Goodbye Mexico
Page 13
“I feel a lot better, Gearheardt. As Marta says, you are a genius.”
“Thanks, Jack.” (Sarcasm was lost on the jackass). “How much further, guys?”
“About five more minutes on this road, Pepe. Then we will turn north at the Pemex station. We need to stop at Pemex and let me ask about this village. I am not sure.”
“You didn’t finish about Palanque, Gearheardt. So you have this army of good Cubans congregating on the coast, which, by the way, is a hell of a long way from Cuba, and then what happens?”
“The boys will not be going directly to Cuba, Jack. First they come up here and help us stabilize the situation. We can’t rely on the dopes at the State Department to react very quickly, and the Mexican army is on a five-year taco break, and we don’t want to unleash the Halcones.” He opened his window to toss his cigarette butt and the brandy snifter went with it. “Shit,” he said, “I hope those can be replaced.”
“So the guys are coming up here when, and how?” Long ago I found out that seeming to go along with Gearheardt’s schemes was the best, maybe the only, way to get any real information.
“I’ve had a little trouble arranging transportation. Moving guerilla armies around is not as easy as it sounds.”
“I don’t think it sounds easy to anyone. So what did you do?”
“Taxi.”
“You’re having the army take taxi’s from Calixtua to Mexico City?”
“Don’t make it sound like such a big deal. There’s only fifty guys.”
“Well, that will be a sight I don’t want to miss, Gearheardt. Ten or fifteen Mexican cabs, bristling with guns and Cubans, heading into Mexico City.”
“My boys can round up the bad Cubans and then be ready to head to Havana when you give the signal. They’ll be in place tomorrow night.”
“See, Jack, ees all worked out.” Marta leaned over the seat and pecked my cheek. “Here’s the Pemex station.”
Gearheardt squealed into the well-lit gas station and screeched to a halt at a pump. He and Marta got out, leaving me to contemplate the idea of being in Havana within a couple of days, directing an operation that I neither knew anything about, nor particularly believed had any chance of success. I decided not to challenge Gearheardt. We needed to find Crenshaw. I wanted to keep him focused on that.
Gearheardt had the tank filled by a young Mexican lad whose head was snapping between the lovely Marta and the equally lovely Mercedes. Gearheardt gave him a tip. “Never wear brown shoes with a blue suit.”
“I don’t think he saw the humor,” I said as we drove away.
“The best thing we Americans can give to poor people is our sense of humor, Jack. A few pesos would be gone tomorrow. A sense of humor, a good joke, those last a lifetime.”
“The kid is standing in the middle of Mexico with the pump in his hand, Gearheardt. And he couldn’t possibly understand a damn thing you said. He just thinks you’re an asshole American.”
“The kid charged me $50 for ten gallons of gas, Jack. He can work his tip out with the manager.”
We reached the end of the pavement. At the beginning of the dirt road, a small cantina was lit and loud. “We are to ask in here about the village,” Marta said. “I will go in and see where we can find it.”
“I’ll go with you, Marta,” I said.
“No. Too many strangers will cause talk.”
“She can handle it, Jack. You’re about as subtle as a canker sore in dealing with the Mexicans sometimes.”
This from a man who thought sharing fart jokes with people who were bloated from hunger would be admirable aid policy.
As she went into the club, I said to Gearheardt, “I need to talk to you about Havana.”
Gearheardt sighed. “Can’t you just have faith, Jack?” He took his pistol from his shoulder holster and checked the clip. “You worry too much about the plans. The big picture. I’m not a big picture guy. If the government of the United States puts a gun in my hands and points me at communists, I don’t worry about what to wear. I don’t worry about offending some jackass at the UN. The mission is the thing, Jack. We need Castro out of Cuba. My job is to see that happen. Your job is to help me see that happen. Like Teddy Roosevelt, my favorite president by the way, once said, ‘Seeing things happen is what it’s all about.’”
It was my turn to sigh. “Yes, that’s one of my favorite Teddy Roosevelt quotes too, Gearheardt.”
A flash of light from the door turned us both toward the cantina. Marta was coming out, a Mexican man following.
“So you’re not going to fill me in?” I asked finally.
Gearheardt smiled. “I have my pals in Havana setting things up, Jack. You’ll know their names when you need to. I don’t want you giving away the details just to save your gonads. And you’ll have Marta with you.” He looked at me. “And the full faith and support of His Excellency Gearheardt.”
“This man will take us to Calixtua,” Marta said through the window to Gearheardt. “But we cannot drive this car. The road is too much rock and sand. He will take us in his taxi.”
“Si, Señors,” the Mexican said. “It is my pleasure. And I am driven by the pursuit of the Yankee dollars.”
“A man after my own heart. Good fellow,” Gearheardt said as he got out of the Mercedes.
We left our jackets and ties in the car, locked it after assurances from the man that it would be safe, and followed him around to the back of the cantina. His taxi was in the form of a ‘dune buggy’ affair that had been crafted from a Mustang. After the Mustang had died and decomposed. Large tires, bucket seats, and a roll bar welded to a frame sporting a V-8. I knew it was a Mustang only by the name on the chrome valve cover.
Gearheardt and the old man began talking about the engine in broken English track talk. He had a way to instant rapport with almost anyone as crazy as he was.
“What did you find out?” I asked Marta as she and I climbed into the back seat.
“Crenshaw came through this place,” she said. “I am not sure if it was yesterday or the day before. But many of the people remembered the burro and the gringo. They have not seen him return.”
“Buckle up, kids,” Gearheardt yelled from the front seat over the noise of the engine that didn’t have a muffler. “This greaser is going to show us what this baby can do.”
“Greaser is not—”
“I said Geezer, Jack!”
The engine died. Gearheardt slapped the Mexican on the back.
“My friend has half the United Nations trying to kill him and he’s worried that he might offend somebody.”
The Mexican and Gearheardt laughed.
“Maybe I can try to keel him also. There is money to be made for this?”
“Drive, Pedro,” Gearheardt said, slapping the man’s shoulder again.
The engine exploded into life and we flew forward, spinning dirt and gravel high behind us.
A ‘driving surface’ to the ‘road’ that we followed was as the ‘Mona Lisa’ is to ‘baboon butt.’ The lights of the buggy, on the front bumper and from the roll bar, gave us a preview of coming attractions, just like shining a flashlight around the walls of a torture chamber. There were deep gullies, cactus shrubs, large rocks, and an occasional slithering reptile. Gearheardt of course kept up a challenging antagonistic patter: “Hey, is there a speed limit, Grandpa? Don’t worry, old man, they’ll hold the funeral for us. What time is your beating scheduled for, Gramps? Should I get out and push, Methuselah? Is the parking brake on, Pedro?”
Holding on for dear life, my hands cramping from holding onto the seat and roll bar, I began to lose my anger at Gearheardt. His manic laughter and egging on of the Mexican reminded me of what I liked best about him—his unfettered enjoyment of life and thrills, people and action, women and liquor. I often had suspected that the reason he hated the communists, and his willingness to ‘shoot the bastards on sight,’ was somehow due to his view of them as lifeless, joyless bureaucrats who hated God and the poor.
We began to slow as we left the desert and entered the hills, at first sparsely treed, and then forest. Our lights now shown on trunks and branches. ‘Death-defying’ no longer described our progress.
“Could we stop a minute, Gearheardt?” I yelled.
“Sure, Jack. You need to pull the Naughahyde out of your butt?” He laughed and winked at Marta, the roll bar lamps lighting his face devilishly.
“No, I would just like to talk briefly about what we might be getting into and how we’re going to handle it. And would you ask your pal to kill the engine so I don’t have to yell?”
Gearheardt tapped the Mexican on his arm and then indicated my request by drawing his thumb across his throat.
The Mexican shut off the engine (the silence was joyous) and grinned at Gearheardt. “Now we keel him, no?”
“We have a comedian for a driver, Jack. But your idea is a good one. Besides I need to take a leak.” He glanced at Marta. “Excuse me, Marta.”
“Take a leak, bring a leak. I am hating this car. Jack is right. We should talk after we visit the trees.”
We split up in the dark then rejoined a few yards away from the Mexican driver.
“Your show, Jack,” Gearheardt said.
“All we know is that Crenshaw rode his donkey—”
“Burro.”
“Thanks, wiseass. He rode his burro to this village day before yesterday. We also know that he was to meet people, Cubans I believe, to talk about the Cinco de Mayo event. We know he hasn’t been seen since. And we got his burro’s tail in the mail. That’s about it.”
“And you’re sure the tail is from Crenshaw’s burro?” Gearheardt asked. “They all look pretty much alike to me.”
“I would think a jackass like yourself would know burro tails, Gearheardt,” I said. He had his arm around Marta and that smirking grin on his face.
“So we’re looking for a burro with two assholes, right Jack?”
“I know you didn’t want to come, Gearheardt, but Crenshaw—”
“Hombres,” Marta pleaded, “we need to get started to the village.”
Gearheardt had removed his shoulder holster, sticking his weapon into his pocket, and suggested I do the same. “Let’s don’t advertise the Marines have landed, Jack. Pedro there will keep your leather in the hotrod for now.”
“Just let me do the talking. We don’t know that Crenshaw is in trouble. We just know he hasn’t checked in with the embassy. Remember, we’re not at war with these villagers, just possibly the Cubans that met Crenshaw out here. Most of these little towns have mayors. We want to meet with him and ask about Crenshaw. After we look around a bit.”
“It’s getting late, Jack. What say we saddle up and head on in to Dodge.”
“I’m warning you, Gearheardt, this is my show out here. Just keep a lid on your shenanigans. In other words, don’t mouth off to the people and don’t try to bully them.”
We headed for the dune buggy Mustang.
“I like your plan, Jack. Plain and direct. I’m not absolutely clear what it is, of course, but then I’m just a simple troublemaker.” He climbed in beside the Mexican driver. “Let’s fire it up, Paco. The bars close at midnight.”
We had gone less than a hundred ear-splitting yards when the road topped the hill and we began to descend into a dark valley. The road switch-backed its way down the hill and we caught glimpses of lights from the village in the valley. I guessed it to be a town of maybe five thousand people, based solely on how wide the lights were spread. The town square was obvious.
Our driver had assured Gearheardt he made this trip often, so the noise of our arrival would not be a cause of alarm for the people in the town. “Your arrival anyplace is a cause for alarm, Gearheardt,” I had said when he told me. “Thanks, Jack,” he had replied.
There were strollers and sitters around the moderately lit town square. The driver collected half of his fee and was told to stand by until we needed to leave. I didn’t like the fact that he smiled and rubbed his thumb and fingers together rapidly when he looked at me. Gearheardt made a pistol with his hand, pointed it at me, and shook his head affirmatively.
“Very funny, Gearheardt,” I said. “Why don’t you and Marta wait in this cantina and have a beer. I’ll scout around and try to find the mayor.”
“Sure thing, Jackson.” He put his arm around a strangely quiet and compliant Marta and headed into the café. “Why don’t you show me that fast draw technique again, Marta? The local boys will get a kick out of that.” He stopped and came back to me. “And by the way, Jackson, remember that while we’re dicking around out here, we have a major assassination scheme plowing ahead in Mexico City. Just keep that in mind.”
“I think that Crenshaw’s disappearance may have something to do with that, Gearheardt. And we’re not ‘dicking’ around.”
“Poor choice of words. Let’s find your boy and get back to the world of international intrigue. That’s all I’m saying.” He went back to Marta and up the steps to the café.
I turned back to our driver. “Pedro, or Paco, do you know where I can find the Mayor? Or is there a sheriff here, a policeman?”
“There is a mayor. There is a policeman. My name is Juan. I don’t know this Pedro-Paco.”
I could never understand how I could give a guy ten dollars and he would spit on my shoes because it wasn’t twenty dollars. Gearheardt could give a guy a nickel and the guy would shine Gearheardt’s shoes. I wondered if Gearheardt gave off an aura that told everybody what I knew about him, his love of life and people.
“Bueno, Juan. Let’s find the mayor or the policeman.”
We started across the square, tree covered with many statues, and the few local people being only mildly interested in a gringo passing by. Crossing the opposite street, I saw the sign above an open door that read Policia y Oficina de Alcalde. Police and Office of the Mayor. Juan pointed and smirked.
“Dentro,” he said. Inside.
Inside were two genial men playing chess and drinking coffee. They rose politely when I entered and extended their hands.
“Welcome, Señor,” the mayor (without the uniform) said. “You are here for tomorrow’s burro roast, no doubt.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE A CRENSHAW
“I am not aware of the burro roast,” I said as I took the offered chair. The policeman poured a cup of coffee for me. “Gracias,” I said.
“We are not normally the roasters of burros,” the Mayor said. “This is most unusual. A burro arrived in our town yesterday, cleaned and on … como se dice … a spit.”
This precipitated a rapid discussion in Spanish. The policeman, a short muscular man, made a spitting sound, and shook his head. The mayor pantomimed a rod being poked up—
“Señors,” I interrupted. “Yes, spit is the proper term. That isn’t important.”
My two cents didn’t settle the argument. The policeman, Capitan Malo, wasn’t buying the ‘rod up the butt and out the mouth’ theory evidently and made his case for expectoration with examples landing precariously near my shoes.
The mayor, Señor Verdago, jumped into the debate vigorously. He cleared the chess table and produced paper and pen, quickly drawing a stick burro and illustrating a rod through its length.
I was biting my lip, hoping that the conference on English Descriptive Colloquialism would adjourn before I had to intervene.
Finally Capitan Malo seemed to agree to argue no more. He nodded his head affirmatively, picked up the drawing and spit on it, wadded it up and threw it toward the waste basket. The mayor smiled. Then the policeman smiled, and it occurred to me that these two gents lived for the chance to find somethi
ng unique to argue about. Gringos and roast burros must be giving them a field day.
“Pardon, Señor,” the Mayor said. “My friend is learning the English late. He went only to a poor technical school that taught police work. I, on the other hand, attended the Universidad de Mexico, the finest university in the world. And with our great educations behind us, we sit next to the square and grow older. But excuse me, you are here with a question, not the burro roast. How can we help you?”
“Believe me, I would love to stay for the burro roast. I have a friend with me that would rather eat burro than make love.”
The two gentlemen laughed politely at my poor joke.
“But I am looking for a colleague who came through your town yesterday or the day before. I’m afraid he is now missing. Or at least he has not been in his office for the past two days. I am concerned about him.”
“And this office he is not in would be … ?” There was a wariness in his voice, and in the eyes of the policeman, that had not been there efore.
“He is from the U.S. embassy.”
“And you also, Señor?”
“Yes, I work for the gentleman.”
Captain Malo rose from the table without comment and went into the adjacent room. The mayor began putting away the chess pieces, not looking at me.
“There are very few officials who come through Calixtua Señor. I don’t believe that I am aware of your colleague.”
I decided to up the ante a bit. “Señor Mayor, I work with the security group in the embassy. It would be best if—”
The mayor smiled and called out to the other room. A similarly smiling policeman returned and took his place at the table.
“So you are CIA,” he said. “Bueno. We were thinking that you were perhaps an economic development officer. They come to our town often and ask us about crops and the population and how many people are working. They are very tiresome and irritating.”
“I didn’t say I was CIA,” I said.
“And I didn’t say I was Mexican,” the mayor laughed. The policeman joined in.