Chapter Twenty-Eight
Doc had already told the tale to these politico cowboys, standing with Primo like schoolboys in disgrace facing a ring of henchmen, the young ones wearing dark glasses and the older ones bristling with mustaches. DePilar dominated the room, standing in front of the massive hearth with his riding crop held behind his thighs. Wearing his spurs and sombrero inside the house. Doc wished he could look around the room some more: it looked like a museum of turn of the century Mexico. But he had to keep an eye on DePilar, who was not exactly playing along.
“And why should I help you? I don’t understand why I have even listened to you”
Doc’s problem was, he was stumped on that one himself. He couldn’t see one single reason why anyone would say shit about a powerful, connected criminal for the benefit of two powerless strangers from races he despised. He spread his hands in a confident, man-to-man gesture and prepared to embark on a half-assed, aimless stroll through bombast and bullshit, but was floored when Primo said, “We had supposed there was still some potency left in this old dinosaur cacique system.”
Doc had a hard time holding a straight face through the thundering silence that line produced. He covered up by nodding sagely, folding his arms and leaning back to watch the kid fuck up.
Since all the mustaches and Foster Grants seemed to have developed high blood pressure and lockjaw, Primo mildly proceeded. “I told him we should have gone straight to the PRI or the army, where modern American influence counts for something and things get done. But he’s a gringo. He thinks we’re still picturesque peasants here and that this whole feudal cacique myth is still worth our time. I know myself that it is bankrupt, fit only for small swindles of the faithful. We’d have been better off going for help to a priest.”
Jeez, Doc thought, when the kid finally gets talking he’s downright inflammatory. He had a very watchful eye on two compadres that hadn’t moved but were obviously thinking fixedly about their pistols.
DePilar took a deep, heavy breath and spoke with a crunching weight, “You come into my house and call me corrupt?”
“I was speaking in general terms,” Primo shrugged, “But I do recall reading some unflattering things in “Controversia” regarding your selling of Ejido land that was dedicated to native peoples in solemn public trust.”
“From that trash you get the cojones to call me a swindler? What do you know of such dealings? That magazine, that crazy bitch who wrote it?”
Doc said, “Why, I’ve known Carmen for years.”
“And what do you know of her?” DePilar demanded. “What is her word against mine: against the President of the Heroic Ayunamiento of Puerto Vallarta? Who is she?”
Doc looked at him, struggling for calm in his cowboy suit. He had a flash of Vicente Fernadez, smoldering in the video of “Por Tu Maldito Amor”, then draining his tequila bottle and smashing it into a woman’s picture. He spread his hands again and said lightly, “They’re all just a bunch of cunts, you know.”
The depth of that unexpected wisdom went around the circle of mustaches and something lightened up. Sex cuts politics again, Doc thought. He said, “Señor DePilar, I’m sure Primitivo meant no insult to you. He is disappointed in me for ignoring his advice. I agree that there’s no reason for you to help us, even if you were able to.”
DePilar couldn’t decide whether to be placated by the apology or offended at the slur on his power. Doc thought, it’s time to play the “lost child” card. Hell, it worked on me. “Look, I am just a servant here, helping an old man find his daughter. Tell me, sir, if someone took one of your daughters away and you went to find her, what would you think of a man who wouldn’t help you?”
Primo added, “To return her to her home and mother.” Which Doc could instantly see was exactly the right note. It was a matter of personal honor now, and in front of his men. De Pilar walked to one side of the rough mantle, completely covered with testimonials and pictures of the famous and deliberately obscure. Laying his forearm on the mantel, he struck a movie star pose, pointing dramatically at Doc. “Of course, I would aid a man concerned about his daughter. But of course I would not help a clever liar approach a great man.”
Doc nodded. “All I want to do is send the man a message, nothing more than that. What else? Do I look like a narcotic cop or hit man?”
DePilar sized him up, sneered, “Worse.” The ring of sunglasses and mustaches liked that one. DePilar got grandiose again, waved a hand laden with noblesse oblige. “I will help you that much, in respect for this daughter’s parents, whoever they might be.”
Doc started to thank him, but was cut off by the wave of a gloved hand. DePilar turned his attention back on Primo. “So you like the modern world, boy? You think the new ways are better ways?”
Primo smiled sadly. “Of course not, I’m an Indian.”
DePilar snorted and half his men guffawed. He held up his hand again, like a schoolteacher. “You see what they’re doing now, El Presidente Salinas y Rocha and his gringo schoolmates?”
“They’re breaking the bars, cutting the chains, uncovering old graves so the skeletons can come out and dance,” Primo had obviously played this riff before. “It’s the Day of the Dead. Also called by some the twentieth century.”
“What I’d call it is the Perestroika Mexicana. They’re breaking the rules, is what they’re breaking. He’s undercutting a system of the people, out of the earth,” DePilar fumed. “A way of doing things that has been in place for centuries.”
Primo gave a very dark smile, “If you want to see the way of the centuries in this land, Señor, go to Palenque, or Chichen Itza and sit in the pyramids. Look up at those mountains of stone and think about the hands that made them. Ask yourself if you belong here. I have no doubt myself.”
“I don’t doubt it, either, Indio. I am convinced that you are completely full of shit and don’t care who knows it. Listen. I will talk to you again in three days. To see what aid we can give this lost girl without bothering people who actually matter. Entiendes? I have offices in town… No, wait. I don’t need any gabachos and redskins tramping into my office: I will see you in front of the dolphin statues on the Malison at noon of the third day. Paco here will show you to the door. Don’t come back or he will show you more than that.”
Walking through the cool dust in the last light, doing a post mortem of the entire meeting, both Doc and Primo considered themselves very lucky. But couldn’t keep from telling each other they’d done very well.
“Three days,” Doc mused. “Think there’s any real reason for the wait?”
“Yes. To make us wait.”
“Well, it’s got this going for it. It’ll put Stan right up the wall.”
“I’ve been wondering why you put up with him.”
“Incredibly, we may need him yet.”
“But he seems so useless.”
“And how. And if there’s one thing I hate it’s needing useless people. But he’s connected. And I’ve got a feeling this job is gonna call for some of the usual.”
Primo looked over at Doc, attentive. “What’s the usual?”
“Lawyers, guns and money.”
“Ah, the gringo trinity. Well, it’s worked well for so long.”
Stan Russell sat on the front two inches of the lobby chair, tension stamped all over him. He jumped up as Doc and Primo entered. “So, have you’ve found out anything about Dancy and Armando, if that’s who we’re looking for?”
“Matter of fact, we have, but I think it’s going to take three more days to get it all figured out.”
Russell tried to look enthused at the prospect. “Great. Great. Why three days?”
“Because that’s how long before our dates have to go back to Guanajuanto.”
Russell became a little incoherent at that point, but made it clear he was unhappy. Walking to the stairs, Doc applauded silently. “A good tantrum, but not a great tantrum. An eight, eight point three, tops.
Self-control devices lumbered into place, and Russell gritted out, “So how do you figure we should spend those three days?”
“Well, you can suit yourself. Primo and I plan on showing those girls the time of their enviably short lives. Then we’re going up to El Anclote.”
“Where’s that?”
“Where the elite meet to eat in Nayarit.”
“What the hell is Nayarit?”
“I’ve always thought of it as a state of mind.”
Russell slumped somewhat, frustrated and baffled. “Well, shit, Hardesty.”
“Aw, just call me Doc, ” Doc stood up to go, picking up the morning edition of “Opina” from the table.
Doc got up from lounging on the bronze dolphins and walked over to the curb. Primo was right behind him: it didn’t take many clues to tip them that it was the cacique’s car pulling up. The ominous heft of the Cadillac limo, the almost opaque windows, definitely the monstrous longhorns across the grill and huge chrome bucking bronco hood ornament. Above all the black and white paint job, cunningly resembling calfskin. No bet on the seatcovers matching, Doc thought, just as the rear window whispered down, showing DePilar in a severe western-styled suit, sitting on dappled calfskin seats and attended by a bunch of big guys wearing guayaberas and very dark Vuarnets.
He surveyed the two of them with unveiled scorn, then got right to it. “I have spoken about this. My Padrino, who you have rudely referred to as “El Ojo” might consider talking to you if you come to him. He will know you if you tell him you come from La Quina.” He paused for effect. “Which is what the rude and overly familiar call me.”
Doc nodded, “Thank you, Señor. And you have the thanks of two worried parents. How are we to go to see your Padrino?”
“Ask the kid, see if he really knows everything yet.” Turning his sunglasses towards Primo, the cacique said, “You didn’t mention that you are a journalist. A Marxist journalist. I hate journalists.”
“I just take pictures, myself,” Doc said, “Never try to explain them.”
DePilar made a dismissive gesture with his wrist. He kept staring at Primo. “If you get out of this in one piece come back and see me, m’ijo. Yes, that’s what I said. Ask for me at the ejidal offices. I’ll tell you a thing…or many. Your fancy reformers are hanging us faithful out to dry, doing gringo voodoo with numbers. They’re leaving us holding up the sky. Well, we all have a few tales to tell, and a few old skeletons to hump.”
He took a breath, as if to calm himself down. “Come back and I’ll talk to you more. Bring your notebook. I’ll make your sissy little communist ass famous. Maybe even rich, if you’re a kid who knows how to play cards once he’s dealt them. Then we’ll see how damn Marxist you turn out to be. I wish my own kids were as full of shit as you are.”
“Thank you sir. I will come back.”
“Maybe.” The cacique eyed Doc dubiously, “You’re too young to know that chasing gringa pussy is good way to get your dick burned down.” The window swooshed up and the car pulled away, leaving them in its dust and exhaust.
Doc saw where Primo had used his finger to write “Puto” in the dust on the rear fender. He gave him a glance, but Primo looked blank and innocent as an acolyte. Doc said, “I keep telling you kid, Some day you’re gonna get it for the stuff you write.”