This guy was fascinating, Dillinger thought. “Who keeps discipline for you now, Mr. Rivera?”
“Ah,” Rivera said. “I had a good man, also an American, very tall, very strong. He didn’t want to go back to the States, the police bothered him there, and so he had an accident, and now I have to replace him. I hope with you.”
“In one sentence,” Dillinger said, “not a chance.”
“You have not heard my terms, senor. Two thousand dollars in gold for six months, five thousand dollars in gold for a year.”
Dillinger was really tempted to tell this fancy jerk that he’d made that much in five minutes by vaulting over a counter and emptying a teller’s drawer.
“En oh,” Dillinger said. “That spells no. But how would you like to work for me while I am in Mexico? You could be my guide. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a month, how’s that?”
Anger blazed in Rivera’s dark eyes. The jagged white scar, bisecting his left cheek that Dillinger hadn’t paid attention to before, seemed to stand out suddenly against the brown skin. Rivera took a cigarillo from his breast pocket and lit it. When he looked up, he had control again.
“I know you did not mean to insult me, Senor. You do not know the ways of Mexico.” He took a slow puff. “I usually get what I want, Senor Jordan. We have a saying: A man must be prepared to pay for past sins. I will pay you double what I paid the other American if you return to Hermosa with me. My final offer.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Dillinger said gently. “I’m really here on a kind of vacation.”
He was aware of the sweat trickling from his armpits, soaking into his shirt. He poured himself a glass of ice water, then remembered Rivera’s warning about the water.
Rivera said calmly, “Your final word?”
“Yes. Sorry we can’t do business.”
Rivera walked to the door and opened it. “So am I, Senor Jordan. So am I.”
Rivera closed the door behind him, descended the wide wooden stairs to the lobby, and went outside. He found the old man who was guarding Dillinger’s convertible sitting on the bench, a small bottle of tequila in hand. So, he’d spent some of the money already.
“Hello, Fallon, I thought I recognized you. Having a difficult time of it lately?”
The old man looked at him sourly. “You should know, Mr. Rivera!”
“You needed a lesson, my friend,” Rivera said, “but that’s history now. You can come back and work for me at Hermosa any time you like.”
“That’s not work, Mr. Rivera. It’s slavery.”
“As you choose. Who is this Senor Jordan?”
“Jordan?” The old man stared at him blankly. “I don’t know any Jordan.”
“The one you were talking to. He owns the automobile. Who is he? What’s his game?”
“I ain’t telling you a damn thing” Fallon said.
Rivera shrugged and walked along the terrace. Two men were sitting at the end table eating frijoles, a bottle of wine between them. One was a large, placid Indian with an impassive face, great rolls of fat bursting the seams of his jacket. The other, a small, wiry man in a tan gabardine suit, his sallow face badly marked from smallpox, got to his feet hurriedly, wiping his mouth. “Don Jose.”
“Ah, my good friend, Sergeant Hernandez.” Rivera turned and glanced toward Fallon. “I wonder if you might consider doing me a great favor?”
Hernandez nodded eagerly. “At your orders, as always, senor.”
Twenty minutes later, Fallon surfaced with a shock as a bucket of water came hurling onto his face. One side of his face hurt from his eye to his jaw. He was lying in the corner of a police cell. The big Indian who stood over him must have hit or kicked him. Fallon’s side hurt as much as his face. Sergeant Hernandez sat on the bunk. Fallon recognized him instantly and went cold.
“What is this? What have I done?”
“You are a stupid man,” Hernandez told him.
“I’m an American. You have no right to put me in here,” Fallon said.
“If you don’t like our ways, why don’t you go back? You want me to escort you to the border and turn you over to your Federalistas?”