Rolltown

IX

Bat stared at Jeff Smith for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.

“Ill be damned,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that word. I thought it was out of date. You must be the last of the old-time Southerners. As a matter of fact, my maternal grandmother was a Black, but I doubt if even she was full-blooded. In this day and age there are precious few full-blooded Blacks in the United States except for that small number of recent immigrants from Africa.”

“Any nigger blood at all makes you a nigger, nigger.”

Bat grinned at him. “So I understand was the law in some of the southern states in the old days. Your name is Smith, eh? Probably British descent. Did it ever occur to you, Smith, that the Romans never drew the color line? Some of the emperors, even, were Africans.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Smith snapped.

“The Romans never drew the color line and they occupied England for half a millennium. How can you be sure that you are as lily-white a Caucasian as all that? Are you sure none of your ancestors didn’t marry one of those Romans who’d been touched with the tar brush?” Bat laughed his contempt.

“Why, you black bastard.”

Ferd Zogbaum, as disgusted as his friend was, growled, “As far as that goes, Bat’s complexion isn’t much darker than your own.”

“Keep out of it, Zogbaum,” Smith snapped. It was hard to tell, at this point, who his primary antagonist was.

Bat said, conversationally, “For that matter, I wonder just what percentage of your Southerners have African blood in them. For two centuries and more you had your black slaves. For all that time, your men forced themselves on the more attractive girls. What was the old saying among your young fellows? You’re not a man until you’ve had a nigger? And don’t forget the old custom in towns like New Orleans where young aristocrats set up apartments in the French Quarter for their quadroon or octaroon mistresses. You know what the children of an octaroon look like, Smith? They look white and they move to another town and pass as white. Did you labor under the illusion that the famed Creole beauties of Louisiana were solely of French descent?”

Bat was suddenly fed up with the argument and with himself for bothering to get into it. He turned to Ferd and said, “Could I talk to you a minute? It’s important.”

“Sure, why not?” Ferd said, ignoring Jeff Smith. He took Bat’s arm and headed around the camper, leaving the feisty smaller man to glare after them.

Bat said, when they were out of earshot, “What was all that?”

Ferd shrugged it off. “Christ only knows. Evidently, Jeff has delusions of being a great lover, or something. He’s got a thing#longdash#wants to lay Diana so bad, he can taste it. She wouldn’t get into bed with him on a bet.”

“Well, I don’t blame him. She a darn nice girl and a damn beautiful one.”

“Sure. But unfortunately for Jeff, she doesn’t have a thing for him. What’d you want to see me about?”

“Did you see anybody go into my trailer this morning while I was gone?”

“I didn’t even know you were gone, but no. Something stolen, or something? We don’t have much in the way of petty thievery around New Woodstock. I’d hate to see it start.”

“Not that. As a matter of fact, it’s the other way. Somebody put something back.”

Ferd took him in, and Bat made a quick rundown of the morning’s happenings, including the return of the pocket phone.

Ferd hissed a whistle.

Bat said, “In actuality, it was damned decent of them to return it. They didn’t have to and there must have been some risk involved. These vigilantes aren’t really bad people and in a way I can see their beef.”

“Sure. Great,” Ferd said in deprecation. “But that’s not going to do you much good when they start sniping away at us from the top of some hill as we go driving by.”

Bat said, “Well, keep it under your hat for the time being. I’ll see what Dean Armanruder has to say first, and then we’ll have to bring it up before the executive committee.”

Bat stood before the identity screen of the Armanruder home and activated it.

Nadine Paskov’s voice said impatiently, “You again? I thought you said you were driving up the road to check it.”

Bat said patiently, “I’m back. I’d like to see Mr. Armanruder.”

“He’s having his breakfast.”

“It’s of the greatest importance, Miss Paskov.”

“Just a minute.”

Within that time the door opened and Bat stepped through and started down the corridor to the dining room.

“Good morning, Hardin,” the retired magnate said, looking up from his meal. “Coffee? Sit down.”

Nadine Paskov wasn’t present but a dirty cup and plate indicated where she had taken her own breakfast. The Armanruder establishment was one of the few in New Woodstock that didn’t utilize disposable plates and utensils but, then, it was also the only home that had servants to clean up.

Bat accepted the coffee and launched into his story. By the time he had finished, Dean Armanruder was bug-eyeing him.

He banged his cup down, came to his feet and said, “Come with me,” and led the way to his office.

He sat at his desk and activated the TV phone screen. “The police station in Linares,” he snapped.

A Mexican face faded in.

Armanruder snapped, “Do you speak English?”

The other said evenly, “For all practical purposes, all educated Mexicans speak English. It is currently a required subject in our institutions of higher learning. May I ask who you are and what you wish?”

“I am Dean Armanruder, senior member of the executive committee of the mobile town of New Woodstock. I might add that I have had the pleasure of attending various business and social functions with the president of your country. We have many mutual friends and associates.”

The other didn’t seem overly impressed. He said, “And I am Miguel Avila DeLeon, captain of police of the city of Linares. What can I do for you, Senor?”

“This morning our town patrolman, Bat Hardin, was kidnapped by armed men on the road to San Roberto. He was forced to accompany them to some spot where he was confronted by a group that demanded New Woodstock turn back to the United States.”

The captain of Mexican police frowned disbelief but said courteously, “Who were these men?”

Bat came over and stood next to Armanruder. “I wouldn’t know. I was blindfolded. However, one who was obviously an older man was addressed as Don Caesar and the one who kidnapped me was called José.”

“Both rather common names in Latin countries,” the captain said. “They turned you loose?”

“Yes, of course, here I am.”

“Unharmed?”

Bat took a deep breath. “Yes.”

The captain had a few other questions as to where the kidnapping had taken place, whether or not anything had been taken from the American, or if he had in any manner been injured. Bat aswered everything to the best of his ability but there seemed to be a strange something in the police head’s manner.

Finally it came out. He said, “Senor Hardin, if I am not mistaken you are the gentleman who, in company with another Norte-americano, provoked a drunken brawl#longdash#”

“We weren’t drunk!”

Captain DeLeon went on, “… in one of the cantinas here in Linares, severely battering several of the citizens. My men took measures to see that none of your victims carried the matter further but it would seem that some of them, working behind our backs, took their revenge by playing a bit of a prank on you.”

Bat said flatly, “The men who kidnapped me had no relationship to those in the bar. My kidnappers were educated men who spoke excellent English. Those in the bar were town bums.”

“I am sure you are mistaken, Senor Hardin, however, I will look into the matter.”

Armanruder said harshly, “What are you going to do about it?”

The captain shrugged a most Latin shrug and pursed his lips in regret. “I doubt if there is anything I can do about it, but, as I say, I shall investigate. Have you decided to turn back?”

“No, we haven’t!” Armanruder snapped, nicking off the set.

He sat and glared in Bat’s direction, but not at him.

Bat said musingly, “The captain’s voice. I’ve heard it before, or, at least, I think I have. It was one of the voices when I was blindfolded.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, not sure, but I think it was.”

Dean Armanruder steamed for a moment, then flicked on the set again. He said, “John Fielding, President of United Mobile Cities Association of America, New Denver, Colorado.”

When the face came in, it was an impatient face. “Fielding here. I must say, this is an untoward hour. I won’t be in my office until nine.”

Armanruder said, just as snappishly, “And this is an untoward situation.” He gave Bat’s story to the association head in detail.

The other thought about it unhappily. He took a deep breath finally and said, “This is the worst yet.”

“You mean there have been other examples?”

“Mr. Armanruder, do you know how many mobile cities, towns and villages crossed the border yesterday? Twenty-two, including New Woodstock. The largest was a city of more than fifty thousand occupants. Of course, this is the high season. Most of these mobile towns will remain in Mexico for only a few weeks, or months, but some plan to remain indefinitely. The number increases each year. Wouldn’t you expect a certain amount of friction?”

“Friction isn’t quite the way to put it. These men were heavily armed. They threatened Mr. Hardin’s life.”

John Fielding nodded. “I suspect that before we’re through it will continue to get worse. We’ve had negative reports even from Common Europe. These new bulk carriers will ferry a mobile home across the Atlantic for as little as a hundred dollars. Already, whole towns are going over to Spain, Italy and Greece, in particular. The Italians are considering laws to curb them, but merchants and other elements that profit by tourism are resisting.”

Dean Armanruder said, “What are you going to do?”

“About Mr. Hardin’s adventure? What can we do? We’ll protest to the Mexican tourism authorities but, actually, you have very little in the way of evidence to present and evidently aren’t getting much in the way of support from the local police in acquiring more. Frankly, I’m inclined to think it a bluff. A small number of malcontents who wished to throw a scare into you. The moment one of them actually fired a shot, the Mexican police would be on them like a flash.”

“I hope you’re right,” Bat muttered.

Dean Armanruder made the standard goodbyes and flicked the set off.

Bat said, “I got the impression that these fellows are tougher than President Fielding seems to think.”

Armanruder flicked the set on again and said, “New Woodstock, Mr. Blake, Mr. Stryn, Doctor Barnes, Mr. Terwilliger, Mr. Prager.” He touched the control on the screen so that he could see all five faces at once.

When they appeared, he said, “Emergency meeting of the executive committee, gentlemen. Could you come at once to my home?”

When the executive committee had all assembled, Dean Armanruder had them seated in the salon. Jim Blake, the town’s most successful artist, financially speaking, at least; Dag Stryn, also an artist and the guru of the town’s New Temple movement; Doctor Barnes; Phil Terwilliger, who represented the retired element in New Woodstock, and Sam Prager, who more or less represented the mechanics and other workers in town. Miss Paskov, in all her full glory now, sat to one side, Bat to the other, of the retired corporation manager.

Dean Armanruder told the story himself, rather than Bat, but when it was over the questions were fired at the town’s patrolman.

Sam Prager said, “How many were there, Bat?”

“I’m not sure. I saw only four. I heard the voices of at least three more. There might have been twenty, for all I know. Or more.”

Old man Terwilliger said, his voice on the fearful side, “You think they were bluffing?”

Bat shook his head. “No. I could be wrong, but no.”

“But why New Woodstock?” Dag Stryn said slowly. “The mobile towns that are really bothering them are the big ones that remain in one spot. I can see a certain amount of validity in their objecting to twenty thousand or so mobile houses parked in sites about, say, Acapulco. But New Woodstock is only some five hundred homes and on its way through, at that. It seems unlikely that we’ll remain in Mexico for even a month.”

Bat said, “They claimed that we were conspicuous because New Woodstock is an art colony composed of objectionable Bohemians, and they want to raise an international stink, a cause c egraqve;lébre. However, I suspect there’s another angle. We’re small as towns go. We have, for instance, one full-time cop, one deputy, a couple of emergency assistant deputies. But if they were tangling with a town ten times or more our size, they’d run into considerably more trouble. Besides, we’re off on the byways, on roads unpatrolled by the Mexican highway police. The big towns stick to the ultra-expressways where they wouldn’t be vulnerable.”

Terwilliger said, “I think we ought to go back.”

“Certainly not,” Jim Blake said heatedly. “What are we, a bunch of sissies? Bat is probably right. There’s only five or six Mexican soreheads involved. Let’s just call on the police.”

“We already did,” Bat said. “They didn’t answer.”

Blake said, “We’ll call in the American authorities, then. We’re all American citizens.”

“I’m not,” Sam Prager said. “I’m a Canadian, but the thing is, we’re in Mexico and under the jurisdiction of the Mexican authorities even if this is a predominantly American mobile town.”

“We can issue a complaint to the American Consulate or Embassy in Mexico City.”

“If we ever get to Mexico City,” Bat said lowly.

The elderly Phil Terwilliger said, “I vote to turn back, before it’s too late. I’m retired and have only a few years of life left to me. I have no intention of having the period shortened by desperate men shooting at me. And I also have my wife to consider.”

“I’ll vote to go back too,” Dag Stryn said. “I’ll continue if the rest of you so decide, but it seems these people do not want us and if so we shouldn’t intrude on them.”

Dean Armanruder said, “A very small number, perhaps, don’t want us but for that matter quite a few Americans in our own country don’t like the mobile towns and cities. We can’t please everyone. I vote to go on.”

“I vote to go on,” Jim Blake said loudly.

“So do I,” Sam Prager said.

Doctor Barnes said, “At this point, they have done nothing except issue their ultimatum to Bat, here. Until we have evidence that they are really as determined as they say, I also vote to go on.”

“The vote is four to two,” Dean Armanruder said. “We will proceed. I suggest that the whole matter be kept confined to us here, there is no use alarming the possibly more timid elements in New Woodstock.”

“Wait a minute,” Bat said. “This isn’t a matter for the executive committee to decide alone. You can’t expose everyone to a possible danger without their even knowing about it. This is a matter of convening the assembly of New Woodstock. If we vote on such trivial matters as whether or not to stop for lunch, we certainly should vote on something as important as this.”

Dean Armanruder looked at him disgustedly. “Your opinion is not needed, Hardin. As town police officer you have a voice but not a vote in this executive committee.”

Bat said evenly, “And this is not a town that subscribes to one dollar, one vote, Mr. Armanruder. The opinion of any adult in town is just as valid as yours. As town police officer I demand a convening of the assembly.”

“Bat’s right,” Sam Prager said. “It isn’t up to us to decide, we’ll have to call the assembly.”

Doc Barnes nodded. “Obviously. I’m afraid it’s going to mean a splitting up of the town. But we can’t take innocent people into possible gunfire or other danger without giving them the opportunity of debating and voting on it.”