Chapter 4
Garson awakened to the crystal chime call of a turtledove, heard a parakeet answer. He lifted his head, looked out the tall windows at the lake. A morning mist clouded the far shore. The lake appeared to be about a half mile wide. He could see the corner of a dock on this side, a boat chained to it, another dock directly across the lake.
He sat up, looked around his prison. The bed, chair and nightstand were the only furniture. His wristwatch on the nightstand showed 6:40 a.m. Garson picked it up, examined it to see if it had been damaged by the dunking. The watch appeared to be bearing out its waterproof guarantee. He strapped it to his wrist.
The door rattled, swung open. An ancient woman, skin almost black, hobbled into the room. She carried a tray containing a steaming pot of coffee, a tall glass of fruit juice, two fried eggs, beans and tortillas.
“The service in this jail is better than most,” he said.
The old woman ignored him, placed the tray on the nightstand, turned.
“Do you speak English?” asked Garson.
She returned to the door, left the room without answering. He heard the lock click.
The food smelled delicious. He was surprised to find that he was ravenously hungry, pulled the tray onto his lap, began eating. The sun came over the hills beyond the lake, began burning away the mist.
Garson finished eating, found that his clothes had dried. He dressed, crossed to the barred window, stared out. To the right he could make out the barrio where he had waited in El Grillo’s hut.
The daylight made the events of the previous day and night assume a sense of unreality. Garson wondered when he would see Luac’s queenly daughter. He found this thought more absorbing than worry about himself or how he would escape from the hacienda with his story.
What had Villazana called her? A mango.
Garson smiled. He rubbed his chin, felt the stiff bristle of his beard, longed for a razor before encountering Anita Luac. There had been no shaving equipment in the room’s bath.
Choco Medina opened the door at 7:45, put a hand to his lips, shook his head. “Good morning,” he said.
Garson looked down the hall behind Medina, saw no one.
Again Medina shook his head.
Someone’s listening.
“Is it a good morning?” asked Garson.
“Who knows?” said Medina. He stood aside, motioned for Garson to precede him down the hall. “Come on along.”
The hall emerged into a large, cool room—high ceilings with hand-hewn beams that appeared smoke stained. The room’s furniture was massive. Brightly colored rugs littered the floor, serapes on the walls. A fireplace in the far wall seemed designed as a base for the giant bull’s head mounted above it. To Garson’s left were low windows that opened out onto a terrace, a view of the lake and hills beyond.
Luac arose from a chair near the windows, leaned on his cane as he faced Garson. The remains of his breakfast were spread on a tray beside his chair.
“I trust you slept well?” said Luac.
“You’re very trusting,” said Garson.
Luac coughed. “You have rare insight.” He nodded to Medina. “You may go now, Choco.”
“Sí, Patron.” Medina returned to the hallway.
“So, our indomitable American journalist—fearlessly plunging onward against all odds—comes finally to the lion’s den. It is just like the movies, Mr. Garson, no?”
“No.” Garson sensed that they were playing a waiting game, talking for the benefit of someone else. He glanced around the room, saw no one else.
“Perhaps there is hope for you,” said Luac. “Do you have a price?”
“It’s a popular belief that everyone has a price.”
The older man cocked his head to one side. “What’s your price, Mr. Garson?”
“The story of your life!”
Luac’s eyebrows raised, giving him the look of a quizzical demon. “Ahhhh! We are still in character. And what should I demand for this melodramatic price?”
Garson studied him. Why this cat-and-mouse game? He wants something from me. That’s obviously the only reason I was permitted to come here. Is he at cross purposes with this Raul Separdo? Am I supposed to take sides?
He said, “You’ll want me to keep your secret—where you and Mrs. Peabody are hiding.”
Luac’s face clouded, bringing sharp lines to his wide brow. “She is no longer with us.”
“Oh. Where is she?”
“She is buried out there.”
“What happened? Did something heavy drop on her?”
Luac’s face darkened. He took several quick, short breaths, slowly regained control, spoke in a low, tight voice: “That is a course you should not pursue, young man.”
“Sorry. I guess I let myself get carried away by the pleasant surroundings and pleasant company.”
“You have received no more than a fool deserves!”
Garson nodded. “Whereas you are beset by unfair circumstances.”
Surprisingly, Luac smiled, then chuckled. “You’ve spilled a bit of Mexican pepper on your tongue, eh? Well, this is no way to settle our difficulties. Now, if I permit you to do your story, how do I keep the tourists from climbing all over my hacienda?”
“You could mount a few tourists’ heads on your fence posts.”
“The thought has already occurred to me. Should I begin with yours?”
Garson stared at him. “What…”
“Enough!” Luac turned his head sharply, looked out the front windows.
Garson saw the old crone cross the terrace, go out of sight to their left around the building.
“We have only a moment,” said Luac. “Please be quiet while I give you the essentials. You are in deadly danger from Raul Separdo, but I believe I will be able to hold him in check for awhile. We will try to help you escape. If you do get away, make no effort to help us. Just write your story about us. The publication…”
“But, what’s…”
“We do not have much time, Mr. Garson. The old woman spies for Raul. Now, in my study, which Nita will show you later, you will see some manuscripts in a bookcase. Several have green bindings. One of those with a green binding had been torn slightly near the bottom. Take it out to read. Near the center of it you will find several pages that will help you do your story.”
Garson nodded. His head was crowded with questions. He wondered if he’d have time to ask any of them. “Is Choco with you?”
“Yes. Trust him.”
“What if I don’t like the set up and just go away and forget you?”
Luac’s eyes became slits. “Are we bargaining?”
“You mentioned prices.”
“Do go on.”
“I’ve nowhere to go.”
Luac’s glance darted to the hallway behind Garson. He raised his voice. “This has all been very pleasant, Mr. Garson, but I do not see how you could write your story and conceal our hiding place at the same time.”
Someone is listening!
Garson coughed into his hand. “I could take a grand tour of Mexico, stop at many places. Ciudad Brockman would get lost in the itinerary.”
“Bypassing several objections for the moment—how would you prove you’d found me?”
“In my luggage at the hotel is a small camera. It might also be possible for me to take back something you’ve written: an unpublished manuscript, perhaps.”
Luac chuckled. “Ahhhh! The price goes up! A Luac manuscript might bring a small sum of money, eh?”
Garson felt the blood rush to his face. “Oh, no! I didn’t…”
“Please!” Luac held up his right hand. “Don’t spoil things just when I was beginning to gain respect for you.” He dropped his hand to the cane. “Another question: What if some other enterprising journalist follows in your tracks and discovers that there is a Hacienda Cual near Ciudad Brockman?”
Garson frowned. “There’s something I’d really like explained. Why such a simple anagram on your name?”
“My own monument to human blindness, sir—and because of the pun.”
“What pun?”
“Cual. In Spanish it means which. The anagram becomes ‘Which Cual?’ And the answer: ‘The Luac Cual!’ Very neat.”
“Well, Mr. Luac, to answer your question: I plan to do such a complete story that there’ll be no ground for another man to cover.”
“Oh? And what of the idly curious—the human leaves that flutter on the wind?”
“We’re back to the heads on the gateposts, I see.”
“Yes. And you have such a distinctive head.”
Garson swallowed. “What do you suggest?”
“Forget all about me for a sum of money—say one thousand dollars.”
Playing to an unseen audience was beginning to tire on Garson. He shook his head. “No.”
“How about two thousand?”
Again Garson shook his head.
“You name the price, Mr. Garson.”
“Let’s drop the subject for now, shall we?”
“As you wish. It may be bootless, anyway. Raul may want to keep you here as a pet.”
Garson’s interest rekindled. Is Luac dropping a hint? He said, “He wouldn’t keep me here!”
“You have just made a foolish remark.” Luac lifted his cane, tapped Garson’s arm. “You don’t know what we can do.”
What’s he trying to say? Garson wondered. He said, “You haven’t seen my hand, either. By now, the American Consul knows where I am. They may get very stuffy about finding my head on a gatepost—or just finding me missing.”
Luac nodded vigorously.
He approves of this turn in the conversation, thought Garson. He said, “I intend to do a story on you, Mr. Luac. One of the most important magazines in the United States is expecting it of me. I’d hate to disappoint them.”
“Life has many disappointments, young man. Would you like to know what you’re up against?”
Garson sensed the undercurrent of the conversation: Information about our situation here. He said, “It would help.”
Luac gestured toward the lake with his cane. “The only roads out of here are across that lake. They are patrolled regularly by troops of vaqueros—our own cavalry.” The cane came down, tapped the floor. “Behind us is a swamp in which a man can lose himself in five minutes—and die two hundred feet from safety.”
“Very strategic,” said Garson.
“The location of the hacienda? Yes. The good ones were always laid out like forts.” Luac tugged at his goatee. “Then I have Choco. He was with Pancho Villa when he was eleven. His brother, you know, was one of Villa’s lieutenants. I’m afraid Choco learned some very bad tricks with Villa.”
The frustration of unanswered questions was almost too much for Garson. He sensed also that Luac was playing with him in some way—using him.
How do I get at the truth?
“Father!” Anita Luac’s voice came from behind Garson. She came in from the hallway, her soft curves sheathed in a white sharkskin dress.
Garson felt his blood quicken.
She put an arm on the old man’s shoulder, kissed his cheek, turned and looked squarely at Garson.
“I believe you two have already met,” said Luac.
Her smile carried a hint of mockery. The large brown eyes seemed to say: “I warned you!”
“I have had the pleasure,” said Garson. And again he wished that he could have shaved.
“You look just a little the worse for wear, Mr. Garson,” she said. The warm contralto voice, too, carried the veil of mockery.
“Mr. Garson may be our guest for some time,” said Luac. His voice sounded a shade reproachful, as though he reminded his daughter of something with the tone.
Her smile brightened. “It will be pleasant to have you here, Mr. Garson. It gets very lonely with just the same old faces.”
Has she been told to play up to me? Why?
The old man leaned forward on his cane, glowered at the hallway behind Garson. “Choco?”
Garson turned. Raul Separdo came into view, moving softly on the balls of his feet. There was something suggestive of dancing in his motions. Garson found it easy to picture one of Separdo’s ancestors dancing before a pagan idol while a priest tore out the heart of the sacrifice.
“Have we learned anything new?” asked Separdo. He bent his head to Anita Luac. “It’s good to see you again, Nita.”
Garson thought that her smile became a little strained. “You talk as though I’d been away, Raul.”
“Every moment away from you is like a year.”
Choco appeared in the arch of the hallway. “You called, Patron?” He swung a machete loosely in his left hand. The ends of his mustache drooped.
Separdo frowned.
“Yes, I called,” said Luac. “You are to drop your other… work, and… uh… devote yourself to guiding Mr. Garson while he is our guest.”
Separdo spoke without turning. “And if he attempts to escape, Choco, you may bring him back in pieces.”
Anita Luac drew in a quick breath.
“He is not to be harmed,” said Luac. “I hold you personally responsible.”
Medina’s right hand went to the revolver in his belt holster. “Sí, Patron.”
Separdo looked at the floor behind Luac, smiled. “I came to tell you that we have a message from the colonel of police in Ciudad Brockman.”
Luac’s goatee quivered. “Oh?” His tongue flicked over his thin lips. “What does my friend Bartolomé want?”
“He wishes to know if we have seen an American tourist named Hal Garson. Both the Consulate and Turismo have called him from Mexico City.”
Garson stared at Luac. Score one for me! Villazana did as he was told!
“Ahhhh,” said Luac. “Send the good colonel my regards, Raul. Tell him that Mr. Garson—an old friend—has kindly accepted our hospitality for an indefinite period, and that he would like his luggage sent up from the hotel.”
Separdo nodded.
“You will recall my wise counsel of last night, Raul?” asked Luac.
“Yes, Antone.”
“This is why Olaf still relies upon my judgment rather than yours, Raul. Olaf realizes that you are too—ahhh—quick.”
Separdo scowled. The corners of his mouth trembled. Slowly, he smiled, turned to Anita Luac. “Are we going riding today, Nita?”
“Why…” She hesitated, glanced at her father.
“I’m sorry, Raul,” said Luac. “Nita will be helping to guide Mr. Garson today.”
Separdo’s fingers curled stiffly like claws, then relaxed. “Of course. And Choco will be with them.”
“Choco always guards my daughter, Raul.”
“But naturally, Antone.” Separdo looked out at the lake. “Such a beautiful lake,” he murmured. “One never knows, does one? Beauty may conceal so many things.”
Garson noted that Anita Luac was watching Separdo as a bird might watch a snake. Her hands were clenched into fists.
“As you say, Raul,” said Luac. He turned to Garson. “Choco will loan you a razor if you wish to freshen up before looking around.”
Medina lifted the machete in his hand. “Shall I loan him this one, Patron?”
Anita Luac laughed. It was like a release from hysteria. Garson realized that Medina’s words had been aimed at just that effect.
“One of the little ones will do,” said Luac. Laughter wrinkles deepened at the corners of his eyes.
Separdo nodded to Garson. “You must be careful that you do not cut yourself, Mr. Garson.”
“Be sure you give the message correctly to the colonel of police,” said Garson. “I wouldn’t want him to worry about me.”
“Worry is a bad thing,” said Separdo. “No one must worry.” He left the room, still with the lithe motions of a dancer.
Garson stared after Separdo. What’s his real function here? What hold does he have on Luac?
“We will continue our discussion another time,” said Luac.
“Mañana?” asked Garson.
Luac chuckled. “Sí. Mañana.”