In a Lady’s Service

by Tom Ardies

  What galled him even more, though, was that far from being swingers, the Glasses had revealed themselves as the worst kind of middle-class mediocrities. Not only were they married, they were on a second honeymoon, celebrating the elopement of their only issue, Zelda. There was no suggestion whatsoever at all that Adele might spare some of her passion for Buchanan. He was cut off for the weekend. Some orgy!

  Buchanan shook his head and turned back to his self-appointed task of helping to steer. Sebastian, poor lad, seemed to be getting blinder as the day progressed, possibly because the magnifying glasses perched on his nose were of someone else’s prescription. Left to his own devices he showed a marked propensity for directing the car over precipices.

  “Oh,” Adele cried, still trying to be cheerful. “Look at the birds! See them circling?”

  “Vultures,” Buchanan said. He thought it appropriate they should be the first sign of life since leaving the highway.

  “Hawks,” Marina corrected.

  Buchanan declined to argue. What was the point with someone so obstinate? She’d call a dog a cat to spite him.

  The challenge unaccepted, a tense silence engulfed them, the only sounds those of the car’s feeble strainings. It bumped along for what seemed an eternity, climbing to dizzy heights on the mountains, and then plunging down, down, down into deep narrow valleys. Finally another fork forced a halt and Sebastian’s eternal question was heard again. “Cual vía?”

  “Momentito,” Marina pleaded as usual.

  “I’d say port this time,” Buchanan said, even though it looked slightly more promising the other way. He was sure they had taken a wrong turn long ago and would soon have to double back in defeat and it was then that he would earn his keep. He had memorized all the lefts and rights they had made and escape required only that they reverse them going out. What worried him was whether they would turn back in time. Every kilometer carried them deeper into uncharted territory. Somewhere knives were being sharpened. Pistols cocked.

  “A la izquierda,” Marina said finally.

  Buchanan chalked this up as more evidence of her spite. The only reason she had agreed was so that she could blame him later.

  Sebastian grunted assent and stepped on the gas and nothing happened. He pumped the pedal several times and still there was no response.

  “Perhaps you’ve stalled,” Buchanan ventured, making it sound like a wild guess. He had resolved from the start not to show the slightest aptitude. A mistake like that could get you elected mechanic.

  “Se paró?” Marina translated.

  “Pues!” Sebastian exclaimed. “Se paró. No problema.” This time he turned the ignition while pumping the gas but still nothing happened. Not even the starter motor turned.

  “Could we be out of gas?” Adele suggested cheerfully.

  “No hay gas?” Marina asked.

  “Quizás,” Sebastian said.

  Buchanan found this doubtful. They had filled up upon arrival in Taxco, they had managed barely a hundred kilometers since, and the tank was registering well over half full.

  “Well, there’s nothing to do but wait, is there?” Adele said, still valiantly striving. “Someone is bound to come along sooner or later.”

  Buchanan decided to delay a decent period before volunteering his services. There was the possibility, however remote, that Sebastian might consider this problem within the realm of his responsibilities, and it was also possible—although this was really asking miracles—that he might know how to rectify it.

  “Yo no sé nada,” Sebastian announced, as if reading his mind.

  “I know, I know,” Buchanan said. “Yet still you must rise to the occasion. You, after all, wear the stripes of a sergeant, and what am I but a poor raw recruit in this fool’s army, not yet issued a uniform?”

  “You are not amusing,” Marina said.

  So you keep telling me, Buchanan thought, giving up. He knew what would happen if he tried to wait them out. The minutes would tick by and the silence would get heavy and the heat would become oppressive. He got out of the car and went around front and gingerly raised the hood.

  One glance told him that any number of things could be wrong with the monster’s innards. Twenty years without servicing had taken its obvious toll and how it had brought them this far would interest Ripley. There must be precious few fan belts fashioned from garters. But the immediate problem was plain enough and easily rectified. One of the corroded battery connections had shaken loose on the bumpy road.

  “Listo?” called Sebastian, who apparently felt that lifting the hood was sufficient repairs.

  Buchanan shook his head and shrugged helplessly. This wreckage promised one disaster after another. As sure as he fixed the battery, a garter would snap, and then? He could see himself in overalls the rest of his life.

  “Would you like to take a look at this, Herbert?” he asked.

  “No,” Herbert said.

  Buchanan considered arguing the point and decided against it. The man had so little to be said in his favor. Why challenge the honesty that might be his sole virtue?

  “What seems to be the matter?” Marina asked.

  “The car will not go,” Buchanan told her, suddenly tired of it all.

  “We’re aware of that,” Marina said irritably. “Besides making stupid jokes—is there anything you can do?”

  Buchanan silently cursed them all. He was the one who had been mauled by the Gestapo killer and his SS wife. He was the one who ought to be conserving himself. Yet there they all lingered to watch him labor beneath the blazing sun.

  “Well, is there?”

  “There is,” Buchanan shouted. “I’ll tell you what I can do. What I should have done long ago. I can destroy this infernal contraption.” He picked up a boulder from the ready supply at hand, staggered forward with it raised over his head, and slammed it down on the loose connection, solving their power problem in one decisive blow. “Take that!”

  “Listo?” Sebastian asked doubtfully. He tried the ignition and sat staring in disbelief when the engine roared to life.

  Buchanan threw down the boulder and got back into the car. He smiled smugly at Marina before turning to Sebastian. “Proceed,” he ordered.

  Sebastian hesitated. It was difficult to believe, but he had seen it with his own eyes, hadn’t he? He peered over the hood and looked unsurely at the discarded boulder.

  “Oh,” Buchanan said. “Momentito …” He got out and retrieved it and gave it a place of honor on the front seat. “Okay?”

  “Gracias,” Sebastian said, shifting into gear with renewed confidence. “Muy bien?”

  “Sí,” Buchanan agreed. It was always wise to carry a tool kit. Sebastian could use it to advantage in a wide variety of circumstances. Flat tire, leaky radiator, stripped transmission. There was an endless list of things that would respond to a good whack.

  Marina leaned forward to hiss in Buchanan’s ear. “You are not amusing.”

  Buchanan laughed bitterly. That oft repeated opinion was good news coming from her. There was no one whose judgment he trusted less, with the exception, perhaps, of his own. How could he have begun this impossible journey?—and when would it ever end?

  The Dodge had only to climb laboriously over the next peak to find the answer to that plaintive question.

  “Caramba!” Sebastian cried, slamming on the brakes. He made a sign of the cross and raised trembling hands. The dreaded word dribbled out of him. “B-b-bandido …”

  Buchanan felt his heart stop. Had he been spared in Taxco only to die within sight of Santa Luisa? Down in the valley was a cluster of rooftops that could only be their objective. Yet what mercy could they expect from this desperate villain who blocked their way? None.

  Facing them was a squat figure astride a burro, a huge sombrero pulled low over his eyes, a dirty red bandanna hiding the rest of his face. Besides the Remington rifle he carried, two pistols were jammed in his belt, a cavalry sword hung at his side, and a derringer was tuck
ed into one of his boots.

  “Are you sure he’s a bandit?” Adele asked, optimist to the end.

  By way of answer, the desperado spurred his burro forward, indicating by quick, short jabs of the Remington that he wanted everybody out of the car. There was a frantic exodus—even Adele responded promptly to this hint—and soon all five of them were lined up with their hands high. Then the rifle moved carelessly along the row and stopped at Herbert.

  “Su dinero o su vida,” the robber muttered thickly.

  “What does he want?” Herbert quavered.

  “He wants the women,” Buchanan said, “and he means business, I’m afraid. We better do as he says.”

  “Liar!” Marina screamed. “You know perfectly well he demanded money. I can speak Spanish—remember?”

  “So you can, my dear,” Buchanan admitted. “The fact escaped me in the stress of the moment. I stand corrected and you have my sincere apologies.” He smiled weakly and addressed himself to Herbert. “She’s right. The man demands money. Your money or your life.”

  “Does fifty pesos sound about right?” Adele asked. “The guidebook says you’re supposed to bargain. It spoils it for everyone if you pay what they first ask.”

  “The guidebook didn’t have these precise circumstances in mind,” Buchanan assured her, unhappily noting that the rifle was moving down the line toward him. “My advice is to open your purse without further ado. Give him all your cash and anything else of value.”

  “Oh, dear,” Adele said. “I didn’t bring much cash and all my jewels are back at the hotel. Do you think he’d accept MasterCharge?”

  “You could ask,” Buchanan suggested. He had stupidly elected himself spokesman and now the rifle was pointed his way, demanding that he provide answers, however inane.

  “Must we submit to this blackguard?” Herbert asked bravely, no longer under the gun. “There are five of us and only one of him. If I could distract him for a moment, you could jump him, couldn’t you? It’s certainly worth a try.”

  “Póngala en el saco,” the robber ordered, pulling a gunnysack from beneath his poncho.

  “Well, you’ve done it now, haven’t you, Herbert?” Buchanan said. “He says he understands English—every word you uttered—and that one false move and you’re the first to die.”

  “Liar!” Marina cried. “He said to put the money in the sack!” She turned enraged on Buchanan. “Have you never told the truth?”

  “Not since I learned the value of a lie,” Buchanan said. He reached into his jacket, removed his wallet, and dropped it into the sack. His gold pocket watch and diamond ring followed in quick succession. Then, to demonstrate his absolute honesty and co-operation, he took off a shoe, removed the hundred pesos in mad money he had hidden there, and quickly added that to the robber’s loot.

  “Coward,” Marina huffed. “Yellow belly. Sniveling rat. You call yourself a man?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Buchanan replied. “It’s just like you to love a dead hero, and the colder the better, no doubt.”

  “Gracias,” the robber told Buchanan, moving down the line. Sebastian was next, giving a few paltry pesos and a St. Christopher’s medal, then Marina with her fat purse and bushel of bangles and baubles, and finally the Glasses, passing over what they hadn’t left behind in the Geneve’s safe.

  “Gracias,” the robber repeated, swinging back. He leaned low with his rifle and stuck the barrel between Buchanan’s eyes. “Hay otra cosa de valor?”

  Buchanan wondered. He’d dearly love to make Marina eat her disdainful words and it might not be too much of a gamble. Now that the initial scare was over this bandido didn’t look like such a tough customer after all. If he was really mean, he wouldn’t be wearing that Rice Krispies badge pinned to his sombrero, and there was also evidence, the strong smell of tequila, that he’d be slow to react. But what was most reassuring was that his rifle was so clogged with rust it would undoubtedly explode in his face if fired.

  “Sí,” Buchanan confessed, making his decision. “Sebastian, de al hombre la roca, por favor.”

  “No,” Sebastian pleaded, ashen-faced at the suggestion.

  The robber swung his rifle once more. “La roca. Pronto!”

  “Must you terrify the boy with your stupid jokes?” Marina demanded.

  “It is not a joke,” Buchanan said softly. “Sebastian will be sorely punished if he does not hand over that rock. Either this drunk will shoot him—or I will kick his ass.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Marina spluttered.

  “Pronto!” the robber shouted, thumbing the safety catch on his rifle.

  Sebastian stared briefly down the barrel and decided he had no choice. Glaring at Buchanan, he opened the car door, took his precious boulder off the front seat, and then angrily tossed it into the waiting sack.

  “Gra …” the robber began, the heavy rock hitting bottom, yanking him forward. He struggled to regain his balance but he had been leaning too precariously to begin with. He plunged off the burro and landed on his head.

  Buchanan kicked the rifle aside casually. There was no need for further heroics. The sombrero had been knocked off to reveal a knot the size of a fist. It would be hours before the poor man woke up.

  “Olé!” Herbert shouted, putting a foot on their captive’s chest. He graciously beckoned to Buchanan to join him. “Did anyone bring a camera?”

  “I wouldn’t waste the film,” Marina said, slamming back into the car. “Terrifying poor Sebastian … resorting to trickery …” She sat staring ahead sullenly and asked her favorite question of Buchanan. “You call yourself a man?”

  Buchanan sighed. He was a recognized expert in the field—but he would never understand women.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Despite Marina’s disdainful attitude, Buchanan thought they made a rather grand procession entering Santa Luisa, their captive trussed to the car’s hood, the burro trailing behind with his assorted armament, and on all sides a joyous escort of shouting children and barking dogs and squealing pigs. Style is everything.

  Word had gone ahead—did Alexander not announce his victories?—and after a triumphant tour around the village square they took their prize to the reception committee waiting for them in front of the crumbling Palacio.

  The scene took on almost a carnival atmosphere then. The excited villagers agreed that this was indeed Pedro, the most notorious bandido in all the hills, and to think that he had been captured by these courageous gringos, who themselves were unarmed? There was much poking of Pedro, and also much, much laughter.

  “Do you think we’ll get medals?” Herbert asked.

  “You mean a finder’s fee,” Marina huffed, still unimpressed.

  Sadly Buchanan had to agree with the latter assessment. The sin of false pride went flying from his soul as the laughter mounted. This, obviously, was not the first time Pedro had been captured, and by fewer than five stalwarts, no doubt.

  Confirmation came as the crowd suddenly hushed and all eyes turned to the stern figure of the Presidente standing in the doorway of the Palacio. His expression showed none of the enthusiasm which might be expected from a mayor whose people had been ridded of some terrible menace. Instead, he simply stared down at them indulgently, a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Otra vez?” he asked finally, addressing the question to no one in particular.

  “Otra vez,” someone answered.

  Buchanan decided it was time to start backtracking. He pushed through the crowd and bowed ceremoniously as the Presidente came down the steps of the Palacio. He introduced himself and his companions with elaborate formality.

  The Presidente acknowledged all this with the distracted politeness of burdened officialdom and then moved on to inspect Pedro. He lifted the battered sombrero, felt the throbbing lump, and shook his head very, very sadly. The tragedy and waste mirrored on his face would have moved the meanest heart. Here was a disappointed father looking at a wayward son. Here was God viewing H
is troubled world.

  “It is the usual complaint, I suppose?” the Presidente asked finally. “Pedro is always attempting to rob someone …” His voice trailed off and his eyes lifted to the heavens. “He, uh, did attempt to rob you, did he not?”

  “That’s a difficult question,” Buchanan said, feeling a strange affinity for the older man and his frayed dignity. Wasn’t this himself, really, stamped from the same cookie cutter, the essential differences only those of time and place and opportunity? What but fate had decreed that between two men of quality, one should be resident lover at the Geneve, the other mayor of a poor village in the harsh Guerrero mountains?

  The Presidente was hard put to hide the relief he felt. “You mean you can’t be certain?”

  Marina was about to answer when Buchanan was so clumsy as to tread rather heavily on her instep. It took Adele a while to catch and quieten her sufficiently for Buchanan to continue.

  “I fear not,” Buchanan said then, pleased that he had taken the proper measure of his man, and that there would be no problems beyond solution. They were meant to do business together. Understandings could be reached. Pacts signed. “While the intent seemed clear enough at the time, it may well be that we misunderstood, Presidente. We are not familiar with the local customs, and then, of course, there are the usual language difficulties. Poor Pedro here does not possess your excellent command of English and I myself am grossly deficient in Spanish.”

  Adele and Herbert stood in shocked silence at this deluge of falsehoods, and Marina, still nursing her foot, made an unintelligible sound.

  The Presidente nodded solemnly and held up a restraining hand. Enough, after all, was enough. “As you say, it was probably only an attempt, Sr. Buchanan, and what real harm is there in that? It is only if he actually robbed you that we would have reason for alarm. Next paw?”