The Mexico Run (5 page)

    I stretched, realized I was alone, and my eyes went over to the other bed. The covers were wrinkled, but it was empty. I pulled myself to a sitting position. I felt good. Relaxed, rested. There's a rumor around that sex can be exhausting and that over-indulgence in it can be downright debilitating. Don't you ever believe it.

    I saw that the bathroom door was open, and I walked over and looked in. She was not in the bathroom, and her bag was still lying where she had left it at the foot of the bed. But she was gone.

    A quick check of the money-belt which I had buried under the mattress while she'd been showering the previous night erased a momentary panic. My little girl was gone, and I guessed that she had awakened hungry and wandered out to find herself some breakfast. I wasn't worried about her.

    I called downstairs, and they told me that they still didn't have any room service, but that there was a small taco joint a half a block down the street.

    I had shaved, showered, and was pulling on a pair of khaki trousers over a clean pair of shorts when the door opened.

    She was carrying a large paper-bag.

    "See," she said, "breakfast. Coffee, tacos. Now do you believe I'm good for something?"

    I gave her a pat on the ass as she passed me to put the bag on the table.

    "You're good for a lot of things, baby," I said. "But you're still going back to the States."

    "We can have breakfast first, I suppose," she said.

    "We can."

    While she washed out the two glasses which had held tequila and Cokes, then filled them with coffee from a cardboard container, I slipped on the money-belt and put on a tan sports-shirt over it. She laid out the tacos, which, incidentally, are not my idea of a really perfect breakfast food, and I took the wallet out of my rear pocket. I rifled through the bills and extracted a fifty and two tens. I laid them on the table beside the tacos as I reached for the coffee.

    "Listen to me and listen good," I said. "The time for fun and games is over. I have work to do and my plans call for being alone while I'm doing it. When we finish breakfast, I'm going to be leaving this room for an hour or so, and when I come back, I want to see you gone. I want you to take this money, call a taxi cab, and go back to the border. I want you to cross the border and get on a bus and keep on going."

    She looked at me and pouted and half shook her head. "I wouldn't be any trouble," she said.

    "You'd be all sorts of trouble. Trouble is one thing I can't use much of at this time."

    "But-" she started.

    "No buts." I pushed the money over toward her. "Take it while you can, and do what I tell you."

    "You don't like me?"

    "I like you fine. It's just that there's going to be no room in my life for women."

    She looked at me for a long time and then slowly nodded.

    "Okay," she said. "If that's the way you want it."

    "That's the way it's got to be. Now just do what I tell you."

    I stood up and went into the bathroom. When I came back, she was still sitting there, sipping the coffee.

    "I'm going out now," I said. "I want you to be gone when I get back. Take your time and finish your breakfast and then pack up and call a cab. Okay?"

    She stood up. "Are you going to kiss me goodbye?"

    I walked over, and her arms were suddenly around me, holding me tight. Her half-opened mouth met mine. I didn't want to, but after half a minute or so, I freed her arms and pushed her gently back down onto the bed. When I reached the door, I hesitated, said, "Take care of yourself. You're okay. And goodbye."

    

    

    The Mexican boy was still sitting behind the wheel of the Jag. When I opened the door, his chin was down on his chest, his eyes closed. He opened them the second he heard me.

    "A very long night, senor," he said. "Very long. More than two dollars long. You may check the hubcaps."

    He started to get out of the car, and I took a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to him.

    "I'll be back here after a while," I said. "Maybe you'll be around."

    "Si, senor."

    "Now tell me," I said, "how do I find the police station?"

    He gave me directions in his broken English, and his smile alone was worth the five dollars.

    A uniformed officer sitting behind the information desk at headquarters looked up from the girlie magazine he was reading when I walked through the door. He stared at me coldly for a moment and he went "tsk, tsk" and his eyes went back to the girlie magazine.

    I hadn't made much of an impression on him, apparently. He probably figured I was just another sucker who had been clipped at an all-night whorehouse and was coming in to make the obvious complaint. I walked over to the desk, stood in front of it, and waited for him to look up again.

    He didn't look up, but finally he said, "Yes, senor."

    "I am looking for a Captain Hernando Morales."

    This time he tore himself away from the girlie magazine, and when he looked at me, his expression showed a certain amount of interest.

    "Did you say Captain Morales?"

    "Captain Hernando Morales," I repeated.

    He looked thoughtful for a moment and then slowly shook his head. "There is no Captain Morales here."

    "I understand that, officer." I said. "Captain Morales is not connected with the local police force. The captain is with the Federals. I understand he is stationed in Tijuana and I would like to get in touch with him."

    Again the opaque eyes stared at me for several moments.

    "It might be possible," he said. "Would you care to tell me your business with Captain Morales?"

    I didn't answer the question. I said, "My name is Johns. Mark Johns. I am staying at the El Camino Hotel, in Room 24. If you would be kind enough to get ahold of Captain Morales and ask him to see me or call me there, I would be deeply appreciative."

    Again he stared at me with those peculiar opaque eyes. He looked away from me and around the room to where two men stood in a corner involved in a quiet conversation. There was no one else in the room.

    "Everything is possible," he said pointedly.

    "I understand," I said. I reached for the folded ten-dollar bill I had placed in my trouser pocket. He made no move as I slipped it in front of him.

    "Mark Johns, Room 24, El Camino Hotel. Is that correct, senor?"

    "That is correct."

    He was very good. The ten-dollar bill had disappeared, and I hadn't even seen him move his hand.

    "It will take an hour, two hours, perhaps three, if possible at all," he said. "Why don't you look around our city in the meantime. If you are back to the hotel, say at noon or later, it is possible that I might find this Captain Morales."

    I thanked him and turned and left.

    I headed downtown, looking for a half-decent restaurant. Those tacos were getting restless in my stomach, and I could use a real meal.

    I was in no hurry to return to the El Camino. I wanted Sharon to have plenty of time to leave before I went back. I knew that it would be at least an hour or more before I could hope to hear from my
capitan.

    It was Wednesday, the middle of the week, and the place was like a ghost town. There were a few stray tourists, listlessly window shopping in the usual traps, as well as a number of discouraged-looking hippies from the other side of the border. Assorted young Mexicans, several of whom carried guitars, and now and then a bedraggled-looking escapee from a local brothel.

    With the track closed down and with it being an off season for jai alai, plus the recent campaign to check thoroughly all cars returning to the States in an effort to close down the drug traffic, I could see that the town was really hurting.

    I found a fairly clean-looking, small restaurant which actually had white tablecloths and served American as well as Mexican food. The scrambled eggs weren't too bad, but it was pretty early in the day to have them with chili. I ate them anyway, and the sausages were good. The coffee was excellent.

    I took my time and read a copy of the San Diego paper I had picked up before coming in.

    The president was bringing back another ten thousand men from Vietnam, the dock workers were threatening to go on strike again on the West Coast, six people had been killed in a head-on collision on Route 5, north of the city, and a Los Angeles policeman had shot his wife when he found her in bed with one of his buddies. Nothing new, nothing much of interest.

    I checked the baseball scores and tried to work up an interest in the comic strips. There were a couple of new ones I'd not seen before.

    I was killing time.

    My mind was not on the newspaper or what I was reading, however. I was thinking of Bongo and of what Bongo had told me, back there in Saigon. Told me about a certain Captain Hernando Morales of the Mexican Federal Police Department. Narcotics Division.

    "A most interesting and unusual man, sergeant," Bongo had said. "If he were hare, here in the Orient, he would be a millionaire. Many times over."

    "But in Mexico he is a policeman," I said.

    "Yes, a policeman. But more than just a policeman. A good deal more. When I was there, in Mexico, I handled the girls for him. But that was just a small part of his business. He was in everything. Hard goods, gambling, protection-you name it. Yes, a most unusual man. And dangerous. He would as soon kill you as do business with you. Not a man to take lightly. You are sure that you want to see him, sergeant, when you go back to the States? He is very tricky."

    "But he also has connections and power," I said.

    "That he has. A great deal of power. He is only a police captain, but his power is immense. The right connections, you understand. With the politicos and with the big racket people. But if you find him, be very careful. He is tricky, as I have said, and very dangerous. Very tough."

    "And he will remember you if I use your name, Bongo?"

    "He will remember Bongo. You may be sure. He will remember me. After all, didn't he try to have me murdered? But he has respect for me. Respect because he didn't succeed. A recommendation from Bongo will mean much to him."

    Later on, before I left Saigon, he wrote out a short note in longhand for me to give Morales, when and if I should look him up. The note was carefully folded and wrapped in a sheet of plastic in my wallet.

    I looked at my watch, and it was eleven o'clock. Leaving the restaurant, I paid my check with a twenty-dollar bill and received my change in pesos. Despite the unpopularity of American money in most foreign countries, the Mexicans still prefer the U.S. dollar. At least in the border towns.

    I left the car parked in front of the restaurant-one urchin, one quarter-and walked down the block until I came to a Mexican bank. A bilingual vice-president arranged for me to rent a safety-deposit box and left me alone while I took off the money-belt. I extracted two five hundred dollar bills and placed the belt holding the rest of my capital in the box, locked it and left the bank.

    I still had a little time to kill. I wanted to get back to the hotel by noontime, but no sooner.

    I spent the next forty-five minutes driving around the city. I wanted to reorient myself.

    At three minutes to twelve, I was again pulling into the lot next to the El Camino, and my young Mexican friend was waiting.

    This time, as he accepted a dollar from me, he told me his name was Carlos. He didn't want to take the dollar at first, reminding me that I had already given him six dollars. I explained that I was building up my credit. He felt he should offer something beside protection for my largess and showed me a handful of dirty postcards. When I shook my head, he smiled slyly.

    "Perhaps the senor would like to change his luck. I have this young cousin. Very clean, very young. A virgin. Arrangements can be…"

    I thanked him for the suggestion, but assured him my luck was holding out fine. He climbed back behind the steering wheel as I started for the lobby.

    I went up a flight of stairs and down the hall to Room 24. I put my key into the lock, but I didn't need it. When I pushed open the door, the first thing that hit me was the unmistakable sweet odor of marijuana. The first thing I saw was Sharon, sitting on the side of the bed, a slender cigarette in her mouth. She was dressed exactly as I had last seen her, but she had smeared her mouth with lipstick and was again wearing the eyeshadow. It didn't enhance her appearance, or make her look sophisticated; it merely made her look like an underaged prostitute.

    She looked up at me, but didn't say anything. Neither did I. Instead, I hesitated in the doorway and looked over at the man sprawled in the big armchair by the window.

    He had a complexion of burnished copper, a pencil moustache, and he wore a pair of dark, gold-rimmed glasses. His gray hair was parted at one side and neatly combed. He wore a dark-blue silk suit, perfectly cut, a white, shantung shirt, a pair of glistening-black cowboy boots. His hands were beautifully manicured, and there were rings on both index fingers. He was broad-shouldered, slender, and tall for a Mexican.

    I walked into the room and crossed over and took the cigarette out of Sharon's mouth and went into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

    I went back and closed the door and then went over to the table and sat down in the straight-backed chair next to it.

    "Senor Johns, I presume?"

    His voice was like poured liquid.

    I nodded.

    "This charming senorita, your daughter, yes…"-he made it sound like a question, but from the twisted smile on his thin lips, it was obviously a question to which he expected no answer and needed none- "… has been kind enough to entertain me while I awaited you. I am Captain Morales."