The Wild Girl: The Notebooks of Ned Giles, 1932
Page 6
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This is an historic occasion for the great city of Douglas and for our great nation.” It was warm in the packed hall, and the mayor dabbed his upper lip with a handkerchief. “Most of you know the story of poor little Geraldo Huerta,” he continued, “so rudely torn at the tender age of three years from the bosom of his family by bloodthirsty Apache Indians, his mother murdered in the course of the abduction.” He paused, pursed his lips tightly together.
“Seated behind me,” the mayor continued, “is little Geraldo’s father, Señor Fernando Huerta”—he turned and indicated the man—“who comes before us tonight to ask the brave citizens of Douglas to help him recover his beloved son.” The mayor lowered his head for a moment as if in silent prayer. “Many of our older residents still remember the Apache wars in this country,” he continued in a lower voice. “It wasn’t really that long ago, and they remember all too well the unspeakable atrocities the godless savages committed against our fine, God-fearing citizens. But we routed them out, finally, didn’t we? We whupped them good, and those who surrendered we sent to prison and to live on reservations where they belong.” Now the mayor turned back toward Señor Huerta. “And so, sir, I think I speak for all of us when I say that the great city of Douglas will not stand idly by for another moment while your little boy is still held captive. We will not rest until the last bronco Apache in the Sierra Madre is dead, and your son is safe again in your arms. Isn’t that right, ladies and gentlemen?” The audience began to applaud and whistle enthusiastically.
“Yes, that’s right,” said the mayor, pumping his hand, “that’s right! The people of Douglas have spoken. Thank you very much!”
The mayor waited for the crowd to settle. Then he continued. “Tonight it is my great honor to formally announce a heroic joint Mexican-American expedition into old Mexico to rescue little Geraldo,” he said. “And I predict that one day your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will read about the glories of the Great Apache Expedition in their American history books!” The mayor paused again and looked up with an expectant smile to cue the audience that it was time to applaud once more, which they dutifully did.
“Thank you, thank you all very much,” he said. “Now, before I tell you more details about this exciting venture, let me first introduce to you the supreme commander of our forces, Colonel Hermenegildo Carrillo!” The mayor turned beaming to the colonel, who sat directly to his right.
Colonel Carrillo stood up to cheers from the audience and took an elaborate bow, raising his arm in a wave and sweeping it grandly across his body. He was a slender, elegant man, resplendently attired in a closely tailored dress uniform laden with medals and ribbons and gold-fringed epaulets. He wore a closely trimmed mustache and pomaded black hair, and in fact, he did look a bit like the silent film star Rudolph Valentino.
“Thank you, Colonel, thank you,” said the mayor, his face flushed and perspiring. He made a little soundless clapping motion with the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other. “God be with you and your brave men.
“Now, many of you have seen our flyers around town,” the mayor continued after the colonel had resumed his seat and the crowd had settled. “What you may not know is that over the past several months our personnel committee has mailed out literature to exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in over twenty major cities across the United States. We have received, in response, dozens of letters and over one hundred and sixty applications for the Great Apache Expedition from prospective volunteers all across the country. If I might just read to you from one or two of the letters that typify the kind of response our mailings have elicited.” The mayor cleared his throat. “This one is from a Dr. R. G. Davenport of the Denver Country Club in Denver, Colorado. ‘Sirs: If you contemplate going in after those Indians soon, I should count it a very great privilege to join you. I have hunted big game in Africa and in many parts of America, but I am sure that shooting an Apache Indian would give me a greater thrill than any animal I have heretofore shot at.’” The mayor looked up with raised eyebrows, his pursed smile. “That’s the spirit, Doctor,” he said, punching the air with a fist. He held up another letter. “And this one is from Ellsworth Q. Drazy of Dwight, Illinois,” he continued. ‘Has your expedition room for a fellow who has done two hitches in the Marine Corps and one in the navy? I never fought Indians, but I have chased spics all around Haiti and Nicaragua and was in the landing and occupation at Vera Cruz. I guess I’ll have the guts to chase these birds …’” At this, Colonel Carrillo shot the mayor a look of utter astonishment, but the mayor, so caught up in his enthusiasm, seemed entirely oblivious to the racial epithet. “Now, isn’t that just wonderful?” he asked. “What a great country we live in that this poor little child’s terrible plight would draw so on the heartstrings of Americans all across the land.” He paused here and lowered his head as if quite overcome with emotion.
Finally he pulled himself together and continued. “Please let me assure the fine citizens of Douglas that this will be no soldier-of-fortune affair, that the men we handpick for this mission will be of the most unimpeachable character and credentials. As many of you have undoubtedly read in recent editions of the Douglas Daily Dispatch, we have recruited young men from some of America’s most prominent families. Many of our volunteers have already begun to arrive and I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome them to our fair city.” The mayor scanned the audience. “Yes, I believe that I spy Mr. Tolbert Phillips Jr. of the railroad Phillipses of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in the audience tonight. Mr. Phillips, won’t you please stand up and take a bow?”
As if perfectly accustomed to such celebrity, Tolley Phillips, beaming goofily, stood and waved to the crowd, sweeping his arm back and forth like the pope.
“At the suggestion of the committee,” continued the mayor, “Mr. Phillips, among other of our illustrious guests, has brought his string of polo ponies here with him. And Colonel Carrillo, himself an accomplished equestrian, has formed a special cavalry unit within the expedition. Despite the gravity of our mission, and the rigors of training which the men will undergo in the coming weeks, we’ve also arranged for some fine recreation. For example, as part of the pre-expedition activities in town, we will be organizing polo matches at the rodeo grounds between the American volunteers and the Mexican army soldiers. It should be tremendous fun and we hope you will all turn out to cheer the men on.
“Now I’m sure that everyone has noticed,” said the mayor, lowering his voice to a more confidential tone, “the increased air traffic recently in the skies above our fair city. This is because some of our volunteers are arriving in Douglas via private aeroplane. Yes, that’s right. And Colonel Carrillo has also formed a special aviation unit for those who wish to fly their own aeroplanes into Mexico.”
Wade Jackson had left his camera and sidled up beside me. “God, isn’t this magnificent, kid?” he whispered gleefully. “A bunch of rich guys on polo ponies chasing Apaches in the Sierra Madre! Flying their own airplanes! It’s too fuckin’ good to be true. Did you get a shot of the mayor, kid? What a hopeless windbag.”
“I got the shot, Big Wade,” I whispered.
“Now, another little piece of exciting news,” continued the mayor, “which has just been conveyed to me by our own Mr. Bill Curry, editor in chief of the Douglas Daily Dispatch. We are very fortunate to have with us here tonight a young photojournalist by the name of Ned Giles, who has just arrived in Douglas on special assignment to the Chicago Tribune!”
“Oh no,” I muttered.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” whispered Big Wade.
“Ned will be accompanying our forces into the Sierra Madre as the official expedition photographer,” said the mayor. “Ned Giles, won’t you please make yourself known to the crowd.”
“You’re on, kid,” Big Wade said, beginning to clap loudly. “God, I feel just like a proud papa.”
I raised my hand and waved sheepishly as the crowd applauded enthusiastically.
I couldn’t help but look over at Tolley, who was staring at me, dumbfounded.
The meeting adjourned, and as Big Wade and I were packing up our camera gear, Mayor Cargill and some of his chamber members came over to us.
“Delighted to have you aboard, young man,” the mayor said. “Let me introduce you to a few members of our committee. This is Rex Rice, director of transportation. Rex is our town’s foremost real estate broker.”
Rice was a trim, smiley fellow, dressed in a natty blue blazer and bow tie. “Pleasure to meet you, young man,” he said. “If you have a chance to mention in one of your articles that there are some great buys to be had on ranch land in the Douglas area, I’d sure appreciate it.”
A round, bespectacled fellow in suspenders stepped forward. “T. T. Schofield, here,” he said, shaking my hand.
“T.T. is our director of equipment,” the mayor said. “He manages our local JCPenney store.”
“And this is Chief of Police Leslie Gatlin,” the mayor said. “Director of personnel.”
The chief of police sized me up with small, hard eyes. “You don’t mind my saying so, son,” he said, gripping my hand an instant longer than was really necessary, “you look awful wet behind the ears to be working for a national newspaper.” It occurred to me that a single phone call to the Chicago Tribune would expose me as a fraud.
“I’m just a freelancer, sir,” I said, holding his grip. “I don’t really work for them officially.”
“Even the big papers are laying off staff these days, Chief,” Big Wade explained. “It’s a lot cheaper to use hungry young stringers like Ned here.”
Just then Tolley Phillips came over to us, and I was grateful that his presence diverted everyone’s attention from me. The mayor introduced Tolley fawningly; Mr. Rice offered to show him some ranch land outside town; T. T. Schofield told him to come on down to the JCPenney store and he’d see that he was properly outfitted for the Sierra Madre. When it came the chief’s turn, Gatlin looked Tolley up and down with enormous distaste. “Ready to have a go at those Apaches, are you, Mr. Phillips?”
Tolley may be a big sissy, but he’s got a certain self-possession that I’ve noticed in other rich kids—brought up secure in the knowledge that most of the rest of the world works for them. He ignored Gatlin’s obvious sarcasm and said: “As director of personnel, you’re just the fellow I need to see, Chief.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Phillips?” Gatlin asked.
“I shall be requiring the services of a valet to attend to my needs in the wilderness,” Tolley said. “I’d like you to arrange interviews for me with prospective candidates.”
“I suppose I can do that, sir,” Gatlin said, clearly offended by Tolley’s imperious tone. “Though I’m afraid that trained valets are in somewhat short supply in these parts.”
“No experience necessary, Chief,” Tolley said, smiling. “I’m quite capable of training my own help.”
“Yes, well, some of our committee members are headed over the border tonight for a touch of legal libation,” the mayor interjected nervously. “A little cantina called Las Primorosas. Perhaps we’ll see you over there, gentlemen.” He moved his entourage along.
“What’d you do that for, Tolley?” I asked.
“You heard how he spoke to me, Giles,” Tolley said. “How filled with contempt he was. I was simply exercising my own leverage, which is my money and my family name. I needed to remind him that I’m his employer. A notion that drives manly men like the chief wild.”
I introduced Tolley to Wade Jackson.
“If I may give you some advice, son,” Big Wade said to him. “The mayor is mostly harmless. But I don’t care who your father is, or how much money you have, you don’t want to fuck with Chief Gatlin. He’s smart, and he’s mean as a snake.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Jackson,” Tolley said. “And I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Now, if you boys will excuse me,” Big Wade said, “I’m headed south of the border myself tonight. I have a date with a bottle of mescal and a pretty señorita. You come on down to the paper in the next couple of days, kid,” he said to me. “I’ll show you around, get you set up with that Leica.”
“I like him,” Tolley said as we watched Big Wade lumber off. “And as for you, old sport, haven’t you certainly come up in the world! What’s this about the Chicago Tribune? Why, not an hour ago, we were discussing the terms of your employment as my valet.”
“You were discussing the terms of my employment as your valet, Tolley,” I said. “Didn’t I tell you I was going to get a job on the expedition as a photographer?”
“Indeed you did, Giles,” Tolley said, “and I don’t know how you did it. But this calls for a celebration. Let me buy you a drink at Las Primorosas. You do know what that means in Spanish, don’t you, old sport?”
“No.”
Tolley raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. “The beautiful girls!”
“I thought you didn’t like girls, Tolley?”
“Wouldn’t lay a finger on one,” he said. “But you never know what other opportunities for love lurk in the dark shadows of old Mexico.”
I realized as Tolley and I made our way down the dirt main street of Agua Prieta, that this was the first time I’d ever been out of the United States. And though we were only a hundred yards or so over the border, I already had the clear sense that truly I had entered a foreign land. It was Friday night and the street was crowded with vendors and hucksters selling food and trinkets, sex and cockfights. There were Indians dressed in brightly colored costumes, and beggars, some of them diseased or missing limbs, gaunt slinking dogs and street urchins. There were bars and cantinas and dance halls on every block, many of their doors open to the cool night air, so that tinny Mexican mariachi music and warm, smoky, perfume-and-tequila-scented air spilled into the street.
A young boy sidled up to us. “Hey, gringos,” he whispered confidentially in English, “you wish to go to the whorehouse, meet pretty girls.”
“Ah, not tonight, young lad,” said Tolley. “Perhaps another time.”
The boy tagged along behind. “You wish to see a senorita make love with a donkey?” he asked.
Tolley stopped, seemed to consider. “Hmmmm … A donkey, huh?”
The boy shrewdly sized Tolley up. “Fifis,” he whispered. “You wish hombres?”
“Now you’re talking, young lad,” said Tolley.
“Speak for yourself, Tolley,” I said. “I’m going to Las Primorosas.”
“Alas, perhaps later, little man,” Tolley said to the boy. “Right now we’re in dire need of refreshment.”
“For only one American dollar,” the boy said, “I take you to Las Primorosas.”
“We’ll find it on our own, thanks, kid,” I said.
“For only one American dollar, I show you the whole town,” said the boy, waving his arm expansively.
“Enterprising little bugger, aren’t you?” Tolley said. “I would give you a dollar just to leave us alone.”
The boy held out his hand.
Tolley fished a dollar from his wallet and handed it to him.
“Follow me, señors,” he said. “I take you to Las Primorosas.”
“Hey, wait just a minute,” Tolley protested. “I thought we made a deal.”
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
“Jesus,” he said.
“Lead the way, Jesus.”
A soft yellow light fell through the doorway of Las Primorosas. Inside wide plank floors were polished to a smooth scalloped patina, reflecting the flames from candles and gas lanterns. A mariachi band with strings and horns played at one end of the cantina and a few couples danced. A number of men sat up at the bar, quite a few Americans among them. Others sat at tables drinking with the Mexican whores, who wore gaily colored off-the-shoulder dresses with low-cut bodices and bright paper flowers in their hair. I waved to Wade Jackson, who sat with a pretty Mexican woman in the dim light at the end of the bar.
“You know what else, Tolley?” I asked.
“What?”
“Today is my birthday.”
“Well, damn, why didn’t you say so, old sport?” Tolley said. “This calls for a real celebration! Although I have a suspicion that French champagne might be hard to come by in this establishment.”
“I don’t care about champagne, Tolley,” I said, “but I do have a favor to ask you.”
“Anything, mi amigo.”
“Stop calling me old sport, would you? I’m younger than you are.”
“Just an expression, Giles,” Tolley said with feigned hurt feelings. “Everyone uses it these days in the halls of the Ivy League. Haven’t you read Gatsby?”
“Yeah, but Fitzgerald was using it ironically.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Giles,” Tolley said, “you don’t need to lecture me about Fitzgerald’s use of irony. I’m an English major myself, you know.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to you, old sport. Happy birthday and all that rot. And congratulations on your new position.”
I drank the shot in one quick toss as I had learned to do with whiskey back home. It was the first time I’ve tasted mescal, and I could feel the raw heat of it going down my throat, spreading through my stomach like a small depth charge, burning its path to my brain. To think that several hours earlier I’d been as low as I ever had in my life, feeling so sorry for myself that I had almost given up and headed back to Chicago. Now I had my first real job as a photographer, it was my seventeenth birthday, and I was sitting at a corner table in a Mexican cantina, an exotic new world of color, light, and smell, listening to lively mariachi music, watching the musicians and the pretty girls, the couples dancing, the men laughing at the bar.