by Tom Ardies
“Do you like Santa Luisa?” Pablo asked.
“It is not a bad place,” Buchanan answered absently, not wishing to offend.
“It used to be a good place,” Pablo told him. He raised a stick of an arm and pointed vaguely to the mountains ringing the village. “There is a cave up there, a huge cavern, and others below it, where the bats go to flee the sun. They have always gone there and over the seasons their droppings multiply. It is called guano and is used as a fertilizer. You know it?”
“I have heard tell of it,” Buchanan said. It never paid to play the superior with a poor simple peasant.
“When I was young, there was much guano in those caverns,” Pablo continued, holding a frail hand to demonstrate. “This high in places. Enough for all. Every man in the village had a job. We would go there with baskets and work by the light of candles. Four burros were needed to carry what one man could harvest in a day.”
“He earned many pesos?”
“To spare,” Pablo said, remembering. “To jingle in his pocket …” He turned so as to hide his face. “But the time came, of course, when all the guano had been removed from the caverns, and then the people were poor again, just as you see them now. These people, they are poor, are they not?”
“They are poor,” Buchanan agreed.
“Sí, and they are also courageous,” Pablo said. “They wasted their heritage and yet they make a brave joke of it. ‘Here today and guano tomorrow.’ Have you heard that joke?”
Buchanan shook his head. “Fortunately, no.”
“It is not a good joke,” Pablo admitted. “I have never liked it myself. If you want my opinion, I personally think it is a sad, sad thing to run out of shit.”
“But that will never happen to you, will it?” Buchanan asked, laughing. He reached for his wallet. “How much do you want?”
“Whatever you think is fair,” Pablo said.
Buchanan happily paid it twice over and went laughing to his room. There were many reasons why he chose to live in Mexico. Old foxes like that were near the top of his list. Who needed a potion with them to keep you young?
The Presidente, meanwhile, had scurried down a side street, slipping into a small adobe hut that had been converted into a makeshift medical clinic. He babbled out the news of the visitors and then stood there wringing his hands.
“What else could I do?” he asked despairingly. “They were here, a fate accomplished, and after the disaster with Pedro, it would look suspicious if I ran them out. This Señor Buchanan, he was most persuasive, and the woman—the skinny one—she looks the type who would call the Federales. Do you want them poking around?”
Dr. Zip Gonzales, a darkly handsome young man, his freshly scrubbed look attesting to his recent graduation, waved away the question. “All right, all right,” he said. “I accept that. You had no other choice.” He swore and kicked shut a drawer in a battered filing cabinet. “But I trust you haven’t forgotten who hired that drunken Pedro?”
The Presidente stared at the dirt floor in shame. “He’s a cousin …”
“That’s the trouble,” Gonzales said, kicking the cabinet again. “Everybody is your cousin. Is there no one in this whole stinking village who is not a relative?”
The Presidente thought for a moment. “There’s Rasso. Do you want him to take over?”
Gonzales shook his head. “No. No more bandidos. The idea was stupid in the first place.”
“But you said you wanted any strangers frightened away,” the Presidente protested.
“Frightened, yes,” Gonzales admitted. “Robbed, no.” He gave the filing cabinet another vicious kick and then sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands. “There are thousands—uncounted thousands—of villages in Mexico. Why would Orozco pick Santa Luisa?”
The Presidente smiled for the first time since he had timidly entered the doctor’s cluttered office. “He’s a cousin,” he reminded gently.
Gonzales muttered something unintelligible. He put his head in his hands for a long time.
“Your task will be completed soon,” the Presidente said at last, another gentle reminder. “You’ve said so yourself. But another fortnight ought to do it.” He started to edge toward the door. “Orozco’s secret will be safe again once these innocents go home.”
“Innocents?” Gonzales exploded. “How do you know they are innocents?” He pushed out of his chair and banged a fist on his desk. “What if the implausible car and bumbling approach is all part of a clever pose? What if they are professionals?”
The Presidente paled. “I doubt that …”
“Do you?” Gonzales asked with heavy sarcasm. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be the judge of that, Presidente.” He tore off his white smock and flung it in a corner. “You’re certain you followed Plan A?”
The Presidente nodded. Of course. What else? There was no Plan B.
“The delay is certain? They’re not seeing the curadora until tomorrow morning? Merci will have time to accomplish the exchange?”
“Sí.”
“Very well,” Gonzales said. “We, meanwhile, must do our utmost to discourage their inquiries, even if they are only innocent tourists. The tales they take home could see us inundated. You try to scare off this Buchanan. Tell him whatever wild tales you wish. I’ll see to the woman—the skinny one.”
The Presidente’s pallor failed another shade. “Do you think it’s wise to expose yourself?”
“Of course not,” Gonzales said, pulling on a rumpled jacket. “But my excuse is the same as yours. What else can I do?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
When seven bells tolled in Santa Luisa’s humble church, Buchanan was alone on the Burócrata’s portal, his tequila his only company, and he was again thinking ill of Marina. She had interrupted his siesta by pounding rudely on his door. She had ordered rather than invited him to dinner. She had lectured him on promptness and minding his manners.
After all that—and the audacity still rankled—it was beyond belief that she herself should not be present to greet her guest of honor. Yet the Presidente was already making his way across the square and there was no sign of the wretch—nor, for that matter, of Adele and Herbert.
Oh, well, Buchanan decided. There was no time now to go looking. He’d just have to manage as best he could. He rose smiling from his table and did his duty as he saw it.
“Ah, Presidente,” he said, hand outstretched as the mayor came up the stairs. “It is always good to meet another who views promptness as a virtue. All the more regettable that it should not be shared by our hostess. A thousand pardons that she is not here to greet you.”
“Don’t let it bother you, compadre,” the Presidente answered gallantly. “I know the ways of women. She is no doubt still prettying herself.”
“With her, it takes time,” Buchanan agreed. He shook the mayor’s hand vigorously and led the way back to his table. “What will be your pleasure while we wait?”
“My usual,” the Presidente said. “The boy knows.” He glanced toward the door of the hotel. “And the others … ?”
“Slept late, I fear,” Buchanan said. “Señora Glass, she is addicted to the joys of the flesh, and the señor, he finds it very tiring. He has my sympathy.”
“I thought he looked a bit peaked,” the Presidente said.
“Pooped,” Buchanan corrected. “I don’t know how long the poor man can last. Some women are animals.”
These apologies made—it is a rare bastard who will not cover for his friends—Buchanan sat back and beamed his satisfaction at the Presidente. The latter smiled back at him, patiently waiting for the boy to bring his tequila, seeming to bask in the pleasure he so obviously afforded. Neither found a need to speak until the drink was delivered.
Then, rising to the occasion, Buchanan delivered an expansive toast, complimenting the mayor on his village and its people. They were, he noted, a happy people, and since happiness was where you found it, this must be a happy place.
The Pr
esidente responded by reciting the history of Santa Luisa, covering its bloodbath founding, the subsequent Indian uprisings and massacres, and the various sackings and burnings which had taken place during the revolutionary period. He concluded by stressing the bleak poverty that fashioned such men as the bandido Pedro.
“Well, it’s been an exciting place, anyway,” Buchanan said, his toast in tatters.
“Sí,” the Presidente agreed, “and it still is, Saturday night.”
Buchanan smiled bravely. This was Saturday night. “It’s dangerous to be abroad, is it?”
“Only for a stranger,” the Presidente assured him.
Buchanan began to feel better. For a moment there, the Presidente seemed to be discouraging his stay, but that obviously wasn’t the case. He, after all, was a friend, not a stranger.
“We had one, once,” the Presidente added, trying again. He wondered how blunt he must get.
“One what?”
“A stranger in our midst.”
Buchanan raised his eyebrows. Past tense?
The Presidente sipped at his drink and nodded sadly. Thereupon, as a point of special interest to intruders, he recounted at length the fate of the village’s lone foreign resident, a certain Colonel Fabian Orr, who had been driven out the year before, charged with indecent sexual conduct with the shoeshine boys.
Colonel Orr had lost his machismo on the rail used for transit. His home, palatial by village standards, built on the former rich guano trade, had been sold for back taxes to a citizen of better repute, a lesson for all who might be tempted to take advantage of a poor and ignorant people.
“Interesting,” Buchanan said, still undaunted. “I’d like to visit it. Perhaps I’ll have time tomorrow.”
“It’s easy enough to find,” the Presidente told him, pointing. “Go down that street and ask directions of anyone. It’s called the Orr House.”
“Well,” Buchanan said, slapping his thigh, “what is a Mexican town without an Orr House, ha, ha?” He indeed had been wrong to think ill of the Presidente. The good fellow was simply trying to entertain him. “That, as we say, is a hot one.”
The Presidente gave up in despair and retreated to his drink. Gonzales must be correct in his fears. Who else but a professional would laugh off advice to leave town?
Subtle hints and gentle warnings were useless against his kind. He would understand only one thing. A gun in his ear.
Buchanan was still laughing. “There’s more to come? I don’t think I can survive it—but shoot.”
“No,” the Presidente said, swiftly changing tactics. The important thing now was to gather as much information as possible without arousing suspicion. Luckily, detective work, not issuing threats, was his real forte. He was a forthright man but not unpracticed in sly questions. “It’s time to hear your story.”
Buchanan wiped at his tears. “Mine?”
“Why not?” the Presidente demanded. “It strikes me that you are very knowledgeable of my country and its customs. Why should that be? Have you visited here often?”
“Not often, but long,” Buchanan admitted, already on the alert. Perhaps his initial reaction had been right after all. From the start he had sensed a lack of sincerity in the Presidente’s outwardly hearty greeting. It reminded him of the famous Hollywood hello with its built-in good-by.
“Long?”
“That’s correct,” Buchanan said. “What small knowledge I have comes from taking full advantage of your country’s generous hospitality. I fear that several years have passed since I last set foot outside of Mexico. My home now—my only true home—is the Zona Rosa.”
The Presidente regarded him with a faintly puzzled expression. “You’re an inmigrado?”
“No,” Buchanan said. “I remain a turista.” He considered briefly and decided there was no harm in explaining. “It is really not necessary to cross the border every six months to renew one’s turista permit. There’s a certain office in a certain building in the Distrito Federal. If one goes there at the required time. If one pays the required number of pesos …”
The Presidente smiled. “As I said, you are knowledgeable, Señor Buchanan.” He paused to take a careful sip of his drink. “That is important information to have—particularly if one had a special reason for not wanting to return to his own country?”
“It is a common enough practice,” Buchanan said casually. “The sum of the mordida equals the cost of traveling to and from the border. The saving is in the time not spent—and what is man’s most valuable commodity?”
“Time,” the Presidente agreed.
Buchanan laughed. “You, like myself, are a knowledgeable man, Presidente. It is unfortunate that we did not meet earlier in our careers. Who knows what fortune might have flowed from the pooling of our resources?”
“You flatter me,” the Presidente said, taking another careful sip. “Had I the brains of a crow I would have flown from here long ago. What accomplishment is it to be the Presidente of Santa Luisa? The office pays but an honorarium. And to be the owner of this excuse of a hotel?” He put his glass down and hunched his shoulders in a small gesture of despair. “But it is obvious who I am and what I do. It is yourself who remains the mystery. If I may be so bold as to ask, what is your profession, Sr. Buchanan?”
“None,” Buchanan decided, not happy with the course of their conversation. He thought that it had taken a sinister turn. There was more than a passing interest behind the seemingly innocent questions. “None whatsoever. You see these soft hands? They have never done a day’s labor.”
The Presidente stared at him in astonishment. “You have never worked?”
“It has never been necessary,” Buchanan told him, dipping into his ample bag of falsehoods. “Have you heard of this term? Remittance man?”
“No.”
“Nor should you have, of course. Your background, after all, is French, and this is a British practice. Certain sons, wayward, an embarrassment to their families, are paid to go and stay away.”
“You are British?”
“Hardly,” Buchanan said. “I am as American as Watergate. Yet the terms of my father’s will keep me from my homeland. I am paid a monthly stipend—but only if I remain at least two thousand miles from Boston.”
The Presidente was still staring in astonishment. “May we. That is a very long distance.”
“I was a very wayward son,” Buchanan explained, thankful for the rustle of a skirt behind him. Having a gullible inquisitor didn’t make the cross-examination any more acceptable.
“What lies are you telling now?” Marina asked.
“The truth, for once,” Buchanan answered, turning to look.
He had a choice remark to punish her tardiness but it wouldn’t come to his lips when he saw her. The time she had taken to preen herself was an investment to appreciate. Some makeup magic had achieved a perfection of face, her hair had been revealed as finespun gold the length of her elegant swan’s neck, and she was swirling in a peasant dress—a purchase apparently made in the village—that subtly suggested a fullness of figure she did not possess.
“The truth?” Marina said, laughing softly. “You should hear him whisper in my ear, Presidente. Lies, all lies.” She favored Buchanan with the kind of coy glance normally reserved for a lover and then turned back to the Presidente. “My apologies for being late. You’ll forgive me?”
“My dear lady,” the Presidente said, already on his feet, bowing gallantly and taking her hand. “For you, one could wait the night, and still not be disappointed.”
“Presidente,” Marina chastised, laughing again. “Is this what you’ve been up to? Taking lessons from the señor?”
Buchanan could believe neither his eyes nor his ears. Now what was going on in the infuriating woman’s head? Why this transformation?
He got his answer a moment later as a darkly handsome man came up the portal steps.
“There you are, Doctor,” Marina called, hurrying to greet him.
“Zip, please,” Gonzales protested, accepting her hand.
“Zip,” she agreed, her breath seeming to catch at the caress of his lips, “but only if I’m Marina.” She pretended to need a moment to compose herself. “You know the Presidente, of course, and this is a member of our tour party, Sr. Buchanan.” Her eyes slanted up mischievously. “May I present Dr. Zip Gonzales?”
Gonzales, his self-assurance at odds with his ill-fitting suit, regarded them both with a studied casualness. “Presidente … Sr. Buchanan …”
“We met by chance when I was exploring this afternoon,” Marina explained. “It turned out that Zip is the village doctor, and I thought to myself, what a stroke of luck! Now we’ll have some expert medical opinion on the curadora’s healing powers.”
The explanation came with a look that said the doctor was her discovery and she wanted to play him without interference.
Stroke of luck? Buchanan wondered. He had little faith in coincidence—one made his own chances—and the Presidente’s bumbling probing was still fresh in his mind. Had Gonzales put him up to it? Had the doctor purposely sought out Marina for a similar grilling? And if so—why?
“Do you really think you should trust me?” Gonzales asked with a disarming smile. “I may be tempted to downgrade Doña Otelia. Professional jealousy …”
Marina laughed and took his arm. “I’ll find a way to get the truth out of you.” There was a faint blush on her cheeks as she linked up with the Presidente. “Well? Shall we go to dinner?”
Buchanan felt a small stab of jealousy as he watched them enter the hotel. For a brief moment, he had been tempted to think that Marina’s transformation had been for his benefit, an apology for her impossible behavior, and he had even entertained the thought of her repentance taking on a more tangible form at a later hour. That coy glance on the portal had portended as much.
Instead, the wretch had been testing her wiles on him, and no wonder, she being so long out of practice. It was disgraceful what she would do to achieve her ends. The lad was at least ten years her junior.
He had a good mind not to subject himself to the damned dinner. Marina batting her eyes at Gonzales … the Presidente persisting with his ominous inquiries … Herbert falling asleep in his salad … Adele gushing with delight at every indigestible course …
