In a Lady’s Service

by Tom Ardies

  “Oh, I do,” Mendoza said, eyes dancing. That he had already done enough to wreck ten romances mattered not a whit. This was ritual now, an act of faith, a vital thread in the weave of his life. Like all true believers, Mendoza feared some dire consequence, a cataclysmic blow from the offended heavens, if he did not turn the knife to its fullest. “One other thing. We require the whores to see a doctor once a week. That might not be a bad idea for you.”

  Enough was enough for the widow Fadden. Choking, her face ashen, she rose wildly and crashed away, bumping against a table, knocking over a chair.

  Mendoza watched her go and then turned proudly to Buchanan. “Well? What do you say to that?”

  “Gracias,” Buchanan said bitterly.

  “De nada,” Mendoza said. “It is nothing.” He bowed all around once more and went whistling from the bar.

  Buchanan reclaimed his drink and shrugged off the disaster as best he could. A disdainful look at Mendoza’s departing figure and then a glib explanation. “A dog on his rounds—pissing on everyone he meets.”

  Marina threw her head back, her neck a white, pulsing snake. Her laughter slowly struggled free, then soared like a bird to the glass roof, flitting there in joyous release. Herbert and Adele could resist only a moment before their own raucous bellows burst forth and then even the fairy chimed in with his tinkle. What a thigh slapper. Soon his mascara would run.

  Buchanan sank down miserably in his chair. Wasn’t this generous of the Deity?—a rare gift that he could evoke such ecstasy in all who crossed his path?

  “You charge?” Marina gasped, fighting for control. “You ask a fee? Compensation?”

  “I accept favors,” Buchanan admitted in a strangled voice. There was no profit in weaseling at this stage. He’d only look more the fool.

  “How much?”

  “I leave that to the lady,” Buchanan said. “Whatever she thinks my services are worth.” He finally managed a brave smile. “The only bargain left in Mexico.”

  Marina opened her purse and removed a fat wad. She peeled off ten bills and held them up for his examination. One thousand pesos. Eighty dollars.

  Buchanan felt hypnotized by the money. The sad truth was that he could use it. Noli’s warning was still fresh in his mind. Rivas had been around. “For an evening’s entertainment?”

  “For a hard day’s work,” Marina said. “Let me give you fair warning. I’m expecting miracles.” She laughed and turned to the arrangement’s witnesses. “Perhaps you’d care to join us?”

  Adele licked at her lips with a pink tongue. “Why not? It sounds like fun, doesn’t it, Herbert?”

  “So far,” Herbert agreed.

  “It’s settled then,” Marina said. “Seven o’clock tomorrow morning. In front of the hotel.”

  Buchanan tossed back the last of his scotch. This was getting completely out of hand. He hadn’t participated in an orgy for years.

  Harry really wasn’t a fairy. It was just part of a clever disguise, as were the orange toupee and the built-up shoe, which he now dragged so convincingly across the sparkling tile floor in the Geneve’s lobby.

  He went to a pay phone and had the long-distance operator connect him to a private number in the executive offices of Winkle, Herzog, and Terful in Hamburg. Terful answered the phone, there no longer being any Winkle or Herzog.

  “It is done,” Harry told him.

  “Zat is goot,” Terful said. “You vil ztand by in caze of trouble?”

  “Why should there be trouble?” Harry asked.

  Terful’s laugh was a cackle. “Vy zhouldn’t zere be?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Buchanan couldn’t believe his eyes when he emerged from the hotel the next morning. One of the worst rattletraps he had ever seen was parked in front. The poorest of peasants would be offended if offered a ride.

  “What’s this?” he demanded, honestly not knowing. The tattered tail fins suggested something manufactured by Dodge twenty years before but all other evidence of the maker’s name had mercifully fallen off.

  “A car,” Marina answered, smiling sweetly from the rear seat. Adele was beside her, bubbling with anticipation, and Herbert was curled in the corner, still half asleep.

  “It was at one time, perhaps,” Buchanan admitted. His disbelief grew as he surveyed the pitiful hulk. Even in repose it shuddered, the engine clanking ominously, black smoke billowing from the exhaust. “Whatever possessed you to hire this wreckage?”

  “The best I could get,” Marina said. “None of the regular tour drivers would take us.” She unfolded a map and spread it open on her bony knees. “We’re headed a bit off the beaten track. Rough roads.”

  “Is that so?” Buchanan said, warning bells clanging in his head. “And might I be so bold as to inquire how far off?”

  “You might,” Marina said. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way. Now, get in, please. We’re late.”

  Buchanan peered in at the driver, a wasted youth who was sitting stiffly behind the wheel, a blank look on his face. “Is this thing in any sort of decent repair?”

  The youth shrugged thin shoulders in an old USAF jacket several sizes too large for him. “Quién sabe?”

  Buchanan turned back to Marina. “Did you hear that? This boy knows nothing about it!”

  “Because he’s not the regular driver,” Marina said, her tone suggesting she had explained all this before. “The regular driver is sick. Sebastian is his cousin.”

  “Oh, good,” Buchanan said, “and when did the regular driver get sick, pray tell? When you advised him where we were going?”

  “You are not amusing,” Marina said.

  Nor are you, Buchanan thought. He had a mind to turn on his heel. To go anywhere in this disaster was sheer madness. But somewhere off a main road?

  “We’re late,” Marina reminded him.

  Buchanan glanced about uncomfortably. Pepe the doorman was losing his impeccable dignity, the porters were grinning foolishly, and the wretched shoeshine boys were snickering. He’d soon be surrounded by a whole herd of braying donkeys. Already passersby were taking pause.

  “Well?”

  “Oh, all right,” Buchanan said. He got into the car and took his reserved seat beside Sebastian. Anything to avoid a public spectacle in front of the hotel. He’d go as far as the first breakdown and then quietly make his escape.

  “Proceed,” Marina ordered.

  “Sí,” Sebastian said. He took out a pair of thick spectacles, carefully fitted them to his nose, moved the gearshift into drive with equal care, and then lurched away from the curb without looking. Only luck saved them from being squashed by a truck.

  Buchanan closed his eyes in prayer. How was it possible to have a driver in a sadder state than the car? He could hear a cacophony of protests from all sides—brakes squealing, horns honking, drivers cursing—as they shot across the first intersection.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Adele gushed. “I’ve got a tingly feeling all over. The same way Ponce de León must have felt.”

  Really? Buchanan wondered why a brush with death would do that. He closed his eyes and pumped imaginary brakes as Sebastian completed several wild maneuvers that somehow brought them safely onto Insurgentes. There he permitted himself a quick peek that confirmed they were headed south. That gave him some hope. It was a long drive out of town this way. The car should expire before the city limits, and when it did, he was off and running.

  Marina leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder imperiously. “Have you ever heard of Santa Luisa?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s where we’re going,” she said, drawing a circle on her map and passing it to him. “A very small village. Here.”

  Buchanan opened an eye for another quick peek. The circle was around a mere speck in the Guerrero mountains. It was at least a hundred kilometers off the Acapulco Highway, and the road into it, if it could be properly called a road, was marked as a barely visible hairline twisting back and forth on itself.
No wonder drivers of regular cars-for-hire had refused to traverse the thing. It looked little more than a goat path.

  “You’re joshing.”

  “I am not.”

  “But you’ll never make it in this rattletrap.”

  “We shall see.”

  Buchanan gave up and passed back the map. It was pointless to argue with her. The only other way into the village would be by bus, and it would be more poultry truck than public conveyance, its passengers a band of ruffians, its chances of breakdown about equal. So why not hire a tour car in such a sad state no further harm could befall it, install a happy idiot behind the wheel, and bring along as many more as possible for protection?

  “It’s worth the try,” Adele assured him, ripe with anticipation. “Wait ’til you hear what’s there.”

  “No, thank you,” Buchanan told her. What could be there except some stupid ruin of doubtful authenticity? He’d seen enough ruins. He was riding in one—and in the employ of another.

  “Oh, you’ll be interested, all right,” Marina purred. “Considering your age …”

  Buchanan turned to look at her. He was hardly over the hill, and listen to who was talking, anyway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  For answer, Marina dug into her handbag, removing a worn newspaper clipping. She handed it to him defiantly. “Read that.”

  Buchanan did as instructed and could barely keep a straight face. The article had been cut from some obscure journal called The Good Earth’s Good News. The author, wisely identified only as D.D., raved on forever about the miraculous healing powers attributed to Mexico’s curadores, the wild rush of his rhetoric suggesting payment by the inch. His pièce de résistance—the jewel which had so dazzled Marina—was possibly the worst example of unsubstantiated reportage in the whole sordid history of journalism.

  “Thank you,” Buchanan said softly, not even bothering to finish it. The evidence calling for Marina’s confinement was the strongest he had encountered in years. Imagine the poor daffy mounting this ridiculous expedition on the basis of a bedtime story.

  “You’ve read it all?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am not interested.”

  “You are paid to be interested,” Marina reminded him, snatching the clipping back. “Quote: ‘Doña Otelia, the curadora at Santa Luisa, on the Rio Tecpan, is said to possess a remarkable salve with almost panacean properties. It reputedly provides instant relief for almost all types of pain, no matter how severe, and is also claimed to quickly heal all manner of wounds, burns, and sores. But what is most amazing about Doña Otelia’s incredible nostrum is that many of her patients remain strangely vigorous and youthful in appearance despite advanced years. Could it be that she has discovered a cure for that variable set of symptoms called old age?’ ”

  “Bah,” Buchanan said.

  “You might investigate before you ridicule.”

  Buchanan scoffed. “Like your friend D.D.?”

  “It’s in a newspaper,” Adele pointed out, holding up the proof.

  “The Good Earth’s Good News?” Buchanan said, laughing. “Now, there’s a rag of renown for you. I’d feel a trifle more optimistic if that burble had appeared in the New York Times.”

  “Oh, sure,” Marina said disdainfully, “and join the stampede. That road you’re so worried about—it would be paved by now.”

  Buchanan thought that would be fine by him. Then the police might be enticed to patrol it. “Let me see that again,” he ordered, repossessing the clipping from Adele. “If D.D. isn’t totally irresponsible, there’ll be some mention, I think, of bandidos.”

  Marina reacted too late. He pulled out of her reach, located a brief reference at the bottom of the article, and solemnly mimicked her earlier reading as he recited it for Adele’s benefit. “Quote: ‘Unfortunately, this writer could find no medical authority who could vouch for these wonders, and he was not personally disposed to seek out the fabled Doña Otelia. The state of Guerrero is one of the least explored, and most poorly mapped areas in the republic, and except for the Acapulco Highway there are very few good roads in the region. My informants strongly advised me against attempting a visit to Santa Luisa. The possibilities of having a car break down or of becoming lost are among the least of the dangers. Guerrero’s mountain country is also one of the last areas in modern-day Mexico where bandidos still roam virtually unchecked.’ ”

  Adele regarded him unsurely. “Bandidos. Does that mean robbers?”

  “Unquote,” Buchanan said, amazed at her quick grasp of the language. “Also, hah!” He held up the clipping triumphantly. “I find it interesting that the repository of all knowledge declined to make this trip.”

  “You’re afraid?” Marina taunted, snatching it away once more.

  “I’m concerned.”

  “Oh, so was I,” Marina said, mocking him, “but not any longer, of course. Not with you along. You’re such a tower of strength and courage.”

  Buchanan turned away angrily—he didn’t have to suffer that—and noted with surprise that they were already passing the university. It wouldn’t be much longer before they were out of the city. Looming ahead was the vast expanse of lava rock known as the Pedregal. My God!—was there a chance of this wreckage actually making it?

  “You don’t think there’s any real danger, do you?” Adele asked.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Marina said firmly, answering for him.

  “That’s good,” Adele said. “I wouldn’t want any real danger, would you, Herbert?”

  Herbert stirred for the first time. “No,” he admitted sleepily.

  Wise of them, Buchanan thought. Now, if there was only some way of guaranteeing that vital distinction. The one bit of probable truth in D.D.’s whole spiel was the part about the bandidos. He wouldn’t be surprised in the least if a gang of cutthroats was already lying in wait on the road to Santa Luisa. He was as good as dead—his head removed and his pockets turned out—and all for what?

  For naught, for naught, Buchanan muttered bitterly, barely restraining his own mocking laughter. He slumped down in his seat—lessening the chance of being thrown out in Sebastian’s lurching lane changes—and wondered if he ought to apply for martyrdom. Certainly he deserved some recognition now that the details of his employment had been explained.

  Dinner and dancing? Hand holding in the moonlight? Perhaps a round of discreet lovemaking on the stiff white sheets of some small motel? Hardly.

  If the stated intentions were correct, and they were too ludicrous to be falsified, the only riding he’d do was shotgun this wasted Saturday, a gentleman’s brave company for a lady of supposed station, guarding her virtue on a journey she could not properly take alone.

  The truth, the sad, sad truth, was that the woman was as cold as a frog’s turd. Hired as escort in the classic sense of the word—as a companion or protector—it was not his plan to try to alter the relationship. While the Glasses were merely idiots, Marina was plainly deranged, and he had no desire to bed a nut, invited or not. Even here there were probably laws that forbade it.

  He sighed and glanced back briefly at Marina. What forces moved this absurd woman on her absurd quest? Did she honestly think there was one chance in a million that this legendary compound actually existed? That there was some preposterous substance—an elixir, a magic potion, a wonder drug—that could restore her youth and prolong her life?

  Quién sabe? Buchanan shrugged, turning away. He leaned back and again closed his eyes to Sebastian’s continuing indiscretions. They were starting to climb now, the car’s engine knocking fiercely, sparing him the prattle in the rear seat, and after a while he found himself drifting off. Herbert had the right idea. Sleep. Why worry?—would not the car explode soon?

  When he woke up an hour later it was to discover that they were somehow still under way and almost out of the Valley of Mexico. The vegetation had changed from maguey plants to the pine forests of the highlands, and up ahead, a
s if trying to reassure him, the clouds were thinning and the sun was breaking through. They’d be over the hump in a few more minutes and beginning the long sweeping curve down to Cuernavaca. Another hour’s drive beyond that lay Taxco. And then … ?

  Buchanan resolved that one way or another he wasn’t going to find out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Buchanan’s chance for escape finally came in Taxco. At Marina’s direction, Sebastian had skirted Cuernavaca, but a dwindling gas tank, coupled with a desperate bladder call by Herbert, dictated a stop somewhere before taking to the mountains.

  Once in the town square, Adele found the colorful shops irresistible, and Herbert, beaming with relief, insisted on visiting the church. Buchanan casually announced that he’d try the Bar Paco.

  “Dutch courage?” Marina asked contemptuously.

  Buchanan slammed out of the car—why dignify that with a reply?—and made his way across the square with fresh resolve. No one more deserved to be left in the lurch.

  “You’ve got ten minutes!” she screamed after him.

  He ignored that also—how dare she screech so?—and went up the Paco’s stairs without a backward look. He’d seen enough of the she-dog for a lifetime.

  “Scotch, por favor,” he called, going directly to the bar. “A double—no, sell me a full bottle, the best you’ve got.”

  In the overhead mural was a burro which had achieved exactly the state Buchanan desired. He was flat on his back, a sombrero pulled over his eyes, an empty tequila bottle at his side. A cluster of small stars—indicating that he had well and truly passed out—swirled around his floppy ears.

  “Momento,” the bartender said, a harassed look begging for patience. He was negotiating with an old peddler for the purchase of a small gunnysack of limes and they were at the crucial stage.

  Buchanan suffered through a long exchange of rapid-fire Spanish without any sign of the matter being resolved. Finally he waved his money under the bartender’s nose. “Tengo de prisa. You can conduct your business later.”