THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 17

  Or why haven’t you, he seemed to be saying. She owned the mines, she was responsible. A scathing retort sat on her lips, but something in his expression stopped her, a combination of innocence and hostility.

  Guilt worked its way under her skin like a splinter, as she remembered her argument with Max, his conviction that they must do something. His people had been hurt and he had only wanted to help them, out of compassion, not out of responsibility. And what had she done?

  She felt her anger slip away like a shadow.

  “Why hold my son?” she asked Miguel, tears brimming. “I didn’t know all of this.” Her eyes pleaded for an answer. She felt as if she invited him to look through them, down a tunnel into her soul. Look, she was saying, and understand how I feel.

  Miguel watched her fight a flood of emotions, and he felt his heart give, as if it had experienced the slip of a brake.

  “We will go to Cedral now. Perhaps some friends there will know something.” He held his hand out and smiled.

  They drove north to Matehuala where they turned west toward the Sierra Catorce Mountains. They passed small rancheros surrounded by fields of nopal cactus. He told Patricia how the fiber from the cactus was used to make carpets and bags. She made no comment. Perhaps she could find no sympathy with the hard, grueling work, he thought.

  He pointed out the twin peaks of Friar Mountain rising out of the desolate plain. She stared at them a moment, then looked away. He told her he thought the ridged slopes, sparsely covered with cactus and scrubs, looked like the bony back of a mange-infested dog, and she smiled.

  He watched her pull at her shirt, as if to dislodge herself from a cocoon of clothes, dust, and helplessness. He knew her world was generally ordered by her commands, but here, where she must feel the most need to do something, she was forced to ride along, at the mercy of someone else.

  Cedral spread out from the road in hopscotch squares. Miguel swerved around ankle- and knee-deep holes, like a drunk. Old men stared at them from under sombreros; women carrying baskets of fruit or pans of watermelon slices on their heads turned cautiously. Children waved or gave chase.

  He drew up alongside a stone wall covered in yellow cupa de oros. Pig sty and garbage odors hovered over the road. He saw Patricia wrinkle her nose. She said nothing.

  Inside the wall, three men waited on the porch of a tile-roofed stone house. The day had already grown hot, and what breeze there might have been was kept out by close walls. The only shade was on the porch, and Miguel told Patricia to stay there while he talked to the men.

  They greeted him with enthusiasm and tipped their worn sombreros at her. When they stood far enough away from Patricia, they told him Carlos Randel and his wife, Rita, had everything ready at La Paloma. Longtime friends, they had rebuilt one of the old ruins for their retirement home in the hills above Potrero. The place was a mecca for expatriate Americans.

  Once Miguel and Patricia reached Potrero, they would be “abducted” and taken to Carlos and Rita’s at “gunpoint”. After Miguel left for Real, Patricia would be watched at all times. When her boy was released, Miguel would bring him back.

  When they finished making their plans, one of the men disappeared into the house and returned with four bottles of Dos Equis beer. A young girl was coming with a cola for la Señora, but Patricia stalked right over to where the men stood and took Miguel’s beer from his hand. She turned it up, drained half the short bottle, handed it back to him. The men looked at each other and laughed, raising their bottles in the air. “Salud!” they shouted in unison. The one closest to Miguel whispered in Spanish, “La Señora may be too much for my friend, eh?”

  Outside Cedral they turned onto a blue-gray cobblestone road. It was a seventeen mile long, teeth-chattering expanse that glistened in the sun and seemed to disappear into a mountain. He thought it was beautiful. She probably hated it.

  “See the road? There.” He pointed to a winding ribbon of dirt that circled the cliff to their right. “We will stop at Potrero, the little town in the distance. After we get some more supplies, we will go to the other side and to Real.”

  Well, I will, he thought. He would be leaving her, well—cared for and guarded at the hacienda of his friends.

  “How did Max ever find this place?” she asked.

  “Many people come to Real de Catorce, to the old town or mines. Now many will come to worship St. Francis.”

  “I thought St. Francis was in Assisi, Italy.”

  “He is here in Real, too. His statue is. See the people there camping on the side of the road? Thousands more will be traveling here in this week. Coming to worship, bringing milagros, silver and gold, to say prayers because of sickness, death. Or to give thanks for miracles. Perhaps you will take a milagro of a child to St. Francis.”

  He was driving across a cattle guard in the road, when he turned to smile at her. Instead, he watched in horror, and what seemed slow motion, as her head hit the ceiling of the Bronco. He felt a jolt to his neck, as he realized he too was flying through the air. He heard gunshots at the same time.

  When he opened his eyes the front of the vehicle was buried in a muddy creek bed. The grates across the road had fallen beneath them. It was no accident. Gunshots rang out again.

  “Down!” He shouted at her as she tried to climb through her door. He pulled her arm, pushed her head down, grabbed their packs from behind the seat and slid out of the vehicle on his side. She followed him into the gully. Water swirled around their ankles. They stumbled and fell and crawled and ran. Bullets whizzed over their heads, exploded into dirt behind them. The banks of the arroyo lowered, giving them little protection. They crouched in the water and waited.

  The only thought in Miguel’s mind was this sure as hell was not what he had planned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jim sipped his third beer. The afternoon sun slanted across the bay and under the umbrella. The light glanced off the pool like a thousand watt bulb. The heat and glare suited the feeling that he was sitting in a hot seat waiting to be interrogated.

  Being ignored by the three Mexican “ bribóns” didn’t help. Except for the cute gal who kept bringing him beers, no one had spoken to him since the initial greeting. Catera, Perez and the Chief talked and laughed without looking across the table at him, as if they were playing some silly child’s game of “ignore.”

  He knew enough of the lingo to follow what they said, but he didn’t let on. They weren’t saying anything of importance anyway. Their chatter reminded him of a bunch of old hens.

  In the middle of a conversation about the local brothel, the Chief started talking about some deal and how the profits were going to be divided. Perez and Catera reacted with hostile looks, but the Chief didn’t notice. He was watching Jim.

  Jim had been catching droplets of water meandering down the green Dos Equis bottle. His hand had jerked at the shift in subject and his head came up, but he just threw it on back, brought the bottle to his lips and pretended he had heard nothing. He wanted to look at the Chief to satisfy himself that the man had been fooled, but he motioned instead for the girl with the beers.

  A heated argument followed. Jim listened. Whatever the usual split of the spoils, it seemed the Chief was pulling rank and a fast one on Perez and Catera. Jim thought so, at least, until he heard what they were casting lots for. They were talking about the Morelos mines.

  It was all he could do to stay in his seat. If he confronted them, questioned them, he’d give away that he’d been pretending not to understand. Did he want to do that? It might be the only advantage he had being here in this den of thieves.

  Finally, he decided to let them know he was still there. Maybe they would start talking in English, and he could throw out some questions without giving away his secret. “Hey fellows, let’s don’t waste this spectacular sunset.” He pointed across the bay where the sun looked like a hot air balloon at the ocean’s edge, and waited for one of them to react to his statement.

  The Chief loo
ked at Jim and stood up. “We’ll continue our discussion later, Señors. Mr. Mainland is right, it is getting late.” He turned, never having glanced toward the light show off the balcony, and headed into the house.

  Catera jumped up and followed. Perez stood up. Jim reached his hand out and caught his arm.

  “I wasn’t invited to come all this way to listen to a soap opera in Spanish. We have some things to talk about, my friend.”

  Perez looked toward the house, as if wanting to join the others, then he sat back down. He was what Jim would call a “refined” man. Spoke with more of an Italian accent than Mexican. Ought to be Perillo, not Perez, Jim thought.

  “You are right, of course,” the little man said. “I did ask you here. At the Chief’s request.”

  “Yeh, I figured that since it’s his shack.”

  Perez winced. “I would not make remarks like that to Carlos, if I were you. He is rather proud of El Partenon.”

  “Well, I don’t work for Architectural Digest, so let’s get to why I am here.”

  “I, we wished to talk to you about the problem at the mines.”

  “And I want to talk to you about the problem with the construction project. And Mr. Garbage himself in there, who’s holding up the works.”

  “That is good, because the two are entwined, shall we say.”

  Perez motioned to a young man who was lighting torches around the edges of the balcony. “What time is dinner, George?”

  “Soon, Señors,” was the answer.

  “Let us find our rooms and make ourselves fresh for dinner, Jim. We will discuss this more with the others over some food.” Without looking back, Perez went to the young man, said something to him, and disappeared into the shadows of the garden.

  Jim thought about pinning Perez to the ground until he got some answers. However, he was outnumbered here, and had no doubt Perez would scream like a fighting cock at palenque.

  George had reappeared and was holding his hand out in the direction of the house. “This way, Mr. Mainland.”

  No one at dinner broached the subject that Jim wanted to discuss. It was hard for him to eat. Time was tight and all this socializing was shrinking what he had. Thoughts of Patricia, Max, the mines, and Morelos Enterprises, not to mention his debts, made his food sour as he swallowed it. When coffee and Kahlua had been poured, Jim could stand it no longer.

  “I came down here to see if we can come to an agreement on the construction project, Chief. Tomas made sure you knew how important this work was before he died.” In other words, Jim thought, he paid you enough. “Tomas trusted me,” he continued. “You know you can too. So what’s holding us up?”

  The Chief stared at him, and Jim felt sweat trickle down his sides. Somehow facing the worst barbarians in prison when he was a teenager didn’t compare to what he knew this man could do to him. And had done to others. Tales of the cruelties carried out by his office would be too much for Vincent Price.

  “The question is not trust, Señor Mainland. It is timing. This last year our need has been to rebuild from the earthquake. We have had few resources to start new projects.” He took a Havana cigar from an elaborately carved box and lit it.

  Jim had to bite his tongue not to say, “Bullshit!” Instead, he said, “I realize the earthquake is a problem for the government, but our project doesn’t require any funds or assistance. We just need the permits to build. And the use of our land.”

  Catera sipped his coffee and eyed Jim above the rim of the cup. His long eyelashes and girlish features made it look like he was flirting. Jim winced.

  “Mr. Mainland,” Catera said, in a lilting voice. “If you build on that property, what will happen to the poor people who work there now? Have you thought about them?”

  “That’s not my problem, is it Catera? You can move your garbage piles somewhere else. The people will find them. What right—”

  “Jim, my friend,” Perez interrupted. “Let’s discuss this matter calmly. It seems we have a legitimate problem. Mr. Catera has many people employed in his salvaging operation. He cannot very well turn them into the streets.”

  The food Jim had swallowed seemed to lurch into his throat at the delicate way Perez was describing Catera’s garbage business. The last thing Juan considered were his “employees.”

  “Seems to me we could solve this problem if we had another place for the workers to go,” the Chief said without taking the cigar from his mouth.

  “That is where the Morelos mines come in,” Perez said. He smiled as if he had just solved the puzzle.

  “What the hell do the mines have to do with a garbage dump?” Jim almost shouted.

  “Well, if you knew more of Mexican history, Jim, you would know that many of the people who work for Mr. Catera are actually displaced miners. Their ancestors are of the Indian tribes who use to work the mines when silver was plentiful. As the mines have played out, the people have come to Mexico City, but they could find no work. Luckily, Mr. Catera has employed them.”

  The little man nodded to his cohort as if honoring him. Jim’s rage was like ants under his skin chewing their way out. “I ask you again, what in the hell does that have to do with the Morelos mines?”

  “Don’t you see, that is the beauty of the plan. You want to build on this land. Mr. Catera needs somewhere for his workers to go. The workers are miners at heart. The Morelos mine has no workers since the cave-in. You have arranged for the miners to detain Señora Morelos’s son to force her to give them the mines in return for the child.”

  “What th’—” Jim shouted as he pushed his chair back to stand. Perez grabbed his arm and forced him back down.

  “Of course,” the Chief continued, “She does not know that you will be the holder of the mines. If we intervene and secure the mines for Mr. Catera instead, well, then she never has to know that you were behind the, uh, detaining of her son. You get to build on your land, and no one is the wiser. Don’t you see everybody would be happy.”

  The ants were out and crawling over Jim’s body like warriors on a march. He was unable to think. Of all the convoluted nonsense. But only to him, he began to realize. It made perfect sense to these three thieves. They’d get the Morelos mines and he’d get the promise, again, that his land would be cleared. He could kiss his job and Patricia goodbye, and he’d have no money to pay off Willie Bates and the “boys” back in Virginia. He could almost feel the cold steel of Bates’s gun in his ribs. He tried to make his mind work. He got up from the table and paced the room.

  “How do you propose to “intervene” and get the mines?” he asked.

  “That, my friend, is your job,” Perez said.

  “Patricia Morelos is the only one that can sign them over and the only person she’s going to deal with is the one that has Max,” Jim snapped.

  “WE have the muchacho,” Catera said, smiled and winked.

  Jim propped his fists on the table and leaned into Catera’s face. “I don’t believe you. The miners would never give him to you.”

  Catera’s smile widened, his teeth bared like an animal. “Believe it, Señor.” He stuck his face so close to Jim’s they almost touched.

  “Why you—” Jim reached for Catera’s throat, but missed when Juan jerked his head back. “You’ll never get her to sign those mines over to you,” Jim growled, lunging again.

  “You must hope she does, Señor Jim,” the Chief said. His chair scrapped the terrazo floor as he stood and grabbed Jim’s arm in a vise grip. “She is already making her way to Real. We will see that she arrives at the right time and is ready for you to convince her. Then you can try to get whatever you can from her for yourself, as I am sure you have already done many times.”

  Guterriz threw his head back and laughed. He released Jim, shoving him backwards as he did.

  Catera and Perez joined in, guffawing with exaggeration. Jim stood, rubbing his wrist, watching as the three slapped each other on the back and made their way toward the garden.

  He walked a
lone toward his room, glancing through the arches of the sala at the great iron gates to the driveway. A padlock and chain reflected the light of torches mounted on flanking posts.

  Surely that wasn’t the only way out of this hell he was in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sounds of a ricocheting bullet echoed through the arroyo canyon. Miguel and Patricia crouched below the desert floor in a soft pocket of dirt where recent rains had caused a minor landslide. They sat motionless, their ragged breath in discordant harmony. They had run as far as they could go. The gully ended here.

  Patricia’s mind raced with images of gun-toting bandidos just out of sight, crawling toward them, blasting around the last curve of the crevasse or catapulting over the rim of their refuge. She could smell her own fear. Every nerve in her body screamed for her to run while there was still time. She had not come this far only to sit and await her fate. She made a move as if to rise and Miguel’s arm stopped her. She stared at him.

  His eyes said no.

  Minutes passed. No more gunshots. Buzzards circled in the clear sky. Flies buzzed over a tiny bird carcass. A lizard nosed its way into the shade of a rock. The desert was coming back to life. She wasn’t sure how long they had, but the sense of danger had lessened.

  “It’s been quiet a long time,” she said, sitting up.

  “Do not talk.” Miguel spoke into her hair as he pulled her back onto the ground.

  She lay rigid. Her muscles began to ache. She rolled onto her side and mud seeped in around her waist like an invasive hand. She bit down on sand and grit. Splatters of mud on her face dried, pulling at her skin. She was exhausted and the heat made her drowsy.

  She watched Miguel through a haze. He sat on his haunches, his face hard, sun-creased and handsome. The layer of dust that had settled on him softened the darkness of his hair, his skin, making him seem indistinct. It wasn’t hard to let her mind play with that image and see him as he was eighteen years ago. She hated herself for the thought.