Montezuma’s Revenge

Eight

With the towel-wrapped bundle under his arm Tony walked into the sea. It was cooler than the pool had been and quite pleasant. Police at the airport, bus terminal, Hilton, everywhere. Hah! They couldn’t stop him. They thought they could but they couldn’t. He walked on, knee deep in the water, and waved amicably at the private policeman who stood at the end of the beach where a subtle breakwater and not too subtle barbed wire separated the playground of the tourist from the plebeian strand beyond. The man waved back amicably, for his duty was to prevent illegal entry and it was no concern of his if a guest chose to leave in this fashion. For love perhaps, or the absence of it, the gringas were not at all like Mexican wives; he could think of many reasons why a quiet exit could be undertaken for the heady joys of the fine city beyond.

The waves came only as high as Tony’s waist as he rounded the barrier; he held his bundle above out of harm’s way. There were couples beyond enjoying the cool of the evening on the beach and he continued past them until he found a secluded spot in the lee of a sign that proclaimed the value of cerveza Carta Blanca. Here he stripped off and discarded the sodden shorts and replaced them with the slightly baggy and overly colorful trunks. The shirt matched, a jungle of wild blossoms now happily black in the shadows, and in the pocket was a crisp bundle of notes. Wonderful! Now the metamorphosis began. He strolled out onto the avenue, lost in the crowd of identical and even more exotic garb, and wandered toward the center of the city.

His first purchase was a pair of sandals from a curb-side vendor. There were ten one-hundred-peso notes in the bundle and the small merchant grumbled at the size of the bill but managed to have it changed in a store when Tony suggested he was moving on without buying. Before he left he asked directions to the central market where he would disappear.

The heat of the day still lingered in the streets, intensifying the thirst that dried his throat and settled a chalky deposit over his teeth. In an attempt to allay these symptoms he stopped at a stall for a bottle of cold beer which helped a good deal, if only temporarily. The master spy, what was his name?—Timberio—had mentioned a thirst after the drugging and he certainly was right. Temporarily fortified, Tony left the main streets and plunged into a narrow corridor that led to the lights and bustle of the market.

Mercado central. The central market. There is one in every Mexican city large enough to be called a city. Each one different, all very much the same. Open on a seven-day-a-week basis, with certain days the most popular. Stands, stalls, counters, corners, merchants, mendicants, noise, music, mariachi bands, beggars, something for everyone, everything for sale. Fruit stands piled high with tropical color; yellow, green and red bananas, black zapote, yellow-orange mango, purple cactus fruit. The herb merchant with his dried and aromatic wares carefully labeled each for its medicinal qualities; this coarse powder for gout and backache, that miraculous flower for cancer, the other to make tea for liver pain. A great bustle and air of excitement everywhere, odor of fresh meat at the rows of butcher stalls, newly dead carcasses flayed and hung, starvation-ribbed dogs under foot snatching at scrap, dodging the angry kicks. Just beyond, in logistic proximity, the food stalls and al fresco restaurants, meat steaming on embers before the consumers’ eyes, great caldrons of beans, hot crispness of tortillas, customers standing or sitting on stools, backs to the crowd.

Everything for sale; knives, machetes, mattresses, mattocks, harnesses, whips, brassieres, bicycles, all there, all could be bought. And in between the grander merchants the single salesmen, the man sitting on his heels with a handful of limes held out before him, the woman with the wooden box spread with the cigarettes from a single packet to be sold one at a time, next to her the chirmoles vendor packing tiny paper cones with the living contents of these wood grubs so favored as a sauce ingredient.

Into this exciting atmosphere Tony plunged, rubbing shoulders and treading on heels as his were tread upon. First the hat vendor with his rising rows of somber sombreros, endless theme played upon wide brim and high crown. A purchase, simple white straw, press on. A beer to wet the throat. White pants, white shirt, the daily dress of the field worker, the farmer. These carefully wrapped in newspaper, a machete added for authenticity, the bundles then stuffed into a straw morral, the bag carried or worn over the shoulder. Tony winked at no one in particular and went, by a circuitous route to be sure he wasn’t followed, in the direction of hombres, the cavernous concrete public toilet. Here, in a metal-sided booth, he effected the change. All traces of the Yankee tourist who had entered vanished, were wrapped in paper and stuffed into the morral, and a man of the people emerged, one more of Mexico’s teeming masses. Now he was invisible.

A small celebration was in order and the swinging, slatted doors of a cantina named La Cucaracha drew him on. His skin was tanned enough, his hair dark enough, his Spanish good enough for this guise. The police would never see him, not notice the gringo spy within the simple farmer. It was a ploy that could not fail. Smoke and loud music from the juke box washed over him and he pushed to the wood bar and called out.

“Beer.”

“The beer here is too warm and I would not recommend it.”

The man who said this stood at Tony’s side, tall, wide shouldered, dressed in the same manner, a tiny glass clutched in his great hand, a look of eternal unhappiness drooping his hanging mustaches even lower.

“What would you recommend?” Tony asked with eager anticipation.

“Mezcal? Gloomily, but it was his natural manner; he was enjoying himself greatly. “The kind from Tequila.”

“A very good idea. Will you join me?”

“I accept with pleasure. I am called Pablo.”

“Antonio.”

With slow anticipation each licked the base of his thumb so the salt would adhere when they shook it on, seized up lime wedges between salty thumb and forefinger, raised the glasses with the transparent distillate of the cornucopious maguey in the other hand, then performed the pleasurable ritual of a lick of salt, a drink of tequila, a bite of lime, to blend all the flavors in the mouth at the same time in the indescribably fine combination that, according to those who know, is the only way to take tequila.

“Now I will buy you a drink,” Pablo said.

“You will not feel insulted if I disagree. The uncle of my wife who recently died left in his will a small sum of money which I now have. He was a good man, this uncle, and liked to drink, so I will buy a bottle with uncle’s money and we will drink to him.”

“That is a very fair and loyal idea. I can tell he must have been a fine man.” Pablo rapped loudly with the thick glass and the bartender hurried with their order.

When the level of the bottle had crept lower, at the end of an interesting anecdote involving some stolen chickens, Tony mentioned a certain feeling of hunger and Pablo nodded solemn agreement and rapped again with his glass.

“Two sandwiches.”

Tony watched, with a measured amount of trepidation, as the bartender cut two rolls in half and from a hulking glass crock removed two very green, large, and exceedingly hot peppers, each of which he mashed into one of the rolls. Then, as a further savory, he poured some of the pickling sauce from the crock over the bread, this sauce being a little bit hotter than the peppers themselves, before placing the finished product on the wood before them. Pablo ate his in regular bites, masticating each mouthful with bovine thoroughness before swallowing, and when he was finished he licked the last drops of flavor from his finger tips. Tony ate his as well, enjoying every bit of it although tears streamed from his eyes all the while; he was out of practice. They sipped at the tequila to hold the nourishing sandwiches down.

Farther down the bar a very drunken man loudly proclaimed that Jalisco was the finest city in Mexico and all other towns made of goat droppings, which is not the truth, and when he became too pushing in his claims someone hit him and he was thrown into the street, so naturally the topic turned to place of birth. Pablo was from the village of Tenoztlan here in the state of Guerrero, not far distant, and he knew, since he cared about these things, that Antonio was not from Guerrero but from a more distant state.

“You are correct. I am from California.”

“That far! But at least we are upon the same sea.”

He assumed that by California the state of Baja California was intended and not the North American state above it, but before Tony could correct him, or decide if he should correct him, another man standing close by spoke first.

“My village is Cuajiniculpa which the uneducated call Cuijla which you can tell by looking at me.”

Pablo nodded agreement but, squint as he may, Tony could see no reason for this interesting statement. This man looked very much like all the others in the cantina, though his skin was darker than usual, so he was moved to ask why.

“You are not from these parts so your ignorance is understandable. Many years ago when slaves were brought to this country from Africa a very proud tribe would not be enslaved, they were called the Bantu. They captured the ship on which they were imprisoned, killed their captors, horribly with great justification it is said, then landed and escaped and founded our village. It is a very old story.”

“They were very big for slaves in those days,” Pablo said as they all drank in the memory of the escaped slaves. “What they tell you in the schools is garbage. The Spaniards made slaves of all the Indians.”

“When they did not want slaves they killed the Indians,” Tony said. “I should know since I am an Indian.”

“I am an Indian too.”

“I am a Bantu.”

“My tribe would never be enslaved. Have you heard of the Apache?”

“I have. They live far to the north in Chihuahua.”

“Exactly, and in Sonora as well and in the states of North America. We were never enslaved. We fought and we died but we were never enslaved.”

“But we are enslaved now,” Pablo said with deep bitterness, his continual expression of gloom intensifying. “They say the revolution is still being fought but it is not. What we need is a new revolution and get rid of the old party of the revolution. They have all the money and we have nothing.”

“None of that kind of talk in here!” the bartender called out. “Outside with that kind of thing.”

“I talk the way I please,” Pablo said as, with a very swift motion, he seized the almost empty bottle of tequila by the neck and broke the bottom off against the edge of the bar adding another deep scratch to the others, also possibly caused in this same manner.

The bartender was however well prepared for this eventuality and raised the long-barreled revolver he already held and ordered him out. Pablo tossed the bottle aside in disgust, there was no loss of maleness in not fighting a man with a gun, and left. His friends went with him calling back graded insults that described the unusual sex life of the bartender’s female relatives in great detail. Tony stumbled on the rough footing outside and held to the rocklike form of Pablo for support, as did the Bantu since they were all brothers now, and they progressed in this manner, arms about one another, looking for another place to drink. They entered Sal Parado si Puedes singing “Guadalajara” to show they were of a revolutionary bent of mind, and the owner here was either more lenient, or shared their political sympathies, because they were invited to a table while a fresh bottle of mezcal was brought. This was not the effete Joseph Crow the Redheaded Woman from Tequila that they had been drinking, but the authentic hornitos with the little maguey worm coiled in the bottom to prove its authenticity. It was very good to drink and the worm undoubtedly added something to the flavor, and someone commented that was it not interesting that there was a big worm in the big bottles while small worms rested in the smaller ones. The others had never noticed this amazing fact and bottles of different sizes were sent for and, sure enough, in the very small bottle, containing but a single drink, the worm was no bigger than a small fingernail. Since the bottles were already there, Tony insisted on paying again and two new friends joined them, they must be finished of course. It was about this time that Tony became dimly aware that reality was skipping like a broken and mended movie film. Highly amusing. He attempted to explain it to the Bantu but time skipped again suddenly so that the man who was sitting by his side was now a moment later sleeping peacefully with his head on the table.

An indefinable measure of time passed and they were in a different bar although Tony had no memory of going there. It was during this mysterious transition that Pablo vanished, as well as the Bantu who was undoubtedly still asleep at the last table. However, there were new friends to share a new bottle and when Tony had trouble pouring from it they were only too ready to oblige. About this time he also discovered that sleeping on the table was a very good idea and he did this, occasionally waking to listen to the friendly hum of conversation, then drifting off again.

When he awoke next it was to brush at the flies that were walking on his face, stirred into activity by the low rays of the rising sun that were burning through the open door. He blinked at this then screwed his eyes shut again instantly since the light pierced through them and directly into his brain like a heated needle. Sleep battled with discomfort and discomfort won. His arm was asleep where he had been lying on it, while a sore ache spread through his midriff. With a great deal of effort he managed to roll over and pull out the morral that was digging into his side. But the flies and sun were inescapable and eventually, groaning weakly, he opened his eyes and tried to understand where he was. On the floor. In a bar. Alone. The owner, who was sipping a cup of coffee behind the bar, wished him a good morning when he saw that he was awake. Tony could only produce a groan in reply.

It was terrible. Sleep has its own physiological rules, the engines of the body idle while the internal chemistry operates at a reduced level. Now, awake, the messages of distress were starting to come in. The needle of pain that had shot through his eye into his brain stayed there and even grew in intensity while at the same time, he had never had a dual headache before, a sort of clamp of anguish encircled his skull whenever he attempted to move it. In addition to this torment there were internal agonies that came and went with some regularity. Not to mention the nausea, the all-embracing, world-trembling nausea such as he had never experienced before. Another groan, rich with feeling, was dragged protesting from his lips, cracking its way through his dry throat. “Water ...” he said in a hoarse whisper and the bar owner nodded with understanding.

“Here, a large glass, drink it all down.”

Tony managed to sit up and to take the cloudy glass, but his hand shook so that the water slopped over the edge and he had to seize it with both hands, canceling the vibration of one out with the other. The effort exhausted all the energy he had available so he sat, slumped, against the wall, the glass on the floor beside him, and tried to force coherent thought through the alcohol-numbed channels of his brain. With some reluctance memory returned. The Hilton, yes it had all started there with those damn loaded coconuts aswim with rum. He must have been half-crocked by the time he left the hotel and what followed, followed quite naturally. People always said Indians shouldn’t drink. He normally didn’t, not since the Army where the numbness of drink substituted for despair. It was foolish, but it was at least over and he could go back to his plan, weaker, poorer, but wiser. How poor exactly? Trembling fingers searched his pockets.

Poor nothing, broke. Whether his drinking companions had rolled him or simply drank his substance was not important. It was gone, all of it, gone. A few copper centavo pieces, almost worthless, were all that remained. Gone.

With this discovery came an overwhelming depression that sank him into even deeper misery, full distance from the elation of the previous evening. Master spy, that’s what he was, the super foreign agent who could do anything. And failed completely inside of one day. All gone, every bit of the money, and with it any chance of success. A total failure.

“After the water,” said the bar owner, “you must have a hair from the dog that has bitten you. This will also help the tremors of the hand, telegrafista it is called, as in the motion of the fingers of a telegraph operator at the key, a symptom of tequila drinking. It will pass. Here.”

A smaller glass appeared almost under Tony’s nose, filled to the brim with the transparent and deadly liquid that brought about his downfall of the previous night. Its sharp cactus-needle odor assaulted his nostrils and bitter bile rose up into his mouth at the same time in response. He could not.

“Drink it, it is the only way.” Spoken from the source, the man who knew.

Tony realized that he had to do it, had to sober up and look for a way out of this mess of his own creation, but forcing his traitor hand to seize the glass was a totally different matter. He assembled the shattered shards of his will and tried, driving that vibrating member up to seize the glass and hurl the contents down his throat before nausea reversed direction.

Down it went, burning like lava, searing a track that led straight to his interior where it exploded; he shuddered as with the ague. But the burning died down, carrying with it most of his worse symptoms, permitting a measure of intelligible thought at last. The owner nodded with approval. He should nod, a good part of Tony’s money now rested in his ancient cash register. Payment in advance for drink, floor space and eye opener. Perhaps more.

“Would it be possible to use your premises to wash?” Tony asked. His hand grated over a chin like coarse sandpaper. “And to shave as well?”

Without too much reluctance a towel and razor were supplied: the hard cake of yellow soap would have to do for everything. Once washed, cooled, shaved, nicked, and blood-spotty Tony had to admit that he did feel a little bit better. The next thing was money. With much greater reluctance the owner permitted him a single phone call, his credit was obviously running out, which had only even more depressing results. Mr. Sones had checked out of the Hilton earlier that morning, undoubtedly while he lay snoring in a drunken stupor, and by now was halfway to Mexico City.

With shuffling tread Tony exited, wincing at the searing light, his feet automatically taking him downhill to the shore. There was a concrete bench here under a palm tree and he slumped onto it and tried desperately to see a way out of this dilemma, but he could not. A charter boat thud-thudded out to the open sea and far off a ship’s whistle hooted. He sank deeper into black depression. Someone sat on the bench next to him and he was not even aware of it until the newcomer spoke.

“Listen, Joe, you got contacts here, you look like a guy what knows his way around. If you can put me in the way of some good grass, couple of lids or more, I’ll make it worth your while. Whaddaya say?”

The speaker was American, camera-hung, gaily dressed and eager.

“No spik English.”

Disgruntled, the prospective pot purchaser walked away. Tony felt a measure of disgust. So that was what he looked like? A marijuana pimp or something. He had indeed sunk about as far as could be sunk.

No! A rush of indignant self-assurance booted him in the rump. Never! He was a well-disguised international agent, that was all. A beautiful disguise that worked to perfection, a disguise improved by a night on a bar floor; he might even have done that on purpose for authenticity’s sake. Foreign agents brook no bounds when it comes to doing their job. All right, he had one or two too many (one or two what? Bottles?), but that was a mistake he would not repeat. His cover had not been blown, he was still relatively intact and on the job. Just a little bit lighter in the pocket, that was all. How much was it? Eighty dollars, no more, a minute fraction of what the government was spending on this operation. All he needed was some more money and he would be back on the job crossing swords with the best of them in this dangerous game of wits.

With this came the first glimmerings of an idea. Not the best idea so he filed it away for consideration after he had worked on other and more secure schemes. Except none of these came to mind easily, or at all for that matter, so with a great deal of reluctance he had to return to his first brainstorm which revolved around the fact that the only people he was acquainted with in Acapulco, other than his drinking companions of the previous evening and the departed FBI agent, were the members of the Italian Agenzia Terza. Could that acquaintance be turned to his advantage? He had one important thing going for him, the fact that they considered him a dangerous and intelligent agent for the opposition, a false belief admittedly but one now even more strongly rooted since his dramatic escape from their clutches. What was needed was a plan that would enable him to take advantage of this belief without putting him in the way of bullets or spiked spaghetti. And it wasn’t as though they were enemies since the paintings would go to Italy in the end. Grunting with the effort he cudgeled his brain.

No more than half an hour later he took the first step away from the bench, starting on the path which he hoped would lead to success; in any case he had very little to lose at the moment. Perched in sun-baked solitude by the shore was the concrete blockhouse of a public convenience and, as he pushed open the caballeros sign one more time, the thought came unbidden that being a secret agent meant spending a lot of time in this sort of locale. There were no horsemen in the gloomy interior, or occupants of any kind, and he quickly changed clothes, putting the peon into the morral and taking out the Yankee. A little creased by being slept on, but the creases were well disguised by the active floral pattern. There was a discarded newspaper in the corner that he could put to good use, though the headline that caught his eye was far from reassuring, murder in mexico: death by violence. He read quickly about the hapless North American tourist murdered in a singularly brutal fashion, no details given, by his roommate who was now fleeing justice although the police were closing in. It did not make inspiring reading. Smoothing out the newspaper, with the damning headline facing inward, he used it to wrap the clothes, machete, hat, into a not too untidy bundle. He slicked his hair back with some water, then, one at a time, put his feet into the sink and washed them and the sandals free of dust and grime. The reflection in the mirror was that of a seedy gringo, but at least a gringo. Now the next step.

The door to El Restaurante Italiano was already gaping open. This time, however, with very little effort, he resisted its gastronomic blandishments, memories of his last visit being still quite clear. Instead of entering he leaned in through the doorway blinking at the sudden gloom, and spotted the waiter setting a table to the rear.

“Hey, you. Tell Timberio that I want to see him out here. Now.”

The waiter looked up at the hail and dropped a plate that shivered into fragments on the floor, then stood with mouth open and eyes bulging. Very satisfactory if this is what they thought of him. Tony broke the paralysis by waving his bundle in the man’s direction with a certain threat in the gesture so the waiter jumped back, then ran into the kitchen. Tony strolled the few feet to the corner where he could see people approaching from any direction, then leaned against the wall and tried to adopt a sinister air. A hung-over expression asserted itself instead and he twisted his lips in what he hoped was a cold sneer.

Within seconds Timberio popped from the door, and vanished just as precipitously when he saw Tony nearby. The second time he peered out cautiously in all directions before sidling carefully down to whispering distance.

“What is it you want?”

“To talk business just as I did last time.” Sneer. “Before you blew the whistle with that drug attempt.”

“I am sorry, it was a mistake.”

“You had better believe it was. I only came back—and this is your last chance—because money talks. Talk money.”

“I am sure that something can be arranged.”

“Name a figure.”

“Five hundred thousand lire.”

Tony reached inside his bundle and seized his hat, then poked the entire thing in Timberio’s direction. “I have a gun in here and I am a deadly shot, so no more tricks. Say a million.”

Timberio shied back, beginning to sweat. “Yes, a million, it can be arranged.”

“That’s better. I don’t have the painting with me.”

“Payment on delivery.”

“Of course. Give me a thousand pesos now and the balance when I hand the painting over. I need it for the man who is holding the painting for me—and also as a symbol of your good will.” A globe of fiery gas rose at this instant from the churning vat of his stomach and Tony laughed to cover the sound of the eructation. Necessarily, the laugh that emerged had a singularly artificial and echoing quality which Timberio misunderstood as the laugh of a cold killer, for he stepped back again, eyes on the bundle.

“No need for guns ...”

“There had better not be.” He removed his hand and tucked the parcel back under his arm.

“I will give you the thousand now on one condition. I and one other operative will come with you.” Tony chewed this one over but could see no way out of it.

“All right, we’ll do it that way.”

Timberio went back to the restaurant but returned fairly quickly with a solid young man who had a scar that half closed one eye and muscles that strained his thin shirt—a suspicious bulge at the waist as well, which was surely a concealed gun. Well, he had no choice. Timberio looked around carefully before passing over a green wad of bills. Tony ruflled them with his thumb, it seemed ample enough, before putting them away.

“Here we go,” he said and started down the hill with his watchdogs close behind. “Wait here,” he said in front of the Long Porker. “If anyone is with me the message will not be passed to release the painting, that has been arranged. You can see there is no other exit.”

Timberio nodded reluctant agreement then stood back against the opposite wall to watch, while his operative joined the line at the tortilleria where he had a clear view through the door. Strong in his gringo personality, Tony entered the establishment. Redhead and baby sat talking to a prospective customer; she looked up and nodded.

“Come back for another lesson?”

“I just might, But I want to look in the back room, think I left a towel there.”

She waved a languid agreeing hand and he passed by. The workroom was empty, the bathroom door locked and emitting the sound of rushing water. Someone there, he must do this quickly. The box was still in its place beneath the others. He stood on tiptoe, pulled it out, clutched the tottering pile in fear as it all threatened to fall on him, restored its balance and had just pushed the boxed painting inside his parcel as the door opened and the man who had first drawn him to the establishment emerged. He looked suspicious.

“You want something?”

“Just to check in there, think I left a towel yesterday. Nope, doesn’t look like it, be seeing you.”

Followed by a rapid exit to be joined quickly by his bodyguard.

“Did you see me pass the message? Everything is arranged. I will be met at the rendezvous in ten minutes by a messenger with the package.”

“What rendezvous?”

“There,” Tony said, pointing at the familiar whitewashed blockhouse around which so much of his activity seemed to rotate. “He will meet me there.”

Neither representative of the Agenzia Terza seemed surprised at the choice of location, perhaps it was a common locale for agenting gambits, but followed quietly instead.

“Stay here,” Tony ordered, stopping outside the door. “The contact will be a man in a black suit carrying a tightly rolled umbrella.” Where on earth had that idea come from? The hang-over must still be operating. “Allow him to come in. Then I will bring out the painting.”

“I will check inside,” Timberio said, starting through the door. “He may be there already.”

“No,” Tony said loudly, his voice cracking. One look inside and his whole plan was destroyed. “That will ruin everything.” As indeed it would.

Timberio withdrew reluctantly and took up station a few feet away as did his aide. Tony entered slowly and, as soon as he had passed from sight, burst into frenzied activity. He had to effect the change quickly or not at all. A button popped as he tore the shirt from his back, then stripped off the trunks. There was a startled grunt from an old man who was emerging from the last cubicle, the only other occupant.

“It’s a fine morning,” Tony said as he hopped about on one foot pulling on the white trousers. The old man watched in wide-eyed astonishment as Tony completed the rest of his metamorphosis, clapped the hat on his head, wrapping painting and clothes hurriedly in the crumpled paper and stuffed them into the morral which he hung over his shoulder, handle of the machete projecting upward as he started for the door.

He emerged with a slow shuffle, head down, the wide brim of the sombrero shading his face, shoulders bent to make him appear shorter. At the last moment he even managed a slight limp to aid in the transformation. He held his breath as he walked past Timberio, visible only as trouser legs and a pair of highly polished and pointed shoes. Then past the other agent—and still no cry of alarm. They were both looking outward for the dark-clad, umbrella-bearing messenger and paid no heed at all to the simple peasant who passed. Ten feet, then twenty, thirty, almost to the corner—when an anguished cry sounded. Tony took one look back to see the old man talking to the Italian agents, then he began to run. Around the corner and down the street, ignoring the hammers inside his head.

Faster still to escape the sound of pursuing feet.