Jack Higgins - Dillinger

by Dillinger [lit]

  Dillinger felt the sting again, wondering if there were some kind of relationship between the Frenchman and Rose. She had ruffled his hair as if it were nothing.

  When they had finished their beer, Dillinger took some of Rivera's pesos from his pocket and slapped them on the table. "How about another round?" he said to Fallon.

  "With pleasure," the old man replied, and left.

  Dillinger lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "This man we met on the road today, the one they call Diablo? Juan Ortiz. What do you make of him?"

  "I honestly don't know. When he was young­er, he had a bad reputation. They say he killed at least three men. Knife fights, things like that. There isn't much law in the mountains. I think in the old days he'd have made a name for himself, but that was before the Jesuits at Nacozari got their hands on him."

  "And you really think he's changed?"

  "What was your impression?"

  Dillinger frowned, thinking about it. "I got the feeling he was trying to provoke Rivera in some strange way. It was almost as if he was inviting him to lose control."

  "But why would he do that?" Chavasse asked.

  "I don't know. Maybe to give him the excuse to strike back."

  "This is a country saturated in blood. First the Aztecs, then the conquistadores. In four hundred years, nothing but slaughter."

  "Yet you stay."

  "I stay."

  As Fallon returned with the beer, Dillinger spied Rivera sitting down at a small table. He wore clean clothes and smoked one of his usual cigarillos. When he rapped on the table with his cane, Chavasse got up and went across. He listened to Rivera and went into the kitchen. He returned with a tray containing a bottle of champagne and a glass. He placed them in front of Rivera and came back to the others.

  "Champagne?" Dillinger said blankly. "Here?"

  "Kept especially for Lord God Almighty," Chavasse explained. "One of his favorite ways of publicly indicating the gap between himself and others."

  At that moment Rojas swaggered into the bar, looking as if he'd been drinking. When he saw Rivera, he pulled off his hat and bowed respectfully. Rivera called him over and mur­mured something to him. Rojas nodded and after a moment crossed to the bar and ham­mered on it.

  "What about some service here?"

  Before Chavasse could get up, Rose appeared from the kitchen. She walked round the counter and stood facing him, hands on hips. "In the first place, lower your voice. In the second, take that thing off and hang it in the hall with the others." She pointed to the revolver strapped to his waist.

  Rojas turned meekly and went outside. He came back without the revolver, and she placed a bottle of tequila and a glass on the counter.

  Rojas filled his glass with tequila and swal­lowed it down, the spirit slopping out of the comers of his mouth. Dillinger looked at Rivera, who returned the gaze coolly, filled his glass with champagne, and sipped.

  Dillinger drank some of the lukewarm beer and put the glass down firmly. "How much is that champagne?"

  "Twenty-five pesos a bottle," Chavasse said.

  Dillinger sighed, pulled off his right boot, and extracted a folded bank note from beneath the inner sole. He pulled the boot back on and flicked the note across to the Frenchman.

  "Twenty dollars American. Will that do?"

  "I should imagine so."

  "Then get a bottle and glasses. Ask Rose to join us."

  Chavasse looked at Rivera and grinned, pushed back his chair and went into the kitchen.

  "There goes my mad money," Dillinger said ruefully.

  Chavasse hurried back, followed by Rose with a bottle of champagne and glasses on a tray. Suddenly everyone seemed to be laughing, and there was an atmosphere of infectious gaiety. Dillinger glanced at Rivera, the Mexican return­ing his gaze.

  "To the provider must go the honor of open­ing it," Fallon said.

  As Dillinger reached out, a shadow fell across the table. Rojas pushed Chavasse out of the way and wrapped a huge hand about the bottle. "I always wanted to try this stuff."

  Dillinger grabbed the neck of the bottle firmly. "Then go and buy your own."

  "Why should I, Yankee, when you are here to provide it for me?"

  The Mexican tried to lift the bottle from the table. Dillinger exerted all his strength to keep it there. Rojas grabbed the edge of the table and tried to turn it over while Dillinger leaned his weight against it.

  As Dillinger half turned in his chair, he had a glimpse of Rivera still sitting calmly on the other side of the room sipping champagne. Only now there was a smile on his face, and Dillinger knew that the whole thing had been arranged. Rojas imagining he was going to teach Dillinger his place on the patron's orders. Rivera intent on discovering just how good he was.

  Rose took Rojas by the arm and tried to pull him away. "Please," she said. "No fighting in my place."

  Rojas, his hand still on the champagne bottle, turned toward Rose and spit in her face.

  Chavasse was livid. All Dillinger's repressed anger boiled up. A hard ball of fury rose in his throat, choking him. With a swift movement, he leaned back, removing his weight from the table, and Rojas lost his balance, releasing his grip on the bottle as he sprawled on his hands and knees. Dillinger smashed the bottle across the back of the bull neck and stood up.

  The others moved hurriedly out of the way. Rojas shook his head several times and started to get up. Dillinger snatched up his chair and smashed it across the great head and shoulders once, splintering the chair like matchwood.

  Rose was wiping her face, crying.

  Rojas shook his head, wiping blood from his face casually. He got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Dillinger.

  He stood there swaying, apparently half out on his feet, and Dillinger moved in fast. Rojas took a quick step backwards, then smashed his bull fist savagely into Dillinger's face.

  Dillinger lay on the floor for a moment, his head singing from the force of the blow. Rivera laughed, and, as Dillinger started to his feet, Rojas delivered a powerful blow to his stomach and hit him again on the cheek, splitting the flesh to the bone.

  Rojas came in fast, boot raised to stamp down on the unprotected face. Dillinger grabbed for the foot and twisted, and Rojas fell heavily across him. They rolled over and over, and as they crashed against the wall, Dillinger pulled himself on top. He reached for Rojas's throat and was suddenly thrown backward.

  As Dillinger scrambled to his feet, Rojas rose to meet him. Dillinger feinted with his left and smashed his right fist against the Mexican's mouth, splitting the lips so that blood spurted. Dillinger moved out of range, then feinted again and delivered the same terrible blow. As he stepped back, his foot slipped so that Rojas got home a stunning punch to the forehead that sent Dillinger staggering back against the open window, where he almost went over the low sill. As he straightened up, Rojas lurched for­ward again. Dillinger ducked, twisted a shoul­der inward, and sent the Mexican over his hip through the open window in a savage cross-buttock.

  Dillinger scrambled across the sill, almost losing his balance, and arrived on the board­walk as Rojas rose to his feet. Dillinger, enjoy­ing the best fight he'd had since he was a kid, hit him with everything he had, full in the face, and Rojas went backward into the street.

  For a little while he lay there as Dillinger hung on to one of the posts that supported the porch. Slowly, the Mexican got to his feet. He swayed in the lamplight, his face a mask of blood, eyes burning with hate, and then his hand went around to the back of his belt. As he came forward, a knife gleamed dully.

  Behind Rojas, old Nachita appeared from the darkness like a ghost. The Indian's hand moved in a single smooth motion, and a knife thudded into the boardwalk at Dillinger's feet.

  There was a mist before Dillinger's eyes. He felt as if he had little strength left in him. He picked up the knife and went toward Rojas, the knife held out in front of him.

  He heard a voice say, his own voice like that of a stranger, "Come on, y
ou bastard. If that's the way you want it."

  Rojas, who had been prepared to fight knife-to-hands, not knife-to-knife, stumbled away into the darkness.

  Dillinger swung around, the power in him like a white-hot flame. They were all there on the boardwalk, looking at him strangely in the lamplight, fear on their faces. Rivera stood at the top of the steps, and Dillinger went forward, the knife extended.

  Rivera staggered back, almost losing his balance, and hurried into the hotel. Dillinger was aware of a grip of steel on his arm. Old Nachita took the knife from him, supporting him at the same time, and Rose appeared on the other side.

  She was still crying, and Dillinger couldn't understand why. As they led him forward, he frowned, desperately trying to concentrate, and then, as they reached his room, Fallon appeared and opened the door, his face ablaze with excitement.

  "Jesus, Johnny, I never seed anything like that in my whole damn life. You really took that big ox apart."

  "Johnny?" It was Rose's voice. "I thought your name was Harry. Who are you?"

  He turned to her voice, smiling foolishly and trying to speak, and then the lamp seemed to revolve into a spinning ball that grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the darkness.

  This time J. Edgar Hoover had only one operative standing in front of his desk. He'd just finished reading the man's report.

  "You've got a pretty good fix on him."

  The man said, "He didn't do the California job or the Chicago job. The woman we picked up in Kansas swore she'd seen a white Chevy convertible in Doc's barn. If Doc didn't take it to Florida, maybe Dillinger took it south."

  "You think it's Mexico."

  "Mr. Hoover, if there was this scale manhunt on for me, I'd get out of the country."

  "Okay. Send a wire to Mexico City. Ask them to query the chiefs of police in all northern provinces if a white Chevrolet convertible has been seen driven by an American. Ask them to keep it confidential. Just say the car is stolen and the man who's driving it is probably armed and dangerous."

  Eight

  The desert was a dun-colored haze reaching toward the mountains, the canyons still dark with shadow. It was the best hour of the day, the air cool and fresh before the sun started to draw the heat out of the barren earth.

  Dillinger, behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, Fallon beside him, seemed to ache in every limb. He drove slowly over the rough trail, both to spare himself and because Rose was cantering along beside them on a bay horse.

  "How do you feel?" Rose asked.

  "I guess I'm not very handsome today." The right side of his face was disfigured by a large purple bruise.

  "Do you think it was worth it?"

  He shrugged. "Is anything?"

  She said to Fallon, "Do you think he tries to commit suicide often?"

  "Only on his bad days," the old man replied.

  The trail wound its way between a forest of great tapering pillars of rock and entered a nar­row canyon. In the center it widened into a saucer-shaped bowl, then narrowed again be­fore emerging once more into the plain.

  At this point the track branched off in two directions, and Rose halted. "Here is where I leave you. I'm going straight to the mine. Fa­ther Tomas is staying at the village for a few days and I promised to take him some medicine. Perhaps I'll see you later?"

  Dillinger switched off the motor. "I think maybe we should have a talk first."

  She sat there looking down at him and then nodded, "All right."

  The horse ambled forward. Dillinger got out of the car and walked beside her, a hand on a stirrup. "I hope you don't think I-well, you know, was too pushy last night."

  "As long as you understand that a kiss is not necessarily a promise of better things to come."

  "I'm used to, well, a different kind of woman."

  "You're blushing."

  "I don't blush," Dillinger said sharply.

  "Perhaps it is the sun," she smiled. "I think I'd better tell you something."

  He felt that jealous ping again. He was cer­tain she was going to tell him that she and the Frenchman were involved.

  "Harry-or Johnny-whatever your real name is..." She looked over at Fallon to make sure he was out of earshot. "I was in the telegraph office first thing this morning. There's a police alarm out for a white Chevrolet."

  "From Santos or Hernandez?"

  "To them, from the F.B.I."

  "Damn. Who knows about this?"

  "The telegrapher. He hasn't seen your car. But he is paid by Rivera to tell him everything that comes in over the wire."

  "Are there police in town?"

  "Two. Both old. They won't see the message if Rivera doesn't want them to. Why are they looking for you?"

  "Not me. My car. I must have lent it to a bootlegger."

  You are very charming when you lie." She patted her whinnying horse's neck. "Till later then. Perhaps I can put something on that poor face of yours."

  "What?"

  "My hand," she said, cantering away.

  Half an hour later the white convertible came over a rise, and the track dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below them stood a brown, stone hacienda built in the old colonial style.

  The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with well-kept fences around a large paddock. A worker in riding boots and faded Levis was saddling a gray mare. He turned and looked up at them, shading his eyes with one hand, then went toward the house.

  Dillinger drove into the courtyard and pulled up at the bottom of the steps. As he got out, a little girl ran out of the front door, tripped, and lost her balance. As she started to fall, he moved forward quickly and caught her.

  She was perhaps three years old and wore a blue riding suit with a velvet collar and brass buttons. She was frail, her brown eyes very large in a face that was too pale for a land of sun.

  Dillinger set her on her feet gently, and a woman moved out on to the steps and gathered the child to her. "Juanita, how many times have I told you?" She looked up at Dillinger. "My thanks, senor."

  She was a slender woman with graying hair and a black dress buttoned high to the neck. She wore no jewelry, and her face was lined and careworn, the eyes moving ceaselessly from place to place as if she were continually anx­ious about something.

  As Dillinger removed his hat, Rivera appeared on the porch. He stood there looking at his wife, saying nothing, and she took the child by the hand and hurried inside.

  Rivera turned to Dillinger. "I'd intended com­ing with you to the mine, but there are matters I must attend to here first. Rojas is already there. He'll show you over the place. I'll be along later."

  He went back inside.

  Too bad, Dillinger thought. If he'd known, Rose could have driven with them instead of taking the horse. She could have sat between him and Fallon up front, her left thigh against his right thigh.

  Dillinger drove away, following Fallon's di­rections up out of the valley. The heat was increasing. He could feel the sweat from his back soak through his shirt.

  Finally, they came over the crest of a hill and saw a valley below. Dillinger had seldom seen a more dismal sight in his life. There were perhaps twenty or thirty crumbling adobe houses with a dungheap at one end and what appeared to be an open latrine running straight through.

  There was a well in the center of the village, and a woman was lifting a pitcher of water to the ground as they approached. She was in an advanced state of pregnancy, her belly swollen. She paused, obviously tired, and Dillinger got out of the car.

  He took the pitcher from her and said "Donde su casa?" surprising himself at the bits of Span­ish he had picked up by just listening.

  She pointed silently across the street. He walked before her and opened the door. There was only one room, and it had no windows. It took several moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the half-light. When they did, he saw an old woman stirring something in a pot over a smoldering fire. A few Indian blan­kets in the corner were obviously used for
bedding, but there was no furniture. He put down the pitcher, his stomach heaving at the smell of the place, and went outside.

  "That place isn't fit for a dog to live in," he said to Fallon as he climbed back into the car. "Isn't anyone doing anything for these people?"

  "Rose does what she can. So does Father Tomas. He's the best friend they've got, but they're like zombies. Rivera has the men doing a fourteen- or fifteen-hour day. They're worked so hard they don't give a damn about anything anymore."