I looked at them for a moment and then grinned.
“Okay, let us suppose for the moment that I am CIA. I am still trying to find Señor Crenshaw. Can you help me?”
“If you are certain that you are not trying to change the way we have farmed since Cortez, we can help you perhaps.” He looked at his policeman pal. “No?”
“Si, Señor. I will tell you. Your friend arrived the evening before yesterday. He was covered with the dust of the road, and sat on the burro. Many people were at the church for evening mass. He disturbed them and I was forced to arrest him for trying to be the Jesus.”
“You arrested Señor Crenshaw for impersonating Jesus?”
“Ees not so simple (as if I thought it was), Señor. There are people in the town who believe our Blessed Guadalupe will visit us. Our brothers from Cuba were at the mass. It was they who began saying that your friend claimed to be the Jesus. I am not sure that was the thing, but people were angry and your friend also began to sing the hymn. For this matter, I brought him to the jail.”
Cubans? I needed to know what that was all about. But I asked, “And you turned him loose? Or is he still in your jail?”
“No, he is loose now. The very same Cuban people who complained came to the jail and asked for him. They were very sorry that they caused the trouble. After he was cleaned and fed, they took him in their truck and went away. The burro was in the back of the truck. Then yesterday, the truck came and gave us the burro for a feast. To make sure that the town was not angry.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Didn’t that seem a bit strange? The Cubans taking him away?”
The mayor wasn’t smiling now. “No, Señor, we did not think it strange. Every summer the touristas come to our town. They take pictures of our houses. They take pictures of our church. They ask for ketchup for their tacos. Some ask to find the Mexican women who make love. They buy rocks which we find in our fields every day. If we tie two sticks together as a cross, they will buy it. No, Señor, we did not think it was strange.” The policeman shrugged in agreement. The mayor went on. “The Cubans and the gringo you look for went northwest, toward the ruins of Tula. There is nothing else in the area.”
“I understand. But do you often have Cubans in town? Who were these men?”
“They were Cubans, Señor,” the mayor said. It sounded like his final word.
While I was thinking of my next question the sound of a man running came behind me. A young, excited Mexican man stuck his head into the doorway. ‘Gringo,’ ‘combate,’ and ‘cantina’ told me how fast I needed to find Gearheardt.
The policeman and I were head and head across the square with the mayor huffing and puffing close behind. Inside the cantina where Gearheardt and Marta had gone to wait for me, the scene was not the chaotic mess I had expected. About ten locals were seated or standing around the room, three were lying on the floor. Gearheardt was at the bar, leaning on his elbows, facing the room. Marta was beside him on a barstool.
“Jack, don’t believe a word of what they tell you,” Gearheardt said. “I went to take a leak and when I came back, that one (he pointed to a man near his feet) had his hand on Marta’s butt. That one (prone beneath a table) was trying to kiss her neck. And that one (sitting on the floor and shaking his head groggily) was … I’m not sure what he was doing, but he ran into one of my fists. I probably owe him an apology.” He nodded to the man who weakly raised his hand in acknowledgement.
“Are you okay, Marta?” I asked.
She nodded.
The policeman began talking to the bartender and the Mayor introduced himself to Marta. I began to lecture Gearheardt on his seeming inability to be by himself for five minutes without creating an incident. It was more for the benefit of the local crew as I knew it was lost on Gearheardt.
The policeman turned to Gearheardt. “It is as you said, amigo. These two were what you say ‘out of line.’ We do not treat women so badly as this. You will accept my apologies?”
“No problemo, Capitan. I needed the exercise.”
“Don’t overdo it, Gearheardt. Just accept the apology and let’s get out of here. I’ll fill you in.”
Marta, however, was heading out of the door on the arm of the mayor. He turned his head. “The Señorita requests to use the ladies room. My office has the best in the town. You may follow me there, Señors.”
Marta looked back and smiled. Then they left the cantina.
The policeman was helping the men off the floor into chairs. Chastising them, but not aggressively.
“Jack,” Gearheardt said, “have you noticed anything strange about Marta?”
“Such as?”
“What are the chances the Marta we know and love would let some hombre man-handle her at the bar? I’ll answer for you. None. And she seems very quiet.”
“Women have feelings too, Gearheardt,” I said. He missed the sarcasm.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He shook the outstretched hand of the bartender, then the policeman, and finally the stranger who had gotten in the way of his fist. Then we left to follow the mayor and Marta.
“Pretty impressive, Gearheardt. What did you hit them with? Or was it just your CIA hand to hand training?”
“It was my orphanage training, Jack. When you grow up in a state orphanage like I did, you get good with your fists. Or you become a girl. I didn’t like dresses.”
Gearheardt had once explained to me why he grew up in an orphanage and yet had parents. Something to do with them being paranoid about leaving him if they both died. If anyone but Gearheardt had told me that story, I would have doubted it.
We were in the square. Darker now and almost deserted. I was about two inches taller than Gearheardt, fifteen pounds heavier, and in pretty good shape. I couldn’t imagine knocking out three men in one evening.
“So what did you find out?” Gearheardt asked.
“Crenshaw was here. Day before yesterday. He started some kind of a disturbance at the church, was arrested, and then the Cubans who turned him in bailed him out. He left town with them and then his burro came back the next day, ready for roasting. That’s all I could find out.”
“Have you ever thought about a career in plumbing, Jack? I mean, really, you spend time with the mayor and the police and come back with that story. Wouldn’t you say there are a couple of things in there that might use a bit more explanation?”
“I was getting to the explanation when some gringo started a slugfest in the cantina, Gearheardt.”
“Jack, you would-of loved it. I came up behind the one guy and actually tapped him on the shoulder, like you see in the movies. He looked around and I just smashed his damn face. The other guy—”
“Spare me, Gearheardt. Look, the policeman told us that the Cubans and Crenshaw left up that road.” I pointed north. “And the burro came back the next day. They couldn’t have been too far away. Let’s get Marta and we’ll have Juan fire up the beast.”
“Fine with me. But we’ve got to get back to Mexico City pretty soon.” He stopped. “Why don’t you get Marta and I’ll round up Pedro. And by the way, you say Crenshaw was arrested? What the hell did he do?”
It was too complicated and Gearheardt would forget about it in ten minutes anyway. “He was charged with impersonating Jesus.”
“That’s against the law?”
“Go get the dune buggy, Gearheardt. We’ll meet you back there. Stay out of fights.”
The mayor was standing in front of his office, smoking a cheroot. He offered one to me and I declined. “Donde es—”
“Telefono,” he responded. He made the sign of the telephone against his head to make sure I understood.
Marta came out of the building shortly thereafter.
“Okay?” I asked.
“Si, Jack. The mayor has a very nice ladies room. The best in the own.”
She didn’t mention the telefono.
“Paco says there’s no way they could have gone to Tula. It’s fifty or a hundred miles from here,�
�� Gearheardt said. “He’s not too precise on distance issues.”
We had joined Gearheardt and the driver at the dune buggy. It was getting cold, and the thought of bouncing over the ruts in the buggy was not attractive. The trail leading to Crenshaw was getting cold also.
“I don’t like the sounds of all this, Gearheardt. Major Crenshaw is eccentric, but he’s no dope. He came up here on a mission and now he’s disappeared. Maybe we should try to get some help.”
“From who, Jack? Crenshaw has evidently struck out on his own. No one at the embassy seems to know what he was doing. We don’t know for sure what he was doing. And the local police don’t seem excited about trying to find him. The only guys I know who will look for an errant CIA agent are probably Halcones. Do you want to call them?”
“Then we’ll have to push on. I’m not going to just ignore the fact that he was meeting someone here and now is gone. And we’re pretty sure it has to do with your damn Cuban mission.”
Gearheardt hesitated. He looked at his watch and seemed to be doing a calculation. “Okay, he’s one of us, after all. We’ll try to see if we can find out something up the road. Seems a wild goat chase, but he’s your boss.”
“We need to take a leak before we get back in that monster,” I said.
“I gave at the office, Jack.” He began climbing into the dune buggy.
“I said we need to take a leak.” I grabbed his arm.
Behind the buildings Gearheardt lit a cigarette. “So what’s the message that you didn’t want Paco to hear? Or is it Marta?”
“Marta made a phone call from the mayor’s office.”
“Probably called her mother. That’s what you do at the drop of a hat, Jack.”
“Oh, bullshit. Who would she be calling this time of night? She just seems to be acting strange. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but—”
“I think she’s in love.” Gearheardt smiled. “With you.”
“That wouldn’t explain the phone call.”
“Love makes you do things that can’t be explained. I was once so in love I bought a trombone.”
“You’re hopeless, Gearheardt. Don’t even try to explain that to me. I’m saying that we need to watch her. And I hate to say it, because if the truth be known I’m more than a little attracted to her. But we have a mission.” I started back to the dune buggy. “Let’s see if we can find Crenshaw. If the trail is a dead end, we’ll go back to Mexico City.”
We started back up the switchback, Gearheardt and his new pal, the driver, laughing and chatting as if we were headed to dinner and a movie. Near the top, the driver turned sharply right onto a track that could only be found by someone very familiar with it. It was dark in the trees, the dune buggy’s lights illuminating the dense undergrowth and tall pines. The track, two ruts with worn down shrubs between them, looked well traveled. But leading …
“Gearheardt, does he have any idea where he’s going,” I shouted.
“He took some Cuban’s in here a couple of days ago. Those were their Mercedes behind the cantina where he picked us up.”
“I didn’t see any Mercedes.”
“They were up on blocks over by the garage, Jack. Paco’s pals borrow parts off them while their owners are out here in the boonies.”
“Wait a minute. You mean Paco, or Juan, knows where the Cubans are? Thanks for telling me. What were we doing in the town all that time? We could have just asked Juan to take us here.”
“And miss the story of Crenshaw impersonating Jesus? That’s the kind of valuable information that we couldn’t do without.”
“Gearheardt—”
Gearheardt turned around to me and leaned closer. “Jack, this guy may look like an old herdsman, but he knows more than he lets on. I had to get closer to him, you know. He’s opening up now. He probably wanted to make sure we weren’t going to shoot him when we get back to the cantina and find out the engine is gone out of our Mercedes.”
“Does he know anything about Crenshaw?”
Gearheardt looked at the driver, who was staring intently at the track, and lowered his voice to just above the engine noise. “We’re not that good of friends yet. He’s probably angling for some dinero.”
“Hell, offer him a hundred bucks.”
“I offered him five hundred bucks. Your money of course. He says he’s trying to remember.” He laughed. “He said he’d shoot you for free. Thinks you’re a typical American. But don’t worry, he doesn’t have a pistol. Asked to borrow mine.”
I never knew when Gearheardt was serious.
Marta spoke up, touching my arm. “He is kidding you, Jack. The driver says no such thing.”
Paco, Pedro, Juan brought the dune buggy to an abrupt halt that threw everyone forward. He shut off the engine and the lights.
“There,” he said, pointing to the darkness.
“There?” Gearheardt and I said at the same time.
“In the trees there is a light. That is the camp of the Cubans. And there is a house not far away.”
Squinting ahead, I could make out a faint light. I began climbing out of the vehicle. “Marta, you can wait with Juan. Gearheardt and I need to see what’s up.”
“She isn’t Harriet Housewife Jack,” Gearheardt said. “She’s a professional, and we may need her.” He was checking the clip in his pistol.
For some reason, I was hesitant to take Marta and I wasn’t sure whether it was concern for her safety or a small nagging lack of trust.
“I will stay in the car,” she said, making the decision for me. It only deepened my confusion over what was bothering her. This was not the naked lady in my apartment.
“Let’s go, Brother Jack,” Gearheardt said. He started off into the trees and I hurried after him before he was lost to me.
“We’ll be back soon, Marta. If anything happens, you and Juan head back to town.”
“Si, Jack.”
On impulse, I leaned back into the dune buggy to kiss her. Spy or not, she was a desirable woman. Supporting my awkward position as I kissed her, my hand rested on her thigh and I felt the pistol she carried strapped to her leg. “Be careful, Jack,” she said.
Gearheardt was waiting for me. “Should I go back and kiss Juan, Jack?” he asked. “He probably feels bad.”
“Let’s go, Gearheardt. I don’t know what to think about Marta. But she is getting inside my head, I’ll admit it.”
He took off through the brush. “I hope she doesn’t meet that woman kick boxer you dated in Thailand in there. That would scare the hell out of her.”
“You dated her, Gearheardt. Not me.” I struggled to keep moving forward; branches, shrubs, fallen logs and imagined fauna holding me back.
“You know, Jack,” Gearheardt said, his voice low, “I’m not sure I ever told you, but there is something incredibly sexy about making love to a woman who could beat the crap out of you if you did something she didn’t like. Kept me on my toes, I’ll tell you.”
“Could we just get focused on what we’re doing? Let’s get close enough to see the area and then lie low for a while to check things out.”
We were slowly making headway as the light from what was now seen as a campfire grew brighter. Finally we stopped and dropped down, coming to within a few yards of the blazing campfire.
Three men sat on improvised seats, logs and stumps, around the fire. They were talking and laughing. Relaxed. Cubans from their appearance. Behind them another fifteen or twenty yards a cabin sat with its door open and lights on inside. I could tell there were men inside, but couldn’t see them. Occasionally one of the men at the fire would yell and be answered from the cabin. My knees began to ache from the crouching position I was in.
Just as I was about to shift positions so that I could whisper to Gearheardt, the sound of singing came from the cabin. A familiar tune, but in Spanish. The men at the fire looked at one another and rolled their eyes.
I gave my pistol to Gearheardt. I didn’t want to look threatening when I approached th
e Cubans. In theory, from what little Crenshaw had told me, these were ‘good’ Cubans. I didn’t know how the scene in Calixtua fit into that, but then there were a lot of things I didn’t know. And I wasn’t finding out squatting in the bushes. I motioned for Gearheardt to stay put.
“Buenos noches, Señores,” I said as I walked toward the fire.
“Buenos noches, Señor.” None of the men rose. In fact none of them seemed very surprised that a gringo had appeared out of the darkness, miles from the nearest town.
The man who had said hello turned and yelled to the cabin. “Señor Armstrong es aqui.” The singing stopped.
From the open door of the cabin, Major Crenshaw, a book in his hand, stepped out. He walked toward me and smiled weakly.
“Hello, Jack. I’ve been expecting you.”
I’m sure I showed my surprise. “You mean you knew I would follow you? You sure didn’t leave many clues.”
Crenshaw frowned. “Follow me? No, the Cubans told me earlier this evening that you were coming.” He looked back at the cabin.
Another man stood in the door. With the light behind him, his face was dark. A gold tooth caught the flash of the campfire when he smiled.
“Ola, Señor Armstrong. And where is your friend, Señor Gearheardt?”
“He couldn’t make it. Trouble in Calixtua made it impossible for him to get away this evening.” He hadn’t mentioned Marta.
“Ess too bad. But under the circumstances it makes no difference. You will not be here for long.” He went down the two steps in front of the cabin and came beside Major Crenshaw. “Our guest is glad to see you, but only for you to take a message.”
“What is the story here, Major? Who are these guys? The good Cubans you were going to meet?”
“Well, I’m afraid not, Jack. They are Cubans, yes. But unfortunately—”
“You come in the cabin, Señor. There is something—”
Major Crenshaw turned rapidly. “I was talking to my associate. Please don’t interrupt me again. We will return to the cabin in a moment.” Obviously Crenshaw was not broken. “Where were we, Jack? Oh yes, these are not the Cubans that I set out to meet. I have no idea who they are.”
Goodbye Mexico Page 14
