In a Lady’s Service

by Tom Ardies

  “You understand this, then?” Gonzales demanded, suddenly producing his pistol. He took careful aim and fired into the cobblestones between Buchanan’s feet.

  “Hey,” Buchanan cried, aghast. “Be careful with that thing. The ricochet …”

  For answer, there was another shot, and then another, and Buchanan found himself dancing wildly in the street, bullets bouncing all around him.

  “I am giving you fair warning,” Gonzales said then, reserving his last shot. “Tell your friends to keep their distance, and the same goes for you, bastard.”

  Buchanan settled down and caught his breath. The pistol was pointed right between his eyes. Bright and shiny. Deadly.

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  “P-perfectly.”

  “Good,” Gonzales said. He returned the gun to his pocket, the barrel still pointing at Buchanan, and slowly backed to the door of his car, a desperate man covering his retreat. “I trust we will not meet again.”

  Me, too, Buchanan thought, in a cold sweat. He took the precaution of unobtrusively examining himself—were any parts missing?—and stood frozen while Gonzales sped away. He didn’t dare move until the Volkswagen’s noisy motor had become a faint hum in the distance.

  Then, gathering up his courage, he turned to run, but the door to Gonzales’ hastily vacated premises wouldn’t permit him. It hung open provocatively. A temptress. Beckoning.

  Might some explanation lurk behind that dark threshold? Was he really too much the coward to look?

  Buchanan peered around carefully. Despite the flurry of gunfire, the street was as dead as ever, and even if someone should come to investigate he had a perfectly valid excuse for visiting the village doctor. His head was splitting.

  The decision made, he rushed inside boldly, calling as he did so. “Buenos días. Is there anybody home?”

  The only answer was the echo of his voice in the two spartan rooms which looked as if they had already been burglarized. The first had obviously served as a combination office and examination room. There was a desk and a battered filing cabinet in one corner, and in another, behind a frayed screen, a rickety examining table. The rear room had been the living quarters. It had a kitchen of sorts and a small cot.

  Buchanan wandered aimlessly between the two. Both were in a terrible mess. All the drawers had been pulled out and their contents dumped on the floor. The shelves had been cleared in the same manner.

  None of it made any sense at first—why this childish temper tantrum?—and then Buchanan finally detected a purpose to the seeming madness. Flipping through a discarded medical book, he found that the flyleaf, often used for the owner’s name and address, had been ripped out. A quick check showed the same page missing in several more books.

  Gonzales was not only traveling fast, he was traveling light. Rather than pack everything, he had simply dumped out his drawers, checked through the contents, and systematically removed all references to himself.

  Buchanan rummaged through several piles and confirmed this to his satisfaction. There was nothing to indicate who had occupied these dingy rooms for the past six months. Nor much hope of tracking him down.

  Obviously, he didn’t have another office under his name elsewhere, or any kind of telephone listing, because that would make the cover-up here a waste of time.

  Gonzales might very well be an alias, and even if it wasn’t, the nickname Zip was no help at all. There were far too many Gonzaleses in Mexico. Thousands of them in Mexico City alone. Without a first name or initials one was lost.

  Buchanan stood wondering. What had the doctor been doing in Santa Luisa? What had made him so fearful that he had run off like a maniac? And why was he being so careful about covering his tracks?

  His gaze moved from the filing cabinet to the fireplace. The cabinet was empty, its files removed, but they hadn’t been burned, for there were barely any ashes.

  The files—the product of six months’ work—were probably in those two stout boxes lashed to the roof of the Volkswagen. And, since they had been taken while all else was left behind, that made them very important, didn’t it?

  Despite Gonzales’ firm disclaimers, was there, perhaps, some connection with Doña Otelia?

  Probably, Buchanan decided, but in his painful condition, who gave a fat damn? If he ever got better—which was doubtful—he would ask a certain Orozco. Surely they weren’t that many Orozcos in Mexico.

  He tossed aside the book he was holding and went back out into the street.

  There was a brief dedication on the page beyond the torn-away flyleaf.

  Patience, Zip [it said in Spanish]. Patience, my young friend. We shall find our reward in God’s heaven. Orozco

  Marina was alone in the Burócratas dining room, finishing her breakfast, when Buchanan finally staggered in, his head throbbing worse than ever. He failed to see her—he was working more by touch than sight—as he collapsed at a nearby table and signaled desperately to the waitress.

  “Café,” he bleated. “Muy negro. Muy caliente.”

  “Sí señor,” the girl said, displaying a haste not normal to her nature. She had seen men suffering from hangovers before. The Saturday night drunk was a way of life in Santa Luisa. But this was something special—a truly monumental agony.

  “Gracias,” Buchanan mumbled, reaching for the cup before she stopped pouring. He sucked noisily at the scalding liquid and indicated that the whole pot should be left for him. “Muy gracias.”

  “De nada, señor,” the girl said, withdrawing. She knew better than to ask if he wanted something to eat. That question could be put later. If he survived.

  Buchanan slurped up the first cup and shakily poured himself a second. He found it hard to believe he was still alive. He must have drunk almost two bottles of tequila. Then to suffer a blow that would crumble an ox! Then to dance a jig to the tune of a maniac’s pistol!

  “Need I inquire as to where you went last night?” Marina asked.

  Buchanan slowly raised his pounding head—why should fate decree they meet now?—and found her staring contemptuously.

  “The local cantina,” he said, thinking that if he confessed his sins, she might leave him time to recover.

  “And then you went rolling in cow dung?”

  Buchanan bit his tongue. He’d dearly love to break the news that it was her precious salve that stunk so badly. But that, and other incredible pleasures, such as the lifting of her bankroll, would unfortunately have to wait.

  “You also found it necessary to get into a brawl?”

  “No,” Buchanan said, deciding to leave out that part, too, as well as Gonzales’ antics. The less she knew the easier to work his scheme. “I simply got drunk. Very, very drunk. Falling down drunk.” He turned away. “You have my admission it was on your account. Does that satisfy you?”

  “On my account?”

  “Yes,” Buchanan said. “Yes, yes, yes.” He reached for his coffee with a trembling hand. “Now go away, will you, please? Let me suffer in peace—and I’ll see you in the car when it’s time to leave.”

  “My account?”

  Buchanan put down the cup. There really wasn’t the smallest spark of compassion in that cold black heart. It wasn’t enough to have him groveling at her feet. Protestations of innocence must be her coup de grâce.

  “Damn you,” Buchanan said, barely coherent. “I ask only that you desist. Go to your wretched curadora. Go chasing after the charming doctor whose bedside manner you so obviously prefer. Go anywhere it pleases your twisted sense of humor—just so long as you stop pecking at me.”

  “Gonzales?” Marina said, the contempt gone now, anger in its place. “What are you suggesting? What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “Haw! I suppose he wasn’t in your room last night?”

  “He was, briefly,” Marina said. “He called. I let him in. He wanted to apologize …” She stopped, suddenly aware that she was defending herself, and this only increased her anger and resentment. “I ha
rdly think it’s me who owes the explanation.”

  “I suppose you weren’t in when I knocked?”

  “I was out, again briefly,” Marina said, on the defensive again despite herself. “I walked Zip back to the portal. We chatted for a few more minutes …” She bit off the words and sagged back in her chair. “What’s wrong with you? Are you that hopelessly neurotic? You find me gone from my room and you run out and get reeling drunk?”

  Buchanan looked at her unsurely. Was it possible that she was telling the truth? Had he taken a few innocent fragments and fashioned a cloak of conspiracy?

  After all, Gonzales’ visit could have been entirely innocent, and the two of them did have time to leave for the portal during the period he was back in his room, getting properly suited for the confrontation. Then, when he returned to Marina’s room, the threatening letter a hot stone in his hand …

  The letter, Buchanan thought. The letter! How could he have forgotten that key piece of evidence? He fumbled through his pockets and at last located a crumpled wad. He struggled to his feet, crossed to her table, and plopped it triumphantly in her eggs ranchero.

  “And I suppose you know nothing of this?”

  Marina stared at it incomprehendingly.

  “You don’t deny it?” Buchanan demanded.

  “Deny what?” Marina looked at him, at the wadded lump on her plate, back at him, and then, more out of desperation than anything else, she picked it up and spread it open. “Oh …”

  “I’ll ask you once again,” Buchanan said, arms folded triumphantly. “Do you deny writing it?”

  Instead of replying, Marina picked up her purse, removed an envelope, and passed it to him. Buchanan somehow knew what it was going to say before he read it. Word for word, it was identical to the one he had received, except that it was addressed to her.

  Buchanan handed it back and looked away. What a damn crazy fool he had been last night—and what an ass he was making of himself now. “Herbert and Adele? I suppose they also got one?”

  “Yes.”

  “I found mine on the floor of my room after dinner,” Buchanan said tiredly. “Somebody slipped it under the door while I was showering. I thought …”

  “That I wrote it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  Buchanan put his head in his hands. “To make a fool of me.”

  “I said I had a need of you? Then you found this threat and came running to protect me and there I was, supposedly, in the arms of another, and that made you the butt of a very elaborate practical joke?”

  “So I thought.”

  “You were wrong on both counts,” Marina said. “I don’t play jokes and my need for you was strictly in a business sense. In view of what happened at dinner—Gonzales protesting too much and the Presidente canceling our guide—I wanted you to make a secret foray.”

  Buchanan glanced up. “Last night?”

  “Yes. To Doña Otelia’s. I don’t trust that pair. They were up to something fishy. If you hadn’t run off, you might have found out, perhaps even stopped them.”

  “You could have used Herbert,” Buchanan said defensively.

  Marina shook her head. “No. He’s not the type, and besides, he was busy.”

  “At the cathouse?”

  “On a purely scientific basis. Investigating sexual longevity in local women.”

  Buchanan decided he’d heard everything. “Oh.”

  “You don’t believe that? You refuse to take any of this matter seriously?”

  “I took those letters seriously,” Buchanan pointed out.

  “You are a fool, aren’t you?” Marina said sadly. She crumpled up the letters and tossed them in the fireplace.

  Buchanan lunged too late. The flames engulfed them before he was halfway there and in another instant they were gone.

  “Those should have been saved,” he complained, turning back awkwardly. “Evidence of a crime—a threat against our lives.”

  “A fool and a coward,” Marina said, the contempt in her voice again. She scrawled her signature on her bill and got up from the table. “You shouldn’t let threats bother you. Especially empty ones.”

  “How can you be sure they’re not for real?”

  “The rest of us are going to see the curadora,” Marina said, not answering his question, or even looking at him. “You may come or wait here or do whatever else suits you. It makes no difference to me. I couldn’t care less.”

  “But …”

  Marina regarded him distastefully. “On second thought, I’d prefer that you follow your natural instincts. Run home, why don’t you, tail between your legs?”

  Buchanan’s mouth worked but no words came. He sat staring in stunned silence as she stalked out of the hotel dining room.

  Well, he thought. That was the very last and final indignity. He was withdrawing his services.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There was a flurry of activity in front of the Burócrata. Sebastian brought the Dodge around front and honked loudly. Marina came out of the hotel and got in the back seat. There was more honking and Adele emerged and joined Marina in the back. Finally, after much more honking, Herbert staggered out, looking very much the worse for wear. He got in beside Sebastian. Shuddering, clanking, billowing smoke, the Dodge moved off uncertainly, bound for Doña Otelia’s.

  Buchanan watched morosely from the bus stop across the square. One part of him, the greedy part, argued that he ought to be aboard the rattletrap, carrying out his plan to fleece Marina. The other part, the sensible, cowardly part, said the only sane course was to hightail it for home. His life, after all, was more important than any sum to be gained, however vast and desperately needed.

  Yes, he would pass up the riches this time, safe in his bed at the Geneve, content in the knowledge that the wily Pablo could handle the heist on his own. Perhaps, out of gratitude, the old fox might send him his cut, or at least a portion of it. Had he not mentioned his domicile at some point in their revelry?

  Wishful thinking, all of it, but it steeled his purpose, which was to escape aboard the dilapidated bus now wheezing into the square. He rose painfully from his bench and stood waiting impatiently as its passengers alighted.

  They passed before him barely noticed. A family come to visit relatives, a couple of old women with pottery to sell, a farmer who owned the crates of chickens tied on top, and the inevitable empty-faced peons who drifted from nowhere to nowhere.

  “When do you return to Iguala?” Buchanan called to the driver.

  The latter consulted a tarnished pocket watch. “Una media hora. Más o menos.”

  “Half an hour? But you’re behind schedule already,” Buchanan complained.

  There was an answering laugh. “Siempre. Always.”

  No doubt, Buchanan thought, remembering the condition of the road. He was about to board despite the wait—he could at least bed on the rear seat—when two more passengers stumbled off.

  The pair, eyes puffy with sleep, appeared to be police officers of some kind, though their uniforms were barely recognizable under great slatherings of oil and grease. The victims of a patrol car breakdown?

  Buchanan stepped back for them to pass, wondering what had brought them to Santa Luisa, and whether he ought to take this opportunity to report the various crimes committed against his person. He certainly could tell enough to fill their little black books. Let’s see now. Hit on the head … repeatedly shot at … threatened with death by post …

  No, he decided immediately. That would just keep him in this pesthole for another day, probably two, knowing the efficiency of the local policía, and naught would be accomplished. Those two couldn’t catch a cold. The crimes would go unsolved. The guilty would go unpunished.

  The bus driver got off, stretching his legs, lighting a cigarette. He motioned derisively and answered Buchanan’s unasked question. “You’d better watch your step. That’s Captain Cavazos, the police commandant at Taxco, and his trusty s
ergeant, Morel.”

  The identification was no sooner made than the two officers suddenly came out of their sleepwalk. They swung around together and cried out in unison. “That’s him!”

  Buchanan glanced about. The reference must be meant personally. There was no one present but himself and the driver.

  “Our informant was correct,” Cavazos exulted, struggling for his pistol. “You there! Hands up!”

  Oh, no, Buchanan moaned. The gift shop incident at Taxco. The damn Nazi who owned the place must have sent these two after him. The charges would be assault and theft—the punishment, penal servitude.

  “Halt in the name of the law,” Cavazos cried, still trying to unbuckle his holster. Morel, attempting to help, was getting in the way.

  Buchanan acted without really thinking. One moment he was standing watching. The next he was in the bus, the door closed, the motor started.

  The bus driver ran over and pounded on the door. “Hey! You can’t do that!”

  Buchanan ignored him. He’d already done enough to rot in jail the rest of his life. Further misdemeanors made not a whit of difference. He found first gear and rumbled away.

  The bus driver couldn’t believe what was happening. He turned back to the struggling bumblers. Should he report the theft? Or might they notice in due time?

  “Excuse me,” he began, deciding that the latter was unlikely.

  “Not now,” Cavazos complained. “Can’t you see we’re busy?” They fumbled on, four hands where one was needed, until Cavazos, his patience exhausted, rudely pushed his sergeant away. “Use your own gun, fool.”

  Morel reached red-faced for his pistol. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It was out in a flash and he spun around. But where in the devil was the gringo?

  “I beg your pardon,” the driver began.

  “Not now,” Cavazos said. He gave his sergeant another push and pointed at the departing cloud of dust. “He’s escaping in the bus, idiot. Shoot, shoot!”

  Morel dropped into a crouch and squeezed off three careful shots. The first sent the driver’s hat flying, the second broke a window in the Burócrata, and the third killed a passing burro dead.