Rivera picked up the passport. “I will see that this is returned to Senor Jordan at a more suitable time.”
“Of course, Don Jose. I regret, however, that in the matter of the confiscated money, the law must take its course. However, in the circumstances, and as Senor Jordan is now, as it were, in your custody, we will say no more about the fine.”
“How will I get my car to Hermosa if I go with you?” Dillinger asked.
“As I do with mine,” Rivera said. “It travels on the flatbed railroad car reserved for automobiles. You are then prepared?”
Dillinger thought, I am prepared to see if Shanghai Rose is as beautiful as her picture. If she hates this son-of-a-bitch as much as I do, we ought to get along real fine.
Five
Dillinger was amused by the idea that, for a change, he was being taken for a ride. In spite of all the coal he’d stolen from the Pennsylvania Railroad, he’d never traveled any distance on a train before. Just an hour out he’d had the crazy idea of getting into his convertible on the flatbed and staying in it for the rest of the train ride because a car was a natural place for him to be.
The train was fun. He was following the conductor along the narrow corridor of the Pullman car and had to brace himself every couple of steps as the train swayed and rocked. The attendant knocked on a compartment door, opened it, and moved inside.
There were two bunks, but Rivera had the place to himself. A small table had been pulled down from the wall, and the remains of a meal were on it.
“Come in, Jordan.”
He obviously intended a master-and-servant relationship, and the dropping of the “senor” was merely the first step. Dillinger leaned against the door and took out a packet of Artistas. The Mexican poured cognac into a glass, held it up to the light, and sipped a little.
“So I’m Jordan again?” Dillinger said.
I should have thought that the sensible thing for everyone concerned,” Rivera said. “Your true identity is of no consequence to anyone but me.”
“Fallon knows.”
“Fallon will do exactly as he is told.”
“And that Chief of Police, Santos?”
Rivera smiled faintly. “He has the money. I have his silence.”
“The money was mine,” Dillinger said.
“And from whom did you appropriate it? Let us concentrate on the future, not the past,” Rivera said. “I need a man to take charge of a rather difficult mining operation. A hard man to keep those Indians of mine in order. A man who is capable of using a gun if necessary. I should have thought you and your experience would fit the bill admirably.”
“Has it occurred to you that I might have other plans?”
“Hermosa is twenty miles from the nearest railway, and there is a train only once a fortnight. The roads, I am afraid, are the worst in Mexico. However, we are linked to civilization by an excellent telegraph line, and Santos did assign you to my care. If you misbehave, Santos is prepared to fill the last part of our bargain.”
“And what is that?”
“To turn you over to the American authorities at a border crossing-under your real name, of course.”
Dillinger dropped his cigarette into Rivera’s brandy glass.
Anger flared in Rivera’s eyes. “Do your work, that’s all I want from you. Do it well and we shall get along. Do it badly…”
Dillinger opened the door and went out. In a way, he’d won. In the end it had been the Mexican who had lost his temper.
The second-class coach was crowded, mostly peasant farmers going to market, and filled with great heat, heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies. This was not the way Dillinger liked to travel.
He spotted Fallon in a corner by the door, playing solitaire with a pack of greasy cards. Fallon looked up, his face wrinkling in disgust. “It’s enough to turn your stomach in here, Mr. Dillinger.”
“Which explains the second-class tickets,” Dillinger said. “He wants us to know exactly where we stand.” He pulled his two suitcases from under the table. “Let’s get out of here.