Chapter Ten
When Jimmy Z had shaken hands all around and taken a few long drafts of his Tecate, Doc said, “Not many of the old crowd around, Z Man.”
“You see how it is, now,” Jimmy said, waving his bottle out at the three long rows of power cruisers at anchor. “Some guy came up with the idea of charging daily moorage fees, now the Port Captain collects it for him. It goes up as fast at the price of everything else around here. The old time boat bums can’t afford it, just these Newport power squadron types. Send their boats down with able crews, then fly down to party on board. Turn on the air conditioners. The sailors mostly moved up to La Paz, but they’ve started charging pretty heavy up there. Tough on the boat people, you know. Same shit ashore–hard to camp in front of hotels.”
Doc nodded, “I’d like to see some of the old beach bunch. I’d go out of my way.”
“Well, I heard Jeff and Dan are up in La Paz on “Evil Ways”, some of the last hold-outs since they started charging to anchor there. Jerry Walsh is moored up at Puerto Escondido, May and Riley went over to Huanacaxtle to anchor out. Other than that, who knows?”
“You seen anybody I used to run with?”
“Ah. We’re talking Runner’s World. Well, you know who’s over in Vallarta? Harvey Recht.”
Doc leaned back a little, smiling faintly at Jimmy Z. “No shit. Harvey Recht.” He turned to the old man and said, “We’ll be leaving tomorrow. To Puerto Vallarta. To have a little chat with Mr. Recht.”
“A man who might know something. Good. But you said, ‘We’. I’m afraid I won’t be able to…”
“Naturally. I was referring to myself and an assistant, who will be joining us shortly so you can meet him. Unfortunately, he speaks no English, but you can take a look. He’ll be on my payroll for this job, a line-itemed expense you can approve right now. Fortunately, from now on you won’t see who I’m talking to. It will only go downhill from here, and “here” is washed-up piano players and Marxist newsboys.”
He’d seen Primitivo sliding into the bar like a beach dog, sidling along a wall and searching every face. He waved him over to the table, where Primo eased into a chair as though he didn’t want anyone to know he was there. O’Donough could see that the youngster wasn’t comfortable with the environment, but that he smiled warmly at Jimmy Z.
“When’s my interview, Cousin?” Jimmy asked him, “Mi entrevista. Cuando?”
Primo smiled a shy smile and said, “Mañana, seguro.”
“All right, champ. Bring a camera. Fotos, sí?”
“Sí, sí. Publicamos fotos feos.”
“Me, ugly pictures? You want feo, I’ll show you feo.” Jimmy stood up and, in a shockingly poor voice for a musician, sang to the tune of the Banana Boat Song, “FEEEEEO! Que feo, que feo, que feo, que feeeeeeeeo. Break’s over boys, and I gotta go on.”
As Jimmy stepped over to the bandstand, Primo glanced at Doc and said, “Supe que ya limpias las playas.”
Somewhat chagrined, Doc said, “He’s heard about my participation in a private beach clean-up program.” To Primo, he said, “Y como supiste?”
Primo shrugged, “Soy periodista.”
The old man chuckled. “He knew because he’s a journalist, is that what he said? I like him already.” And I’m not at all disposed to liking journalists.”
“I can see why.”
“Ah, my reputation proceeds me. All I can say is that Will Rogers has long gone and any man today who only knew what he read in the papers would be an ignorant, psychoneurotic nincompoop.”
“I prefer to think of myself as ‘disinformed’.”
Shit, pretty soon they’ll be singing old school songs, Stan thought, and broke into the conversation abrasively, “Wait a minute. You’re going off on a lark to Vallarta on a tip from a hippy pianist and taking this teen-aged peasant as your assistant?”
Doc didn’t even glance at him, “Very good, I’m glad you follow the simpler parts. Primo will be my guide, bloodhound, translator and clandestine gofer. I plan to pay him more than he’d make in about two lifetimes writing for that jerk-off rag he’s with now.”
Russell said, “I thought you were the hotshot with the contacts and the Spanish and the tricks of the trade?”
That seemed to call for a comment to the old man. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much I’ll need someone who can walk around without being noticed. Someone who knows Mexican culture deep down. I’ll be talking with criminals and powerful men and needing to know for sure if they’re lying or if they are giving me messages hidden in innuendo. Primo, being a journalist who interviews politicians, is quite accustomed to the ways of powerful, criminal liars.”
The old man chuckled, “I might resent that if I’d ever been elected to anything instead of just buying or bulling my way in. The kid looks good, I’m glad you rounded him up.”
Russell knew it was to late to protest, so he said, “So it’ll be the three of us.”
That got a look out of Doc, “I get two.”
“She’s my wife. I’m coming, too.”
O’Donough quickly cut in. “Stan can be quite helpful to you, Doc. While you’re in Puerto Vallarta, he can fly up to Mexico City and set up a sort of command post for this thing. He can contact the DEA and embassy people there, work the Federales for information. He knows these people. He’ll be the one to keep in close contact with you, supply you with money or gear or information as you need it. I’m afraid I can’t take the altitude and air pollution up in the capital and can’t tear around the country on the chase. It’s better for my health here. I like it here, the warm breeze the dry air the hard young bodies and stark rock. There’s nice solitary beaches to walk and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. I’ll be at the Hacienda until it’s over.”
Until it’s over, Russell was thinking. Great. The old goat hadn’t lost many campaigns in his time. Even the damn Drug War had been less of a farce under Con. Then again, he didn’t think much of his “A” team–a Nam burnout and kid who looks like Sally Struthers was sending him an allowance. And, of course, himself.
The Mexican kid had been looking at O’Donough for a long time, and suddenly spoke to him in Spanish. Doc said, “He said he hopes your daughter is all right and that she can be restored to you quickly.”
Surprised and moved, the old man said, “Thank you, son. I wish you both luck in this thing. Be careful as you can, and have the luck of the Irish about you.” He looked straight at Primo and said, slowly and carefully, “Buena suerte, amigo.”
Primo looked at the old man and spoke rapidly, as though embarrassed. He cocked an eye at Doc, who said, “He asked if you are a Southerner.”
The old man nodded and Primo questioned him again. Doc said, “He wants to know if its true that there are signs in Southern places that say, “No Dogs or Niggers Allowed.”
The old man kept his eyes on the boy as he said, “Absolutely not. Maybe fifty years ago, in ignorant, low places. It would be against the law to have such a sign, the owner would be arrested. It is even against the law to refuse service to people because of their race. The United States has a reputation for racial prejudice that is largely undeserved. Anyone who travels knows that most other countries have much worse racial attitudes and problems than we do. In fact, I understand that in Mexico the Indians get worse treatment than American blacks do. Is there anything else I can tell you, son?”
Doc translated to Primo, who kept looking at the old man, then spoke to him again, briefly. Doc said, “He says thank you, he believes you. He’s is glad to meet you and hopes we get your daughter back soon. By the way, I know he agrees with your assessment of anti-Indian racism. Primitivo is a full-blooded Tarahuamara Indian.”
Con nodded, looking the kid over. “He’s a likely looking pup. How much of your flashy investigative work did he help you with already?
Doc said, “I got it all from him. He’s a journalist, you know.”
“My stars, I guess. You should have let me go on thinking you were a super-detective. Good for business.”
“Well, that was my plan. But you caught me out so I figured I’d make some points for self-effacing candor.”
“You’re not cut out for consultant work, Hardesty. You should have stuck to something clean and honest, like gunning down gooks.”
“Well, I’d like to, but at my age, with this lumbago and all.”
“Just see if you can locate her, you know. I’m not expecting any miracles.”
“Miracles cost extra. I just wish I could talk you out of this son-in-law business.”
The old man glanced at Russell, who’d stepped to the bar to use the phone, then spoke quietly to Doc. “You may be right. But indulge us, will you? I’d really rather he be with you for awhile than with me.”
Doc shrugged, “Naturally I can’t personally guarantee he’ll get his ass shot off.”
Con O’Donough flushed in righteous shock and leaned closer to Doc, trembling slightly as if overcome by his indignation. Then he chirped out in a lilting leprechaun’s brogue, “Sure an’ you could do an old man such a wee favor.”
Doc laughed out loud, shaking his head. Then he went solemn, and laid his hand on the older man’s forearm, “I’m already doing you more favor than I can understand.”
O’Donough grunted, “Do you mean it’s not just the money?”
“Seems like it’s never just the damned money any more, is it?”