Goodbye Mexico

by Phillip Jennings

The crowd quieted and I heard a confident and presidential voice begin, “Damas y Señores.” A fusillade of small arms fire ended his brief tenure as President of Mexico. The bullets also tore through the VIP tent, sending most everyone to the ground. The President of Mexico, proving himself a resourceful man as well as crafty politician, rolled under the table with one of the not Mrs. Presidents. Gearheardt came running toward me and dove to the ground.

  “What the hell?” he yelled over the din. “Who’s shooting for God’s sake?”

  “Who isn’t might be the better question. Are you sure we took care of everybody? How many people did you ask to assassinate the President anyway?”

  The gunfire ended and the band began playing again, the classic March of the One Hundred Tubas. The crowd noise was loud but of indeterminate tenor. Two loyal Mexican secret service men crept past where Gearheardt and I lay, opened the tent flap and dragged the body of the former temporary President of Mexico back into the tent.

  “That son-of-a-bitch better not die,” Gearheardt said.

  “He must have fifty holes in him, Gearheardt. I think he’s earned the right to die without any more of your crap.”

  We slowly got to our feet, dusting off our clothes and adjusting our coats and ties. The tent was rocking with speculation about the attempted assassination and elation at not being assassinated. The former temporary President seemed to be forgotten where he lay, but still breathing. (I later found out that the poor fellow lost a lung, a kidney, both ears and had trouble walking and feeding himself. His suggestion that the same injuries be visited upon the real President so they would still be twins proved he had not lost his sense of humor).

  Marta walked to the bleeding stand-in and knelt beside him. With a sharp whistle she summoned three of her ‘girls’ who began to stop the flow of blood and were generally trying to keep the poor man from dying within sight of a fabulous arrangement of snacks and sweets being gobbled up by dignitaries.

  Then Marta was gone. We found a large pool of blood where she had been standing when the shooting started, but no other signs of her. “I kind of hope she makes it back to Cuba,” Gearheardt said.

  “Gearheardt, where are we?” I asked. “The President wasn’t actually assassinated. Do you think the UN will live up to its side of the bargain?”

  Before he could answer, the American congressional delegation burst into the tent. “Good lord,” one of them exclaimed, “the man’s bleeding to death. Someone get the President a doctor. And I mean right now. I’m a Congressman.” He ignored the three Mexican women who worked on the fallen paid imposter.

  “That man is not the President, Señor,” one of the Mexican diplomats replied.

  “Oh. Well where is he?” He stepped over the temporary President and took a beer from the table. The other Congressmen did the same. The Congressmen’s people did the same. And finally the Congressmen’s wives also stepped over the bleeding body of the former temporary President. “Oh, these foreign countries,” they said.

  The real President of Mexico must have known the Congressmen and their people wouldn’t leave until all of the food was eaten and the wine and beer drunk (and he had ordered plenty), so he came out from underneath the table. The ‘not Mrs. President’ came out from the table at the same time. “Buenos tardes,” the real President said with a broad smile. He held out his hand to be shaken. “We were taking the cover under the table.”

  “Pardner, your fly is unzipped,” said a Congressman from the south.

  The real and still alive President of Mexico grinned and zipped. Evidently not at all embarrassed and opening his shirt to display a bullet proof vest which had probably been meant for the presidential decoy. He introduced the ‘temporary acting and permanently shot’ President’s wife. She must have been also a temporary President’s wife as she adjusted and sipped and shook hands only about fifteen feet from where the bleeding stand-in gasped for breath.

  Diplomatic exchanges were exchanged all around and cards were also exchanged among the staff and lesser diplomats. The Congressman had cards that said Congressman on them. The President apologized for not having cards and all laughed too hard at the thought of a president’s card which said ‘President’ on them. That would be good.

  “Mr. President,” the southern Congressman began, “you might want to take note of the fact that about half the crowd out there seemed to be drawing a bead on you, or him.” He pointed at the stand-in who was being moved onto a stretcher. “Folks might not be too happy with your presidentin’ policies.”

  Gearheardt and I rolled our eyes. We stood just to the rear of the diplomatic gabfest, contemplating our next move.

  “I appreciate very much your concern, Congressman …” The president hesitated, obviously clueless as to the Congressman’s name. “I am sorry that you had to witness this unfortunate event. But no harm is done,” he carefully averted his eyes from the now stretchered stand-in, “and we can talk some business.”

  “Gents, if I might suggest something.”

  It was that damn Gearheardt. He stepped to the diplomatic circle and beamed at the Mexican and American government officials.

  “I represent an intelligence agency which shall for the moment remain nameless. You know, things like this don’t have to happen. These Cuban assassins should not be allowed to run rampant among us democratic countries, shooting and … and, and … shooting stuff.”

  Perhaps those who did not know Gearheardt would not realize that the bastard was just improvising until he could figure out a way to get either the Mexican or American officials to help his scheme which seemed to be falling apart. Neither the Congressman or the President would look him in the eye.

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Gearheardt withdrew.

  “Jack, I believe that the professionals have taken over. In this case, I mean those people who make their living by protecting their own ass and manipulating every situation for their own gain. Politicians.” He turned back to the officials. “Let’s hear what happens and then we’d better make tracks.”

  I was still too numb to respond. I felt bad for Gearheardt. Although I knew that he would let all this roll off his back, I also knew that he recognized how quickly the field men, so important just moments ago, would be now forgotten. The politicians and policy makers moved in like lava flowing down the side of a volcano.

  The President was changing tactics. “The Americans were behind this outrage,” he said. “It is fortunate that only an impersonator was killed,” an aide whispered to him. “Was badly wounded,” he corrected himself. “Why do the Americans cause so much trouble in my country?” He wasn’t addressing anyone in particular. It was just a speech he had to get out of the way before reparations and oil treaties could be renegotiated.

  The aide whispered to the President again.

  “It is the American CIA that is causing the trouble according to my sources,” the President said.

  “I’m not surprised,” said a Congressman who had narrowly escaped the Model 156 the previous evening. “It’s time we rein those outlaws in. They cannot be allowed to operate outside the U.S. if they don’t know how to—”

  One of his aides whispered in his ear. The Congressman craned his head around to look at the aide. “They can’t? Nothing domestic?”

  The President of Mexico, an expert negotiator, spoke up. “So it is agreed. The American intelligence agencies were responsible for the attempt on my life. I will expel them from my country and demand, say, one hundred million dollars.”

  “You have to kick the Russian intelligence agency out too,” said the first congressman. “And we get to drill closer to the Mexican shoreline in the Gulf.” His demands seemed well prepared and I wondered who had briefed him that he might have this opportunity.

  “It is done,” said the President. He wanted to get rid of the Russians anyway. And “closer to the Mexican shoreline” was vague enough to get approval from his business associates at PEMEX. After much hand shaking and bac
k slapping, the President and the Congressmen left.

  “We’re screwed, I’ll bet,” Gearheardt said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure we were ever in the game, let alone scored any points. C’mon, Jack, let’s get to Las Palomas to see what’s happened. I sure hate to face those girls if the UN backs down.”

  “What about the Pope’s support?” I asked. Surely there was a way to save Pussy Galoreland and the dreams of thousands and thousands of girls.

  “I would imagine the Pope thinks I pissed in his pointy hat. He’s not going to help us out of this, Jack. We’re screwed.”

  I described my vision of the political lava taking over and sweeping us aside, after we had done the hard and dangerous work.

  Gearheardt stopped thoughtfully for a moment. “Yes, Jack. I sometimes feel like one of the virgins tossed into the flaming crater to appease the gods of U.S. foreign policy.”

  “Well that may be a bit strong—”

  “Screw ’em, Jack. Let’s go.” Gearheardt laughed and slapped my shoulder.

  “Ayudame,” the former temporary President said as we stepped over him.

  The contingent of Russians was passing by as we exited the VIP tent.

  “Pedophiles,” Gearheardt said to them. Luckily they were too beaten up to respond physically. One of them gave us the finger. “Oh, cute,” Gearheardt said. I could tell he was aching for a fight.

  I grabbed him and pulled him away from the stage. “We don’t know for sure the game is lost, Gearheardt. Let’s get to Las Palomas and see what the messages are.”

  “Jack, even the American congressmen are falling all over themselves to blame the CIA. The rotten bastards.”

  We were walking past the now deserted fountain area. “It was a CIA operation, Gearheardt. I’m not saying I blame us, but … who else should be blamed?”

  The plaza was almost empty except for the sweepers and the men taking apart the stage and VIP tent. It was eerie in the concrete valley. I wondered if we would ever come to a point in America where the President sends a double to the podium to see if any one shoots him, before he himself will appear in front of a crowd. I shared my thoughts with Gearheardt as we walked along.

  “Jack, the actual president of the United States hasn’t appeared in public since Woodrow Wilson ventured out one time when he was president. With of course the notable exception of JFK, who was promptly shot.”

  We stopped at the edge of the plaza, near the sinking church, and Gearheardt looked around. “We almost got a country for people who don’t deny they’re whores, Jack. That would have been something.”

  We stood for a while, wistful, as the plaza emptied. It seemed fitting that the earlier hoopla was now just a street-mess of half-eaten tacos and crowd debris.

  “You know, Gearheardt,” I started, “one disappointment I guess I’ll always have is Marta. I really liked her. She seemed to be a very nice girl. Smart and … well, attractive in a naked sort of way.”

  Gearheardt smiled, not looking at me. “Jack, Jack, Jack,” he said. “You know women like I know Mongolian weaving patterns. Marta didn’t betray us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who went to the side of the shot up fake president? Who called her girls out of the crowd to help? Don’t you think that if she’d wanted us dead, we’d be dead?”

  “She had a gun on me, Gearheardt. And you pulled a gun on her.”

  “The tent was full of her compatriots, Jack. When I knew that the plan was falling apart, I wanted to let her write her own ticket. She deserved that. She could either throw in with us—the CIA has a great history of hugging Cuban whores to it’s breast—or she could choose to go back to Cuba and make the best of things. She did what she thought she had to do.” He turned to me. “And I’m afraid that one of the wild shots hit her. That blood she was standing in wasn’t all from the perforated president.”

  I felt sick. Knowing that I had been right in my intuition about Marta didn’t make me feel better. We had either compromised her or worse, maybe gotten her shot.

  Gearheardt smiled and clapped me on the back. “Jack, it wasn’t your deal, and it wasn’t your fault. Don’t take the world on your shoulders.”

  I smiled back weakly.

  “Hell, maybe since the real president didn’t get shot, and we did stop the Cubans from killing him, we can still pull this off. The pope and the UN will step aside and give us Cuba without a battle.” Gearheardt squeezed my shoulder.

  “You know, you’re right. Do you really think there’s a chance?”

  The smile left as quickly as it had appeared. “Not a prayer, Jack. The Mexicans already have their story. The CIA is bobbing and weaving out of the picture, and the pope is probably boarding the pope-plane for Havana as we stand here, dicks in hand. I just thought you looked so pathetic I’d try to cheer you up before you committed suicide or something. You need to be able to roll with the punches a bit, Jack.”

  He squeezed my shoulder again and then dropped his hand.

  “Let’s head over to Las Palomas. Maybe a miracle will happen.”

  We began a sad walk through the streets of Mexico City. At the corner across from the Las Palomas a policeman brought two fingers to the bill of his cap and gave a lazy salute.

  “You know, Gearheardt, we managed to walk around with guns, move in and out of a tent where the fake president of Mexico was lying in a pool of blood, and then stroll out of the plaza. I know the Mexican police are lax, but you would have thought—”

  “Rodrigo.”

  Jack stopped. “You’re kidding. Does he have that kind of pull with the police?”

  “Daisy told me this morning when you were grabbing coffee. The girls paid for our protection today. Rodrigo was the go-between. He appreciated your help rescuing his son, Jack. Sometimes the lesser of us are the most appreciative.”

  That statement reminded me of Gearheardt’s discussions with the Assistant God—the squadron chaplain—in Vietnam. But I just said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  When we entered the war room at Las Palomas, we weren’t welcomed as heroes. But we weren’t jeered as failure either. Daisy and Isabella both embraced and kissed Gearheardt and shook hands with me. It did a lot for my ego to have two hookers decline to embrace me, but I knew that bigger issues were at hand.

  “Isabella, bring the messages to me, por favor,” Gearheardt said. He took off his jacket, removed his shoulder holster and hand-held howitzer, and plopped down at his desk. “Have a seat, Jack. Help me sort out the damages and then we’ll plan our next move. I think you may be unemployed.” He smiled that warm Gearheardt smile that always made me want to punch his face.

  Isabella brought a short stack of messages and put them in front of Gearheardt.

  “Señor Gearheardt,” she said, “we need to talk about the girls in many cities. I will gather the information and then we can discuss, no?”

  “You bet, Isabella. Let me see if there are any action items and then we can address the girl’s issues. You look lovely back in your yellow, by the way.”

  Tragedy did not prevent blushing.

  “Okay, what have we got here?” Gearheardt picked up the top sheet. “Oh this is nice.” He turned the paper around and held it up for me to read.

  It said, “Nice try, jackass. Come over here and I’ll kick your butt. Fidel Castro.”

  “Boy, the word got back to him quick,” Gearheardt said. “I wish we could send a few Marines in there just to make him piss his pants.”

  He read a few pages without comment. Then he grimaced and handed a teletype to me.

  Quan Zhoe Manufacing to Gearhat. Model 156 is new moder. Engineer have tow suggestin. Warning-do not have election with Model 156 on body, many lawsute. Two, loose screw (metar item not doing) on side of Model 156 with smar knife. Put stick in loose place and remove screw. Pull stuck items from Model 156 with grease attached. Work sometime. You due us $115000. Quan Zhoe Manufacing.

  “Well, that clears that up,” I said. “What
are you going to do?”

  “I’ll have the girls clean up the message and post it to the embassies around the world. Maybe it will get down to those who need it, maybe not.” He put down the sheet he was reading. “Jack, the girls will spring the trap in most cases. Their lives are just going to get worse, so why not put a few of the enemy out of action permanently. A couple more for you to look at and then I’m burning the whole pile, Jack. Victory has a mother but defeat is a bastard.”

  “Nicely put. Who are these from?” I said, taking the papers from him.

  “The top one is from Waldheim. Arrogant asshole.”

  Your correspondence unclear. This office not involved in Cuba or Vatican activity. Notice to press would be unwise. Skeletons in your background could prove harmful. Go to hell.

  “Offhand, Gearheardt, I would say the UN is out of the deal.”

  “And this one from the DCI. Our boss. It’s nice of him to warn me.”

  Gearheardt. I was obviously kidding about taking the job as DCI for Galoreland. Please destroy the previous teletypes as you must have misunderstood my position. Thanks for your good service to the company. I should inform you that you will be hunted down and killed like a dog in the street.

  “Get this, Jack.” He handed the next sheet to me. “The Agency always overreacts to situations. This came in the same time the DCI’s message came it. I think it was meant for your embassy office.”

  Office of DCI. Effectively immediately the Central Intelligence Agency will be known as the Agency of Central Intelligence, the ACI. To avoid confusion, destroy all letterhead and monogrammed material including hats and tee-shirts. Do not notify foreign nationals or allies. Blame Gearheardt. This will be my last communication as DCI CIA. Vernon Savage, ACI DCI. (Not my real name).

  He took two more pages from the stack and then shoved the remaining stack off his desk into a waste basket. “I like this one,” he said.

  Gearheardt. It may be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a lightning bolt to bounce off the pavement, penetrate your anus and fry you from the ground up. I am praying, however, that God will find a way. My money’s on Him. Love, Pointy Hat.