THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK SEVEN: CUAHTENOTL EPACT

CHAPTER TWELVE

The same trio of foreigners still haunted El Gato Vasilante when José stepped through its swinging door for another Scotch to warm himself and then, perhaps, two or three beers to fill his belly before looking for a dry place to sleep. The night patron, Whelk, was taller and fairer than his partner... one of those German-Mexicans, José suspected, whose grandparents had resettled during Europe's revolutionary years of the 1840's. And there was a fourth kitten, now, mewling and sucking at the pink teats of the Cat or... rather... at a bottle of beer, soon to join perhaps a dozen dead soldiers across the bartop.

"Jorge Bustamente, rey de cafe," Doktor Krankenhauer hailed, "here is the Jefe Policia, don Patricio. He's been asking after you!"

"And I have been looking for him," the Major scowled, making it a point to remember that he was "Jorge" now, a comercio, an innocent buyer and seller of pleasantly exhilarating beans.

Whelk lifted the bottle of Souvenir from its place, held it up for the Major's scrutiny.

"That will do nicely," said José... Jorge, rather... and he shook the hand of the Jefe Policia. "Missed you, this afternoon," he remarked.

"I was taking the day off," Patricio replied, blandly. "Anyone who had it in their mind to kill somebody would have done so last night... several tried, but none succeeded, so I...

The Jefe shook his head, as if slapped, and snapped his fingers.

"Cabron! I have left Dionisio in the jail all day, without food nor water. I'd better go back and look at him... see if he's still alive." He fumbled with the gun in his holster, gulped the rest of the beer and snapped his fingers at Whelk. "Otro!"

"We can talk as we walk," José suggested, and motioned to the patron that he would return for the Scotch, but take a bottle with him as well. He left a silver peso on the bar and the Jefe smiled, appreciatively.

"If only all of those who came to Cuahtenotl were gentlemen of honesty and breeding as yourself," Patricio flattered the man who had paid for his refreshment, "this place would not be held in such evil repute."

José held the swinging doors open for the already-stumbling Jefe and waved to the three foreigners within.

Patricio's boots tangled on the single step down into the mud, and he would have fallen but for José, who braced him and set him on his feet again.

"Mil gracias! As I have said, this is an evil place... nothing will grow here but weeds and there is no industry save that which Mexico pushes off its railroad to tumble down the mountain. And so it has occurred, to me, that such garbage scavengers as we are... pepenedores... could not tell the difference between a pot of fine coffee and a pot of swill, and haven't the money to afford the former, even if they could. Which leads to the question of why a man as yourself would bother coming at all."

"Jorge Bustamente" shrugged. "In addition to my duties as a salesman, I am empowered to look for places of moderate climate and elevation, where the planting and growing of Arabica plants may take place. Obviously, this town is too cold, and too wet. So I must make my report, then be on my way..."

"And your competitor?" the Jefe smiled. "That man you've been asking about... the brute who supplies San Sebastien? Two meters tall, poorly dressed and shaven, thick black brow, like an ape's..."

You become, José reflected, what you eat! Then, as "Jorge", once again, he smiled and pointed the tip of his bottle towards the door to the police station... behind which the wailing of the forgotten prisoner could be heard.

"Maaadre! Madre Mariaaah! Disculpeme..."

The Jefe fumbled with his keys... found the right one and opened the door to a darkened room. "Shut up!" he roared back into the darkness. Jorge heard the sound of a match being struck, then another... on the third effort, a flame leaped up and Patricio touched it to the lamp.

"Everything's wet here! Cuahtenotl's a bucket of piss!" Half the station was taken up by a rickety looking cell in which shivered a tiny man, one who seemed incapable of making so potent a clamor. The Jefe filled a rusty cup with water from a rusty jar and handed it through the bars to his charge... "There isn't anything to eat but, if you keep quiet, I might let you finish my beer. He raised the bottle to his lips, swallowed, lowered it and grinned. "Eh?"

"Por favor!" Dionisio begged.

"Not a sound out of you," reminded the Jefe, wagging a finger at his prisoner. Patricio then took his seat, placing his muddy boots atop the desk and gesturing to José to occupy the only other chair in the room.

"Not much," he allowed, "but I am not only the Jefe Policia, I am the Policia... the whole of them! Oh, if there's too much fighting over a batch of bad caña, I will deputize a few of the borrachos hereabouts, but most are more trouble than they are worth. So we can talk. Don't mind..." he added, gesturing towards Dionisio, "...people like him, well, they don't really matter, do they?"

"What did you wish to talk about?" ventured "Jorge".

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