroy the paintings if necessary. Very firm on that. Take no chances. Those are the orders.”

  “If …” he said. She raised her shoulders slightly, as if to say, Well, what else?

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “No chances, they said.” She raised her head, shaking it, feather flying, tightening her lips, then sighed. “But … can you find a way? Roy, you must find a way not to do that. We have our orders, but—”

  “I will,” he said.

  She smiled. “Good. I know you will.”

  Duty has its limits, even for Lilly, Hawkins thought. An interesting act of rebellion.

  “Have to know where they are first.”

  “Ah, oui—they’ve identified several suspicious ships. There’s a mad scramble to catch up, I suspect. HMS Dendrobium is rushing to Veracruz as fast as possible, and they’ll try to intercept if they can identify one. Unfortunately, Dendrobium’s about fifty miles north-northwest of Great Abaco in the Bahamas. The Royal Navy’s a little thin on this side of the Atlantic right now.”

  “Do you always wear a hat inside?”

  -83-

  Both her eyes rolled up at it.

  “Oh, my goodness, I was thinking of going down, I forgot all about it.” She pulled a big hat pin out, waving it merrily at Hawkins. “I was already armed and dangerous, you see.”

  “Truth be told, that’ll do the trick.” She lifted the hat off and set it on the bed next to Hawkins. They both looked at the two hats sitting side by side on the bed for a moment. She made a little giggling oop sound.

  “We should do something to celebrate,” Hawkins said.

  “Yes,” she said. There was another long awkward moment. She smiled. “We need to celebrate. We’ve been working hard.”

  “Wonderful working with you, Lilly.”

  “Yes. This has been a thrill.” She gazed at him a long moment. “Doing things I never dreamed of doing,” in a breathy voice.

  He reached over and picked up his hat, tossing it aside. She watched it sail to another chair, then looked at her hat on the bed for a long moment. She sighed slightly, tipped her head, gazing up at him again, smiling.

  “What shall we do?”

  She looked down, out the window, then over at the dresser, rolling her head. Inside a silver frame on the dresser was a heavily retouched photo of a young man in battle dress uniform, the three stripes of a sergeant and the Canada patch barely visible. She smiled slightly, raising one shoulder, as if to say, Oh. She took her hat and set it on the cypher machine, then leaned over, one hand flat where the hat was. Hawkins moved over and sat next to her. He put his hand over hers. She put her other hand over his, fingers lightly caressing the back.

  They both leaned over, lips meeting for a soft kiss, then a long hard one as they embraced each other. He ran his hand up her back, feeling the buttons, ready to slip a finger under and pop them out.

  A faint, regular beep came from the headphones. He could feel her tense and freeze, waiting. The regular beep repeated itself. One long beat held, then three short, a perfect “Rule Britannia” rhythm. He quickly dropped his hand. They both drew back slightly, turning. It repeated a third time.

  “The call signal!” Lilly said. “Stand by.”

  She leapt up, all else forgotten, plucking her hat from the cypher machine. Uncertain where to set it, in a hurry, she put it back on, sailing the pin through with a scary finesse. She grabbed the key and clicked back the response code. A few seconds later she began transcribing the transmission, one headphone held to her left ear, head nodding slightly as she listened, the feather dancing in the air in time with her head.

  Yes. Duty calls, Hawkins thought. Riley would’ve ignored it. But Lilly was not quite the rebel Riley was. Still, not wanting to destroy a shipment of stolen art treasures was something. And all the wild hats, don’t miss that, he thought, a touch of nonconformity, an act of self-assertion, perhaps an upraised finger, her way of saying so there. But that was as far as she was willing to go. Or perhaps now, myself. Or at least until the signal had come. Lilly would do her duty.

  For me, he thought, this is a golden moment between duty and rebellion where there’s no contradiction, they’ve become one and the same.

  He studied the picture on the dresser, the man’s face, his uniform, thinking of him over on the other side of the ocean, gazing out across the Channel at the Nazis, boredom and anxiety whipped together in a nasty stew, always bubbling away. Then he thought of Daisy, back in the States. She must be waiting and anxious all the time, too. Perhaps we have pushed rebellion and revolution far enough for the moment, he thought. Rule Britannia.

  She finished the transcription and shifted to the cypher machine, laboriously tapping in the columns of numbers on its keys, cranking it like an adding machine, advancing the tape and the decrypted message. He leaned over her shoulder, holding the feather out of his face with one finger, and saw the characters: RNI identifies SS Betelgeuse … “When you’re done I’ll have to go,” he said. She stopped and looked up, sti
ll brightly smiling. For a second he thought, Maybe not … But then her head went right back down.

  Moments earlier he was as ready to sleep with her as he had been with Riley, and she seemed set on adultery, too, at least for a brief instant. But now Lilly was humming, happily working on the transcription, and it abruptly struck Hawkins he wasn’t disappointed at all. I am truly in love with Daisy, he realized, a real, personal epiphany. How interesting. Had to come to Mexico to see that. Many lessons in seeing here, he thought.

  “We’ll have to have a drink first,” she said.

  “Champagne cocktails in the bar, I should think.”

  “Ooh! Champagne, yes!” she said, busily clicking away. “We’ll toast Empire and Commonwealth.”

  “And Estados Unidos de México,” he said.

  “Yes, Mexico and revolution!”

  -84-

  SS Betelgeuse shimmered in the Caribbean heat as the tug slowly nudged it into a slip in Veracruz harbor.

  Despite the heavy heat, Hawkins kept his jacket carefully buttoned. Underneath each arm and below his Hi-Power on his left he’d hidden a pair of leather wine sacks hanging from his shoulders. Each sack contained two liters of gasoline mixed with a dash of pure liquid soap to make it stick and not run. Worse comes to worst, spray, light and run.

  And it might. The Royal Navy hadn’t been able catch the SS Betelgeuse in time—Dendrobium was a full twenty-four hours behind. A bad break, Hawkins thought. Meanwhile, the odds are Falkenberg is somewhere out there, in this sprawling city of a million and a half people. And he could clearly see the ship itself was much larger than the Santa Lopez, probably half again bigger, at least, and newer. Not a good break, either. And finally, if all that was not enough, the troops President Cárdenas was sending wouldn’t arrive for hours, maybe another day.

  No choice but to stake it out as best I can, Hawkins thought. The Betelgeuse berthed at a different quay than the Santa Lopez. As the ship tied up Hawkins began walking along the docks, getting a feel for the locale, what was there, the possibilities. Was Raul around with his cab? he wondered. That had worked well the first time. But this section of the harbor was laid out differently, more open. Parking for hours would be a problem. Standing around on the sidewalk all day watching wouldn’t do, either. Dangerous, actually. Too obvious. And too damn hot in the sun, he thought. Need some shade.

  Then he spotted his opportunity. A seedy-looking harborside building, masonry or stucco painted bright red, hotel in crude white letters, no name apparently. An overlooking room would do the trick.

  At the door he instantly got a rather different impression. An older woman with white hair in a tight bun pulling her face back in a near grimace sat on a stool behind a high desk. Six younger women sprawled on a pair of sofas covered with worn brocade upholstery, heavy makeup masking exhaustion and depression in their eyes. All smiled a little too brightly as he passed through the door.

  Ah, no, not a hotel, Hawkins thought. Still, these are businesswomen. One thing I already know: They have a price. He pulled out his pocket phrase book. The women all stood, smiling even harder, fluttering their eyelashes and the fronts of their robes back and forth suggestively.

  After sitting on a bed in the ultramodern and immaculate Hotel Reforma with the ever soignée Lilly Billedoux, and, in effect, seeing he was in love with someone else, Hawkins did not find this display particularly enticing, although it admittedly had a certain morbid fascination. What would they do? Or be capable of?

  Still, there was an opportunity. And he had cash.

  “¿Hablas inglés?” he said.

  The madam smiled. Enough for her purposes.

  “Yes. Two dollar.” She held up two fingers.

  After a hurried thumbing through the phrase book he asked, “¿Vea el puerto?” See the harbor? He pointed up. “¿Sitio? ¿Vea?”

  Their eyes flicked back and forth. This gringo did not seem to be the usual sort of freak. What did he want, exactly? The madam frowned, shook her head and pointed downward with one finger.

  “No. Aquí.” He checked aquí. “Here.” Do it here, she meant.

  “Si,” he said, nodding and smiling in agreement. “Barco. Visión. The ship. I want to see the ship.” He began a hurried pantomime, pointing at his eyes, upstairs, out at the harbor, the outlines of the SS Betelgeuse. The madam shook her head no. Then firmly pointed her finger down.

  “Aquí.” Not getting through, he realized. They think I want to do it out there. He got his pen and drew a sketch in the flyleaf of the phrase book, the hotel, a stick figure in the window, a dotted line to the ship, holding it so she could see. She still didn’t get it, shaking her head.

  “Aquí.” She pushed lightly on his sleeve, pointing to the door. Fumbling in the phrase book, he couldn’t find the right word, then realized it wasn’t there.

  “No sex,” he said. She got that. “Ver. Por favor.” Then he held up an American twenty-dollar bill. Her expression totally changed. It was obvious what she was thinking, the girls started to giggle a bit, too. Gringos! Strange people. A voyeur? Wants to sit in a bordello? Watch? Whatever. Moments later he was given a tour and made his selection: a corner room with a perfect view. He could loiter all night without suspicion. The women followed him up to watch, curious, expecting something. What exactly was he going to do with himself in there? He forsook the questionable bed—no doubt crawling—and sat on a wood-and-cane chair in the blessed shade by the window—a slight breeze and a perfect view.

  Longshoremen bustled around the ship, unloading it. No tires this time, the cargo seemed to be a mixed lot of industrial goods: plumbing fixtures, Spanish wine, bolts of Italian textiles. Nothing very interesting or particularly subversive. No evidence of arms, for instance, or crated airplanes.

  Given that the Germans couldn’t rule out the possibility that the ship—any ship—could be stopped and boarded by the Royal Navy, the odds were high they were using the previous tactic, hiding the contraband in the ship rather than on it. Keeping track of the people, the patterns of how they came and went, that was the job now.

  Several hours passed. Two of the younger girls, who with gestures introduced themselves as Dolores and Estrella, came by, peeking in, giggling, expecting a self-absorbed and onanistic indulgence, making double sure—Ho-la señor!—that he really, surely didn’t want some help. They settled back in a convivial way on the bed, arms around each other, flipping a high heel from the toes, watching him watch the wharf.

  After a couple of visits they realized something was in this gringo’s coat. That only added to the mystery and challenge. Every little while they’d hear the madam call and run downstairs, then Hawkins would hear the clicking of heels and the heavy thud of male shoes going down the hall. There was always a low din of odd noises, music, laughter and shouts, a tumultuous quality, a carnival in progress, including a porter selling colas.

  It was quiet along the quay—most of the longshoremen had quit work, only a few were left—until shortly after eight when he heard a rumbling noise up the street, then distant shouting and chanting. Down the esplanade a procession of men carrying torches and signs came around a corner, singing something and marching to the beat of drums.

  Hawkins bolted down the stairs, calling a hurried phrase book ¡Bien conocerte!—“nice meeting you”—to Dolores and Estrella, who were coming up with a pair of confused-looking sailors. Estrella and Dolores paused on the staircase, calling for the porter. Estrella whispered something in his ear, and Hawkins raced out and up the street.

  -85-

  Two or three blocks away a solid rank of men, at least two or three hundred, was proceeding up the esplanade heading toward the SS Betelgeuse and a row of other ships. Half were carrying torches, the others waving flags, banners and placards. A solid beat of drums echoed the heavy tread of marching feet. Behind him he heard the slam of doors and shutters, bolts being thrown. When they got closer
Hawkins could see Gold Shirts, the Camisas Doradas. Most of the men were carrying clubs or truncheons, ready, spoiling for a fight, the same spectacle he and Riley had seen after the demonstration in Mexico City. Same flags, red Nazi banners, only with a green outline of Mexico in the center.

  Eckhardt was at that demonstration in the Zocalo, Hawkins thought. Is he here now? Or Falkenberg?

  Hawkins stepped back into the doorway, smiling and nodding, letting them pass by. They ignored him. Unlike the dockworkers, he was wearing a suit. Probably not a target. On the opposite side of the esplanade a scattering of dockworkers began jeering, running off the ships and docks, out of the quayside bars, confronting the marchers. A bottle sailed through the air. Two more followed. A roar of curses answered back, fists shaking. Safe assumption the longshoremen were all union men, generally on the left, angry at the banners and placards calling their unions Communist fronts. More men began gathering.

  As the marchers passed, Hawkins scanned the faces for Eckhardt’s, trying to remember the other faces from the riot. But none registered. Most of these men are probably local, he decided. Hawkins stepped out onto the end of the procession, close behind, hiding, in a way, using them as a screen, quickly skipping sideways across the street, closer to the ship.

  More bottles were thrown, breaking and crackling on the pavement. With a roar the Gold Shirts began chasing some dockworkers. In seconds a full-blown riot broke out, hundreds of men fighting in the street, throwing whatever they could get their hands on. Some of the longshoremen appeared waving iron pry bars, swinging them like swords, hitting the Camisas Doradas on their heads, shoulders, breaking a few upheld arms with definitive cracks.

  Both crowds of men began swirling in circles, pursuing and chasing at the same time, grabbing and tearing clothes, knocking and tripping men down, fists swinging, deafening screams, curses and taunts rending the air. The volume rose and rose over the vicious chaos, clubs, pry bars, fists and kicks flying.