Chapter Thirty-Five
That dickhead mercenary claimed it was the best hotel in Tepic, but he’d probably picked it to humiliate Stan and get a kickback. Forget pools and restaurants, the place had no parking lot, no tobacco shop, no coffee. You had to get a carafe of water from a big green bottle in the hall. There was no wall dividing the shower from the rest of the bathroom. The telephone was down in the so-called lobby and they came and fetched you if you got a call. You couldn’t put used paper down the toilet, apparently; you put it in a little basket on the floor or the plumbing would back up. Almost as nasty a sight as the view of the street out the single window. All of which he claims are standard accommodation in this country, which is probably sordid enough to be true.
Of course, Hardesty and the kid had a bigger room with two beds and table and chairs. The only one, they claimed. Hard to tell since nobody in the place even speaks English. And why are we here? Because the dipshit actually tracked the wife to the area and is making plans to go find out her exact whereabouts. Doing everything possible to turn this into a disgrace and prison type scenario. What a nightmare. Stanley Russell was not in the best of moods when he went up to their room for the meeting. And he’d bet heavily against it improving after he got there. Maybe this time he’d clothesline that Hardesty fucker out the window. Three stories down to cement from this one, too.
Primo opened the door making shushing gestures. Doc’s full attention was focused on a grainy, twitchy black and white TV set in the corner. All Russell could see was some chubby guy with glasses reading news. He guessed he didn’t need an invitation to sit down. He glanced around. At least there weren’t any bottles and whores laying around this time. Doc reached over to switch off the set and turned to nod at Russell. “Hell, all I wanted was a weather report.”
“So,” He said, deadpan, “Look like rain?”
“Just a breaking news story. Seems a gang of truly insane robbers just took off a bank in Buenas Peras, down on the coast. Seven desperate men–one tentatively identified as known crime figure Jaime Ramos Hurtado–wearing weird ritual masks and led by a dazzling, naked, machine-gun toting American blonde on horseback. Sound like anybody you’ve ever been married to?”
Russell just sat still, staring, until it sunk in that everything that was happening to him was actually happening to him. Finally he said, “She never was the Martha Stewart type.”
Doc almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. He said, “They’re calling her the ‘Snow White’ bandit. This also just in, Lios Leyva is almost certainly dead. But we’ve located his hideout and will head up there tomorrow to scout it out.”
Russell remained frozen, the events windmilling through his head, which was starting to feel like maybe a migraine was coming right up. He didn’t freak out about the chase getting so close to Dancy, or even over the idea that she was running around loose. Her new passion for bank heists was too surrealistic to even register. The only coherent thought he could come up with was, “Christ. Ten days. He didn’t even last ten days.” Finally he saw a clear-cut course of action and took it. He stood up, turned gravely to Doc, and said, “I need a drink. I’ll discuss this with you later.”
Doc and Primo stepped out for an early lunch of birria and quesadillas, then walked around the extremely modest plaza and limited touristic sites of beautiful downtown Tepic eating ice cream cones. When they got back to the hotel they checked in on Russell and found him somewhat more composed. Medicated probably a better word. He was calm and even polite as he handed Doc a folder on Lios Leyva he’d gotten from the capital city Federales, along with the keys to a military jeep.
Doc thumbed through the file quickly, put it under his elbow. He handed the keys back and told Russell he couldn’t use them. Russell’s calm and politeness started to strain at the edges.
“Actually, a Jeep is a terrible vehicle for anything other than off-road travel,” Doc said, somewhat apologetically, “They’re slow and underpowered, high-centered, short wheel based, handle like a bucket, wide open and completely insecure. I was thinking of something with axle clearance for this, but the more I look at it, I’ll only be driving on halfway decent roads. Everything else is straight up and down.”
Russell’s headache suddenly became more menacing and his calm went totally to hell. “Well why don’t you just run out and pick up something you like?” he sneered, “I’m sure the lots are all open.”
“That’s what I’m going to do,” Doc said, “Come on, Primo. I’ll give you some pointers on picking out incredibly overpriced cars.”
Doc was back in three hours, pulling up to the hotel in a low-slung red Mustang with flames painted on the fenders and the hood cut away for an alloy scoop topping three chromed carburetors. A strange Mexican sat in back and Primo grinned like an elated idiot from the passenger’s seat. Russell had seen them through the lobby window and stood in the door speechless while Doc rolled down the window to let out a swirling storm of Norteño accordian and flicked his finger against one of the red and black “dingle balls” that ran around the headliner. “Pretty charp, huh?” he asked, “I’m gonna name it La Bamba, sí mon.”
Primo waved a foaming can of Pacifico at Russell and reached over to tap the horn, which blasted out the first five notes of “Toda La Vida”. Doc shrugged apologetically at Russell, “We’re trying to make it play “La Cucaracha”, but we haven’t figured it out yet.”
Something in Russell’s expression must have been funny because some kids walking by in white and navy school uniforms broke out laughing at him. He leaned over, pale and almost choking, “I’m not paying for that hotrod, Hardesty.”
“I keep having to remind you that you’re not paying for diddly squat. You haven’t even bought us a beer so far,” Doc said, “But don’t tell me. Talk to the previous owner.” The man from the back seat lurched out the door, a very rough and tumble looking dude in snakeskin rodeo boots wearing an enormous sheath knife under his denim jacket. He faced Russell expectantly.
“He’s a fairly heavy drug runner himself, I understand,” Doc confided, “He doesn’t speak English, but all you have to do is give him four million five for the car. If you don’t have cash I’m sure he’ll accept blood or sexual services. See ya later, me and the kid are going to the root beer stand to pick some drags.” The car roared, jumped out into traffic like a dog breaking its leash, and slid around the corner with Primo waving vigorous, foam-sloshing goodbyes.
Russell looked at the local and controlled his rage. “Shit,” he said, then, “Well let’s go get the money.” As he turned to walk into the hotel the guy was right on top of him, almost walking on his heels. Russell, exasperated to the breaking point, snapped, “I’m gonna pay you, all right? For shit sakes.” The guy made no move to back off and Russell said, “Dinero, okay? We’ll go inside and get the fucking dinero.” The guy waved him in with a traffic cop gesture and fell in right behind him. “Sí,” he growled, “El pinche focking dinero.”
By the time Doc and Primo got back to their room that evening, Russell had calmed down enough to scream at them coherently. “It’s not a dragster, Stan,” Doc explained, “Just the Mexican V-8 version of a l971 Mustang Mach 1 penismobile. The Mexicans were smart enough to keep making them for about fifteen years, just like they still make VeeWee Bugs. It’s a damned good deal, maybe even an investment.”
“Oh, it’s just fucking lovely,” Russell yelled, “The perfect thing for cruising the strip with Junior Jesus here. But unless I’m out of line reminding you what we’re doing in this shithole, it’s supposed to be for a combat mission.”
“Then get me a tank,” Doc said, “Or better yet, a Cobra gunship.”
Russell sat down on the bed and cradled his chin in his hands, “Holy shit, Hardesty. You do some weird kind of business.”
“Let me explain it to you, Stan,” Doc said, “The thing is extremely fast, but has good room for carrying the guns and can be locked up. It’s a low target and actually fairly low profile. You see a lot of hot-shots driving them in the hills. Nobody around here drives jeeps. And besides, it’s got a great radio/cassette deck with an eighty watt amplifier. Wish I’d brought along some Doors tapes. Some Miles and Getz.”
Russell looked over at Doc lounging in an armchair with a bottle of orange soda, and Primo stretched out on the bed twitching a Pacifico to the beat of a Walkman. He took a deep breath. “Makes sense, I guess,” he sighed, “At least as much as anything else you’ve done. Which isn’t fucking much so far.”
“Jeez, you ‘Type A’ cats are too much. All we’ve done in about a week is locate a powerful criminal in the middle of a haystack of jungle and mafioso code, find out where your wife is, and prepare to mount a complete reconnaissance. Which would already be underway if you hadn’t snagged getting the vehicle and guns.”
Russell stood up and stalked to the closet. “I got you a vehicle. If you wanted a drive-in pussy wagon you should have said so up front.” He opened the closet, brought out a set of golf clubs and dumped it on the bed. Among the silvery shafts showering out over the bedspread was a very short Remington pump shotgun with pistol grip, an Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun, a Brazilian copy of an H&K paratrooper carbine, and a Smith and Wesson revolver in .357 with six inch barrel. Primo sat up and took off the headphones, staring at the pile of guns. Doc took a quick look and said, “Not bad, Stan. I gotta admit.”
Russell grinned tightly, gave a dismissive shrug, “My political connections.”
“DEA had a garage sale, huh?” Doc was inspecting the guns, arranging them on a towel. “Damn, you even got Pachmeyer grips on the Remington.”
“So delighted to please you. Now, unless you want me to take these back to the store and dash out and buy a chrome-plated flame-thrower or metalflake bazooka or something, can I expect you to get around to finding my wife for me?”
Doc was concentrating on the Remington, slowly working the slide. Suddenly he spun the gun like a pistol and clicked it at Russell’s reflection in the mirror. “Number one, sonny; we already found her. Number two, we found her for her daddy, not you. Number three, I’m out of here first thing mañana and should have the situation scoped out in less than forty eight hours. Number four, you’re here when I call for back-up. If I make the call and you’re not here for it, the whole thing might go smash and I’ll resent you for it personally. Primo will be here with you. Now try and get some sleep. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you’ve been damned cranky lately.”