Dillinger (v5) (9 page)

'And you really think he's changed?'

'What was your impression?'

Dillinger frowned, thinking about it. 'I got the feeling he was trying to provoke Rivera in some strange way. It was almost as if he was inviting him to lose control.'

'But why would he do that?' Chavasse asked.

'I don't know. Maybe to give him the excuse to strike back.'

'This is a country saturated in blood. First the Aztecs, then the
conquistadores.
In four hundred years, nothing but slaughter.'

'Yet you stay.'

'I stay.'

As Fallon returned with the beer, Dillinger spied Rivera sitting down at a small table. He wore clean clothes and smoked one of his usual cigarillos. When he rapped on the table with his cane, Chavasse got up and went across. He listened to what Rivera had to say and went into the kitchen. He returned with a tray containing a bottle of champagne and a glass. He placed them in front of Rivera and came back to the others.

'Champagne?' Dillinger said blankly. 'Here?'

'Kept especially for Lord God Almighty,' Chavasse explained. 'One of his favourite ways of publicly indicating the gap between himself and others.'

At that moment Rojas swaggered into the bar, looking as if he'd been drinking. When he saw Rivera he pulled off his hat and bowed respectfully. Rivera called him over and murmured something to him. Rojas nodded and after a moment crossed to the bar and hammered on it.

'What about some service here?'

Before Chavasse could get up, Rose appeared from the kitchen. She walked round the counter and stood facing him, hands on hips. 'In the first place lower your voice. In the second take that thing off and hang it in the hall with the others.' She pointed to the revolver strapped to his waist.

Rojas turned meekly and went outside. He came back without the revolver and she placed a bottle of tequila and a glass on the counter.

Rojas filled his glass with tequila and swallowed it down, the spirit slopping out of the corners of his mouth. Dillinger looked at Rivera, who returned his gaze coolly, filled his glass with champagne and sipped a little.

Dillinger drank some of the lukewarm beer and put the glass down firmly. 'How much is that champagne?'

'Twenty-five pesos a bottle,' Chavasse said.

Dillinger, pulled off his right boot and extracted a folded bank note from under the inner sole. He pulled the boot back on and flicked the note across to the Frenchman.

'Twenty dollars American. Will that do?'

'I should imagine so.'

'Then get a bottle and glasses. Ask Rose to join us.'

Chavasse looked at Rivera and grinned, pushed back his chair and went into the kitchen.

'There goes my mad money,' Dillinger said ruefully.

Chavasse hurried back, followed by Rose with the champagne and glasses on a tray. Suddenly everyone seemed to be laughing and there was an atmosphere of infectious gaiety. Dillinger glanced at Rivera, the Mexican returned his gaze.

'To the provider must go the honour of opening it,' Fallon said.

As Dillinger reached out, a shadow fell across the table. Rojas pushed Chavasse out of the way and wrapped a huge hand about the bottle. 'I always wanted to try this stuff.'

Dillinger grabbed the neck of the bottle firmly. 'Then go and buy your own.'

'Why should I, Yankee, when you are here to provide it for me?'

The Mexican tried to lift the bottle from the table. Dillinger exerted all his strength to keep it there. Rojas grabbed the edge of the table and tried to turn it over and Dillinger leaned his weight against it.

As Dillinger half turned in his chair, he had a glimpse of Rivera still sitting calmly on the other side of the room sipping champagne, only now there was a smile on his face and Dillinger knew that the whole thing had been arranged. Rojas imagining he was going to teach him his place on the
patron's
orders. Rivera intent on discovering just how good he was.

Rose took Rojas by the arm and tried to pull him away. 'Please,' she said. 'No fighting in my place.'

Rojas, his hand still on the champagne bottle, turned toward Rose and spat in her face.

Chavasse was livid. All Dillinger's repressed anger boiled up. A hard ball of fury rose in his throat, choking him. With a swift movement, he leaned back, removing his weight from the table and Rojas lost his balance, releasing his grip on the bottle as he sprawled on his hands and knees. Dillinger smashed the bottle across the back of the bull neck and stood up.

The others moved out of the way hurriedly. Rojas shook his head several times and started to get up. Dillinger snatched up his chair and smashed it across the great head and shoulders once, splintering it like matchwood.

Rose was crying, wiping her face.

Rojas shook his head, wiping blood from his face casually. He got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Dillinger.

He stood there swaying, apparently half out on his feet, and Dillinger moved in fast. Rojas took a quick step backwards, then smashed his bull fist savagely into Dillinger's face.

Dillinger lay on the floor for a moment, his head singing from the force of the blow. Rivera laughed and as Dillinger started to his feet, Rojas delivered a powerful blow to his stomach and hit him again on the cheek, splitting the flesh to the bone.

Rojas came in fast, boot raised to stamp down on the unprotected face. Dillinger grabbed for the foot and twisted, and Rojas fell heavily across him. They rolled over and over, and as they crashed against the wall, Dillinger pulled himself on top. He reached for Rojas's throat and was suddenly thrown backwards.

As Dillinger scrambled to his feet, Rojas rose to meet him. Dillinger feinted with his left and smashed his right fist against the Mexican's mouth, splitting the lips so that blood spurted. He moved out of range, then feinted again and delivered the same terrible blow. As he stepped back, his foot slipped and Rojas got home a stunning punch to the forehead that sent Dillinger staggering back against the open window to the boardwalk outside and he almost went over the low sill. As he straightened up, Rojas lurched forward again. Dillinger ducked, twisted a shoulder inwards and sent the Mexican over his hip through the open window in a savage cross-buttock.

Dillinger scrambled across the sill, almost losing his balance, and arrived on the boardwalk as Rojas rose to his feet. Dillinger, enjoying the best fight he'd had since he was a kid, hit him with everything he had, full in the face, and Rojas went backwards into the street.

For a little while he lay there and Dillinger hung on to one of the posts that supported the porch. Slowly, the Mexican got to his feet. He swayed in the lamplight, his face a mask of blood, eyes burning with hate, and then his hand went round to the back of his belt. As he came forward, a knife gleamed dully.

Behind Rojas, old Nachita appeared from the darkness like a ghost. His hand moved in a single smooth motion and a knife thudded into the boardwalk at Dillinger's feet.

There was a mist before Dillinger's eyes and he felt as if he had little strength left in him. He picked up the knife and went toward Rojas, the knife held out in front of him.

He heard a voice say, his own voice like that of a stranger, 'Come on, you bastard. If that's the way you want it.'

Rojas, who had been prepared to fight knife to hands not knife to knife, stumbled away into the darkness.

Dillinger swung round, the power in him like a white-hot flame. They were all there on the boardwalk, looking at him strangely in the lamplight, fear on their faces. Rivera stood at the top of the steps and Dillinger went forward, the knife extended.

Rivera staggered back, almost losing his balance, and hurried into the hotel. Dillinger was aware of a grip of steel on his arm. Old Nachita took the knife from him, supporting him at the same time, and Rose appeared on the other side.

She was still crying and Dillinger couldn't understand why. As they led him forward, he frowned, desperately trying to concentrate, and then as they reached his room, Fallon appeared and got the door open, his face ablaze with excitement.

'Jesus, Johnny, I never seed anything like that in my whole damn life. You really took that big ox apart.'

'Johnny?' It was Rose's voice. 'I thought your name was Harry. Who are you?'

He turned to her voice, smiling foolishly, and tried to speak and then the lamp seemed to revolve into a spinning ball that grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the darkness.

This time J. Edgar Hoover had only one operative standing in front of his desk. He'd just finished reading the man's report.

'You've got a pretty good fix on him.

The man said, 'He didn't do the California job or the Chicago job. The woman we picked up in Kansas swore she'd seen a white Chevvy convertible in Doc's barn. If Doc didn't take it to Florida, maybe Dillinger took it south.'

'You think it's Mexico.'

'Mr Hoover, if there was this scale manhunt on for me, I'd get out of the country.'

'OK. Send a wire to Mexico City. Ask them to query the chiefs of police in all northern provinces if a white Chevrolet convertible has been seen driven by an American. Ask them to keep it confidential. Just say the car is stolen and the man who's driving it is probably armed and dangerous.'

8

The desert was a dun-coloured haze reaching toward the mountains, the canyons still dark with shadow. It was the best hour of the day, the air cool and fresh before the sun started to draw the heat out of the barren earth.

Dillinger, behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, Fallon beside him, seemed to ache in every limb. He drove slowly over the rough trail to spare himself and because Rose was cantering along beside them on a bay horse.

'How do you feel?' Rose asked.

'I guess I'm not very handsome today.' The right side of his face was disfigured by a large purple bruise.

'Do you think it was worth it?'

He shrugged. 'Is anything?'

She said to Fallon, 'Do you think he tries to commit suicide often?'

'Only on his bad days,' the old man replied.

The trail wound its way between a forest of great tapering pillars of rock and entered a narrow canyon. In the centre it widened into a saucer-shaped bowl, then narrowed again before emerging once more into the plain.

At this point the track branched off in two directions and Rose halted. 'There is where I leave you. I'm going straight to the mine. Father Tomas is staying at the village for a few days and I promised to take him some medicine. Perhaps I'll see you later?'

Dillinger switched off the motor. 'I think maybe we should have a talk first.'

She sat there looking down at him and then nodded. 'All right.'

The horse ambled forward. Dillinger got out of the car and walked beside her, a hand on a stirrup. 'I hope you don't think I - well, you know, was too pushy last night.'

'As long as you understand that a kiss is not necessarily a promise of better things to come.'

'I'm used to, well, a different kind of woman.'

'You're blushing.'

'I don't blush,' Dillinger said sharply.

'Perhaps it is the sun,' she smiled. 'I think I'd better tell you something.'

He felt that jealous pang again. He was certain she was going to tell him that the Frenchman and she were involved.

'Harry - or Johnny - whatever your real name is -' She looked over at Fallon to make sure he was out of earshot. 'I was in the telegraph office first thing this morning. There's a police alarm out for a white Chevrolet.'

'From Santos or Hernandez?'

'To them, from the FBI.'

'Damn. Who knows about this?'

'The telegrapher. He hasn't seen your car. But he is paid by Rivera to tell him everything that comes in over the wire.'

'Are there police in town?'

'Two. Both old. They won't see the message if Rivera doesn't want them to. Why are they looking for you?'

'Not me. My car. I must have lent it to a bootlegger.'

'You are very charming when you lie.' She patted her whinnying horse's neck. 'Till later then. Perhaps I can put something on that poor face of yours.'

'What?'

'My hand,' she said, cantering away.

Half an hour later the white convertible came over a rise and the track dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below them stood a brown-stone hacienda built in the old colonial style.

The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with well-kept fences around a large paddock. A worker in riding boots and faded Levis was saddling a grey mare. He turned and looked up at them, shading his eyes with one hand, then went towards the house.

Dillinger drove into the courtyard and pulled up at the bottom of the steps. As he got out, a little girl ran out of the front door, tripped and lost her balance. As she started to fall, he moved forward quickly and caught her.

She was perhaps three years old and wore a blue riding suit with a velvet collar and brass buttons. She was frail, her brown eyes very large in a face that was too pale for a land of sun.

Dillinger set her on her feet gently and a woman moved out onto the steps and gathered the child to her. 'Juanita, how many times have I told you?' She looked up at Dillinger. 'My thanks, senor.'

She was a slender woman with greying hair and a black dress buttoned high to the neck. She wore no jewellery and her face was lined and careworn, the eyes moving ceaselessly from place to place as if she was continually anxious about something.

As Dillinger removed his hat, Rivera appeared on the porch. He stood there looking at his wife, saying nothing, and she took the child by the hand and hurried inside.

Rivera turned to Dillinger. 'I'd intended coming with you to the mine, but there are matters I must attend to here first. Rojas is already there. He'll show you over the place. I'll be along later.'

He went back inside.

Too bad, Dillinger thought. If he'd known, Rose could have driven with them instead of taking the horse. She could have sat between him and Fallon up front, her left thigh against his right thigh.

Dillinger drove away, following Fallon's directions up out of the valley. The heat was increasing. He could feel the sweat from his back soak through his shirt.

Finally, they came over the crest of a hill and saw a valley below. Dillinger had seldom seen a more dismal sight in his life. There were perhaps twenty or thirty crumbling adobe houses with a dung heap at one end and what appeared to be an open latrine running straight through.

There was a well in the centre of the village and a woman was in the act of lifting a pitcher of water to the ground as they approached. She was in an advanced state of pregnancy, her belly swollen. She paused, obviously tired, and Dillinger got out of the car.

He took the pitcher from her and said,
'Donde su casa?',
surprising himself at the bits of Spanish he had picked up by just listening.

She pointed silently across the street. He walked before her and opened the door. There was only one room and it had no windows. It took several moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the half light. When they did he saw an old woman stirring something in a pot over a smouldering fire. A few Indian blankets in the corner were obviously used for bedding, but there was no furniture. He put down the pitcher, his stomach heaving at the smell of the place, and went outside.

'That place isn't fit for a dog to live in,' he said as he climbed back into the car. 'Isn't anyone doing anything for these people?'

'Rose does what she can. So does Father Tomas. He's the best friend they've got, but they're like zombies. Rivera has the men doing a fourteen- or fifteen-hour day. They're worked so hard they don't give a damn about anything anymore.

Rose's horse was tethered beside a buckboard outside a house at the other end of the village and Dillinger braked to a halt.

'Is the mine far from here?'

'Just over the rise, three or four hundred yards.'

'You walk on up. I'll join you later.'

Fallon trudged away up the street and Dillinger approached the hut just as Rose, hearing the car, came out. She looked tired and pale and there was sweat on her face. Dillinger took the canteen from the Chevrolet and handed it to her. 'You don't look too good.'

'There's not much air in there, that's all.' She poured a little water into the palm of one hand and rubbed it over her face.

'Who's inside?'

'Father Tomas. I'd like you to meet him.'

Dillinger followed her in. The place was exactly the same as the other, the room half filled with acrid smoke from the fire of dried dung. A man lay on a filthy blanket in the corner, an Apache woman crouched at his feet.

A white-haired old priest sat beside him on a small stool, gently sponging the damp forehead. Dillinger leaned closer. The skin on the man's face was almost transparent, every bone clearly defined. He was obviously very ill.

The priest clasped his hands together and started to pray, his face raised to heaven, a single shaft of sunlight through the smoke hole lighting upon the white hair.

Dillinger made his way outside, Rose following him. From his pocket he took the flat bottle of tequila Chavasse had given him against emergencies and he unscrewed the cap and swallowed.

He turned to look at her. 'Can't anything be done?'

'My father had a plan, a wonderful plan. At the far end of the valley, above the hacienda where the streams run down from the snows of the sierras, he wanted to build a dam. With its waters, the whole valley would have flowered.'

'And your uncle doesn't see things that way?'

'I'm afraid not, senor,' Father Tomas said, emerging from the house behind them. 'Don Jose is interested only in obtaining as much gold as these wretched people can squeeze from the mine. When he is satisfied that the well has run dry he will leave for what to him is a more favourable climate.'

'This is Senor Jordan, Father,' Rose said. 'The one my uncle forced into coming here.'

The old man took Dillinger's hand. 'I heard what happened in Hermosa last night, my son. God moves in his own good time. Perhaps Don Jose made a mistake when he tricked you into coming here?'

Before Dillinger could reply two horsemen galloped down the hill, one behind the other, and turned into the street. Rojas was slightly in front and he reined in so sharply that his horse danced sideways on its hind legs, crowding Dillinger, Rose and the old priest back against the wall, splashing them with mud.

His companion was a Mestizo in a battered red straw hat. A man who had turned against his own people. He had coarse, brutal features and a hide whip dangled from his right wrist.

Rojas sat there glaring at Dillinger. Two of his teeth were missing and his lips were twice their normal size. A livid green bruise stretched from his chin across the left side of his face to the eye, almost closing it.

'What do you want?' Father Tomas said.

'I've come for Maco. The swine's not turned up for work again.'

'He's too sick,' the old man said.

'They're always too sick.' Rojas dismounted. 'They know we need every available man at the mine and take advantage of it.'

He took a step forward and Dillinger put a hand against his chest. 'You heard what Father Tomas said.'

Rojas moved back and his right hand dropped to the butt of his revolver.

'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' Dillinger said calmly.

Through the stillness they could hear the rattle of the steam engine that operated the conveyor belt up at the mine and the thin, high voices of the Indians calling to each other. The Mestizo with the whip fidgeted nervously, avoiding Dillinger's eye. Rojas turned without a word, scrambled into the saddle and lashed his horse into a gallop.

Dillinger turned to Father Tomas and Rose. 'I think it's time I took a closer look at this mine.'

Rose climbed into the saddle of the horse. 'I'm returning to Hermosa now. Will you be coming in this evening?'

'You sure you want to keep company with a desperate character like me?'

'Perhaps I can make you see the error of your ways.'

'I doubt it, but I tell you what you can do?'

'What's that?'

'You can buy the champagne this time.'

She smiled, and he slapped the horse on the rump and it galloped away.

He drove out of the village, following the track up to a small plateau that was like a shelf in the face of the mountain. Water, splashing in a dozen threads from the snow-capped peak, had been channelled to run through a stoutly constructed shed, open at both ends.

It was a scene of great activity. Near the mouth of the mine, the old steam engine puffed smoke, drawing in a steel cable that hauled trucks laden with ore along a narrow track.

Dillinger got out of the Chevrolet and headed toward the ore shed. Fallon emerged to beckon him in. 'Come see this,' the old man said.

Inside the ore shed the only piece of machinery was a steam-operated crusher. Two Indians fed its flames with wood. The heat was unbearable. The water ran into a great tank lined against leakage with clay and there were several cradles and two puddling troughs. The Indians who worked at them were stripped to the waist, their bodies shining with sweat.

'Why doesn't he bring in more machinery? If the mine's producing anything like a return it would pay him.'

'I told you, they closed it in 1893 after the rock came down on more than fifty Indians. Since I've been here we've had so many cave-ins I've lost count. Men get killed all the time.'

'Then the timbering must be at fault. Don't tell me Rivera's trying to save money there, too?'

Fallon shook his head. 'The mountain's just waiting to come down on all of us. Every time you cough in the tunnel a rock comes down. That's why we daren't use any more machinery. The vibration might be all that's needed.'

They paused beside three wooden cabins and he opened the door of the first one. 'This is where we live.'

It was plainly furnished with table and chairs, two bunks and an iron stove in one corner.

'Who uses the other two?' Dillinger asked.

'One of them is the powder store. Rojas lives in the end one.'