Dillinger put on his linen jacket, took the one suitcase. Everything else was safely stowed in the trunk.
He noticed but didn’t pay any attention to the old man who sat on the bench in front of the hotel, smoking the stub of a cigarette the way people who can’t afford cigarettes do, dragging smoke out of the last half-inch.
As Dillinger passed, the man said, “Hi.”
Dillinger stopped. He certainly didn’t recognize the old fellow in the crumpled linen suit. He had the face of a man who’d lived hard all his life. A grizzled beard framed his wide mouth.
Dillinger’d been worried about knowing only a few phrases in Spanish, and here was this guy saying, “Hi.” Then, “Can you spare two bits?”
Dillinger put his suitcase down. “How’d you know I spoke English?”
“You walk like an American. And I never saw anybody down here drive a job like that.” He pointed at the convertible. “Besides,” he said with a small-time laugh, “Illinois plates don’t grow on cars down here. Two bits, and I’ll watch your fancy job while you check in.”
“What’s it need watching for?”
“The kids around here’ll be down on it three seconds after you walk in that front door. I’m cleaned out. Two bits and nobody gets near your car.”
Dillinger took out his wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill. “Watch it real good.”
The man examined the bill, his face lighting up as if he’d just won a jackpot. “Thank you,” he said, stretching the “you” out.
Dillinger was picking up his suitcase again when he heard the man say, “Don’t I know you from somewhere, mister? You been in Laredo?”
“No.”
“San Antone?”
“No,” Dillinger said, and headed up the steps to the hotel entrance.
“Hey, I know who you look like,” the old man said. “You look like John Dillinger.”
Dillinger looked around to see if anyone was standing within ear shot. The only person close enough to have heard was a fat Mexican woman carrying a basket on her head. No chance she’d know the name even if she’d heard.
“I seen your picture,” the man said. “You’re him, ain’t you?”
Dillinger turned slowly and moved back to face him. “You’re mistaken, friend. The name’s Jordan-Harry Jordan.” He parted his jacket slightly so the old man could see the butt of the Colt pistol holstered under his left arm. “You should be more careful, old-timer. Americans should stick together in a place like this.”
The old man said, “I guess I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“Make them myself every day,” Dillinger said and went into the hotel.
On the balcony above the hotel entrance, sitting well back out of the sun, the man who’d rented the best room in the hotel had listened to the exchange with interest. He hadn’t heard the actual words, but the new gringo spoke with an authority he liked. He picked up his malacca cane, and, straightening his wide-brimmed hat, he headed down to the lobby, walking with the confidant gait of a man who knew what he wanted.
Dillinger, waiting at the desk for his key, saw the onlooker coming in the mirror. He was tall with good shoulders, his temples brushed with gray, and the broken nose looked out of place in the aquiline face. There was an elegance about him, a touch of the hidalgo in the way he carried himself. He was a breed the revolution had almost destroyed. The proud ones who never gave in. Who had to be broken.
He removed the long cigarillo from his mouth. “Senor Jordan?” he inquired in careful, clipped English.
Dillinger froze. How did the man know the name on his passport? No point in denying it. The hotel clerk knew. The old man in front knew. “Yes,” was all Dillinger said.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Don Jose Manuel de Rivera.”
Dillinger could tell from the way the hotel clerk nodded to the man that he was a wheel.
“My business can be stated quite briefly, senor,” Rivera said. “Perhaps I could accompany you to your room? We could talk as you unpack.”
“We can talk right here in the lobby,” Dillinger said, gesturing to a glass-topped wicker table with two chairs beside it.