The Dogs of Mexico

by John J. Asher

  Helmut gestured at Robert. “Empty that bag on the bed.”

  Robert finished buttoning his shirt, then he turned the carry-on upside down and let his clothing fall out on the bed.

  “You’ve used me,” Ana said. “All along…”

  “It is questionable as to who has been using whom, don’t you agree?” He picked through Robert’s clothing with his free hand, shaking each item out, dropping it to one side. “Empty your pockets on the bed,” he said.

  Robert turned his pockets out.

  “Your wallet,” Helmut said.

  Robert gestured over his shoulder. “On the dresser there.”

  Helmut moved to the dresser where the wallet lay alongside a rubber-banded packet of hundred-dollar bills, pocket change, keys and a yellow-handled knife he recognized as Geraldo’s, the smaller of the two men he had hired. He put the knife in his pocket with his left hand, holding the gun in his right, being careful of his fingers in the splint. He inspected Robert’s wallet. “Otis Tandy Baker?” he said derisively. He removed the money—a handful of Mexican and US notes, including several hundred-dollar bills and three twenties. He stuffed these in his pocket along with the packet of hundreds on the dresser.

  “So now you’re a thief in addition to everything else,” Ana said.

  “Travelers checks. Don’t leave home without ’em.”

  Robert sat on the bed, pulling his shoes on.

  Helmut gestured at Ana with the gun. “I believe I told you to get dressed.”

  “And if I don’t, what’re you going to do, shoot me?”

  He studied her, imagining her surprise should he do just that. He tried to smile but his face felt rubbery. “I shouldn’t like to have to,” he said.

  “You probably would!” She threw the sheet back and got out of bed in her pajamas. “Just look at you,” she said. “And after all we’ve been through together, too.”

  “Perhaps, dear Ana, it is unwise to remind me.” He gestured at Robert with the handgun. “Your other bag, empty it on the bed.”

  “Mostly junk. Soap, toilet paper, shaving kit and other assorted and sundry goodies,” Robert said airily, dumping the bag out on the bed.

  “Photos perhaps? A titanium container perhaps?” Actually, the photos were of little interest. It was the container he wanted.

  Robert frowned. “What is all this about photos and containers?”

  Helmut was tempted to shoot him. Show him he wasn’t the tough guy he pretended. But again, that would only complicate matters.

  He had Robert open the aluminum case. Inside were a few items of clothing for Ana, a Bible, and a canvas document case. He lifted the flap on the document case to reveal a DVD projector.

  “This might prove interesting,” he said.

  “You’re easily entertained,” Robert said.

  Helmut touched the bullet hole in the aluminum case with the tip of one finger. “You live an exciting life.”

  Ana took a change of clothes from her bag and started for the bathroom. He stopped her and checked through her things. “Leave the door open,” he said. “And hurry up.” It gave him an odd rush of pleasure, knowing he had moved her to utter disdain.

  He poked through the things from Robert’s carry-on. He removed a cigarillo box, snapped the rubber band off, and opened it. “Ach,” he whispered, thumbing through the bills. “And this?”

  “Still don’t know money when you see it? Damn, Helmut, I don’t know about you.”

  “It’s money we got for the photos,” Ana said from the bathroom.

  He thought that over, took another look, and set the box aside. “And who gave you this money for the photos?”

  “Nobody you know,” Robert said.

  “I think you may be surprised at who I know.”

  “Those two guys in the white Chevy. I bet you know them.”

  Ana pulled the bathroom door closed.

  “Open the door!” he shouted.

  “I’m using the bathroom, if you don’t mind!”

  He heard the shower running. Soon the toilet flushed and the shower shut off. “Ah,” he mused aloud, “women and their little gestures of modesty.”

  He took Robert’s Dopp kit from the carry-on and removed a Ziploc with something rolled in a handkerchief.

  “Wait,” Robert began, that’s—”

  It took a moment to realize he was looking at a human finger. He dropped it and stepped back. Ana came out of the bathroom drying her hands on a towel. She stopped too, a quick intake of breath when she saw the finger on the floor.

  “Sorry,” Robert said. “I forgot it when we buried her.”

  Helmut looked one to the other, composing himself. “Buried her? Ah. So sad.” He lifted his gun toward Robert. “Put it back.”

  “Helmut,” Ana said, “I can’t believe you’d be involved in this.”

  “This was not my doing.”

  “Of course not,” Robert said, gingerly picking Mickey’s finger up with the handkerchief.

  “Enough.” Helmut strode back and forth, impatient now. “Pack your things.”

  “Hey,” Robert said. “Better pour yourself another drink. Looks like you might be coming down with the DTs.”

  Helmut swung the gun—quick, hard. The butt-end hit Robert near the scar. The blow spun him around. His knees buckled. His head hit the floor. Helmut was about to kick him in the face but Ana was screaming. He turned and backhanded her with his left hand—a hard, satisfying whap, and she crumpled down behind the bed with a pained cry of surprise.

  “You don’t seem to realize your position here.” He ripped through Robert’s carry-on, tossing the contents. In his peripheral vision he saw Robert crawling toward the chest of drawers. Helmut grabbed him by the hair and pressed the baby-bottle nipple to his temple. “You wish to die now?”

  “Damn you,”Ana muttered hoarsely. She pulled herself up behind the bed, bloodied mouth cupped in both hands, and began stumbling her way to the chest of drawers.

  “Stop,” Helmut ordered, leveling the gun at her.

  She sagged against the dresser, one arm hung across the top, breathing hard.

  Helmut experienced a rush of both horror and delight. He turned on Robert. “See what you have done? You could have avoided this!”

  A drawer grated open. He turned to see Ana, a semiautomatic gripped in both hands.

  “Ach,” he mumbled with a weary sigh.

  “Helmut! I’ll shoot!”

  “You would shoot me? Really?” He took a reckless step toward her.

  She jerked taught, the gun trembling in her hands. “I will! I swear!”

  “Ana, Ana, Ana”

  “Please! Don’t make me!”

  “Shouldn’t you cock it first?” He held out his free hand for her to surrender it, but to his surprise she racked the slide back—ka-shunk—cocked. He looked at the gun, at Ana. He wondered briefly at the irony, perhaps the justice, should she actually kill him. But he knew her better than that. “Tell me,” he said, “is this how you killed your brother?”

  She went pale. Then, as expected, her will failed entirely and he took the gun from her. Blood on the grip from her hands.

  Robert ventured a wobbly step toward him. “You sadistic son of a bitch.”

  Helmut turned the .22 on him. Robert stopped but Helmut could see the eagerness in his eyes. “Come on,” Helmut taunted. “Give me an excuse.”

  Robert glanced at Ana. “Are you hurt bad?”

  “Stay where you are,” Helmut warned. “Repack your bags.” He let the hammer down on the .380, wiped it and his hand on the bed sheet, and tucked the gun in his belt. In the open dresser drawer, he recognized the cross-dressing Jinx’s Beretta, but there was a .45 as well. He put each in his belt. “Too much cash, too many guns.”

  Robert placed one hand on Ana’s shoulder. “Let me see your mouth.”

  She leaned into him, touched one finger to her chin and gently drew her lower lip down for inspection. “Your lip is split but your teeth
look okay.”

  “How touching,” Helmut said. “This would not have happened had you done as you were told.”

  “You go to hell,” Ana said, and turned back into the bathroom.

  Helmut followed, the gun trained on Robert through the doorway.

  She uncapped a bottle of mineral water and gingerly rinsed her mouth, spitting pink into the basin. She drew her lips back again, checking her teeth in the mirror.

  “So,” Helmut said, “your lip is bleeding a little. I think you will live.”

  “Once again, you are a great disappointment,” she said, the controlled malice in her tone more corrosive than any raged shouting.

  “Enough. Pack up. We are leaving.”

  Robert paused. “Leaving? Where to?”

  “Allow me to suggest that if you have the goods you would be well advised to hand them over now. Otherwise I will not be responsible.”

  Robert shook his head. “You know, you really are kind of dense.”

  “It is up to you.” Helmut snapped the fingers of his left hand at Ana. “Come! Move now!”

  “Don’t snap your fingers at me, you…you Judas!”

  Robert moved toward the bathroom.

  “Stop!” Helmut shouted.

  “What, you’d rather I piss on the floor?”

  “Leave the door open.”

  “That’s a little indelicate with a lady present. Don’t you think?”

  “There are no ladies present,” he said pointedly. “Leave the door open.”

  Despite his orders, Robert pulled the door closed. Helmut heard him using the toilet, then the faucet running. Helmut stepped to the door, pressed the baby bottle nipple against it and fired—a flat crack. Ana cried out. Helmut crouched with the pistol, ready for action as Robert jerked the door open. Ana rushed to him with a whimper.

  “When I tell you to do something, you will do it,” Helmut shouted. The broken finger was a nuisance, but he had already taken another nipple from his pocket and stretched it over the muzzle. The spent nipple lay in fragments. “You will do well to follow orders,” he said, pleased with himself.

  “You crazy son of a bitch! You shattered a tile off the wall in there.”

  “It should have been your head. Well, better luck next time—as you American’s like to say.”

  He ordered them to set the luggage near the door. He had Robert take the covers off the bed, shake them out and dump the mattress on the floor. Helmut checked under the slats and behind the headboard. He inspected all the dresser drawers, inside and underneath.

  “Very well,” he said, “put the room back in order.” He let himself down in the chair, lit a cigarette, and took a drink from the brandy bottle while Robert reordered the room. When all was ready, he zipped the bottle into one of Robert’s carry-ons.

  He gestured at the tire propped against the wall. “What’s this? You don’t trust your Mexican neighbors?”

  “It seems they’re a lot more trustworthy than our so-called friends,” Ana replied.

  “Enough talk. Move.”

  Ana carried the aluminum case and the bag with her things. Robert picked up his two bags.

  Helmut hung the strap to his computer case over his shoulder, then draped Robert’s jacket over his arm, covering the guns in his belt and the one in his hand.

  “I suggest we should all go out into the world smiling cheerfully,” he said. “And, in case you still have doubts, I will not hesitate to shoot either of you.”

  “What about the police?” Robert said. “You given that any thought?”

  “Very little.” In truth, he wasn’t certain whether he was putting on a show of bravado, or whether he was merely being factual. If he was worried about anything at all other than the situation he was about to subject Ana too he wasn’t aware of it. He simply no longer cared.

  “Don’t you think that if we had anything we’d have already given it to you?” Ana said.

  But he wasn’t listening, his gaze fixed on the spare tire again with sudden interest. “Yes. Perhaps the tire may be of use after all.” He ground his cigarette underfoot, then took one of the bags from Robert in his free hand. “You will carry the tire.”

  Ana led the way down. Robert followed with the tire and one bag. Helmut brought up the rear with Robert’s other bag and the laptop in its case. He was careful of his step, for the paving stones were still wet with dew. The street was quiet at this hour but for a flock of grackles carrying on in the trees above the courtyard walls.

  Helmut nodded toward his old Plymouth parked at the curb. “Over there,” he ordered.

  “Got yourself some wheels, umm? Damn, I hope you’re not driving.” Robert was trying to provoke him, of course.

  “Is that one yours?” Helmut said scornfully of their old pickup. He supposed it was possible that the canister was hidden somewhere in the pickup, but, as Robert had already affirmed by bringing the tire inside, only an idiot would leave valuables in a vehicle on the streets in Mexico.

  Helmut was certain they had sold the photos; after all, they did have a box of money. But it was the canister that interested him. Besides, he felt compelled, regardless of the possible consequences, to keep them under his thumb. And, after all, he was in charge, orchestrating this gig—as the Americans liked to say.

  He had Robert and Ana stow the tire and the luggage in the Plymouth’s trunk, then he pitched a ring of keys into the footwell below the steering wheel. “You drive,” he directed Robert. He opened the rear door, then waited until Robert and Ana were settled into the front seats before getting in.

  He removed his new laptop from the case and switched it on. Fowler had had it preloaded and overnighted to the airport in Puerto Escondido. From there, Helmut had driven the Plymouth straight to Oaxaca. After wrecking the Chevy, the two men he had hired stole an old Dodge pickup, met him at his hotel, then abandoned the hot pickup on a back street.

  He had Robert drive south out of town, pleased that the receptor app was blinking spot-on. Ah, modern technology.

  Ana sat in the front passenger’s seat, sullen, touching her lip from time to time with tissues. Robert tried to engage him in conversation, to distract him, but he refused to answer. Robert slowed the Plymouth over speed bumps in the village of Coyotepec. A few miles farther, Helmut directed him to a secondary road forking off the pavement.

  “To the right up there,” he ordered.

  The foothills closed in. The terrain grew more rugged. The blacktop shrank to a pitted ribbon of tar and gravel. Locusts had begun their gritty drilling with the coming heat.

  He gestured toward a dirt track intersecting the pavement on their left. “Turn off there. And let me say again, you are not going to like this.”

  It was the little guy, Geraldo, that concerned him. He had known Geraldo was a mistake the moment Jinx introduced him. The two were necessary at the time, but their usefulness was drawing to an end. However, Geraldo was a psychopath and might not be so easily dismissed. Helmut had already come to terms with the fact that he would have to kill him. Which meant he would have to kill Jinx as well. He had never killed anyone, and while there might be a certain thrill in the thought, it was more disturbing than he cared to admit.

  Before anything else, though, he had to get his hands on that canister. That was the big objective. In the meantime, he determined not to appear overly eager for a drink.

  32

  Captives

  ROBERT REALIZED HE had underestimated Helmut. It wasn’t so much that Helmut was cunning, but that he had a reckless, almost suicidal attitude, as if he couldn’t care less about anything or anyone, including himself.

  Robert had tried without success to rattle him. At the moment he had no choice but to follow Helmut’s orders.

  The dirt road led up a hill through a sugarcane patch. Robert braked down the backside to where a line of trees grew along either side of a brook, broken where the road crossed. He slowed through shallow water running clear over a gravel bottom.

&nbs
p; “Turn in here.” Helmut motioned toward the only evidence of habitation Robert had seen in the last few miles—a low roofed mud-walled dwelling inside a crumbling courtyard.

  Dust drifted past and settled as the Plymouth creaked to a stop. An iron headboard hinged with wire served as a gate in the courtyard wall. A path from the gate ran a hundred yards out to the hull of an old bus, its wheelless undercarriage resting on cinderblocks. The bus was shaded beneath an awning of corrugated tin. The creek with its attendant line of trees and brush looped around behind the walled compound and around the bus, meandering across the rugged terrain toward a range of mountains in the distance.

  “Bring the bags,” Helmut ordered. “You,” he said to Robert, “bring the tire.”

  A goat stood on a nearby garbage dump, watching as they dragged the luggage out and slogged toward the gate. Insects kept up a steady bell-like whistling from the surrounding glare.

  The smaller of the two men from the white Chevy dragged the headboard gate open and swaggered out. He looked like a demented little boy in cowboy boots, carrying an oversized toy gun. Robert thought to jump him, to grab his gun at the least opportunity. But the little guy kept his distance, jittering in place. “I almost kill you, ’ey?” he shouted. He pivoted, leaped into the air, and swung the gun muzzle up in Robert’s face, shouting, “Bang bang bang!”

  Instinctively Robert jerked the tire up as a shield. The little man bent, wheezing hysterical laughter, then sobered instantly. The tattoos on his arms quivered. “You still alive, ’ey, amigo? Next time—boom!—you die!

  “Geraldo, take it easy,” Helmut ordered.

  The little guy glanced at Helmut, pinpoint eyes burning. “Hey, you don’ tell me. No man tell me.”

  “I tell you, unless you want the entire United States down on your neck.” Helmut stepped through the gate with authority and waited.

  Geraldo’s gaze shifted to Ana, a slow grin. “My great-grandfather was from your country,” he said, drawing himself up to his full little-boy height. “General William Walker, a very famous man who came to Nicaragua to make himself king. Perhaps you have heard of him? I myself am Geraldo Garcia Walker, much like him.”