THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK SEVEN: CUAHTENOTL EPACT

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Jefe placed his bottle down upon the desk... the Major watched the prisoner's eyes follow its descent. "Oh," Patricio began, "let me make an observation... you may or may not be here for the reason you claim, you may not even be who you claim to be but, at one time or another, you were in the regular army. Probably an officer."

"Every citizen of Mexico has the duty to serve his country," replied "Jorge".

"I also had a military career," said the Jefe. "Maybe you have been told about it, maybe the tale even included some small portion of the truth..." and Patricio made a space, a tiny space, between his thumb and forefinger. “And I'll admit to difficulties... haven't we all had difficulties?" He waited, allowing his opposite any remark he chose to make, when none came, he continued. "I recognize certain characteristics of the military mind. For all of its defects... and I am speaking mainly of the politics, in which I have little interest... there is a difference between men who have undergone at least some education and discipline, men like you or I, and these sad rummagers through garbage here. We shape events, or attempt to do so... we are not blown around by the wind. If we come to a place, it is for a purpose... and there are two sorts of purposes that move men of discipline around... three, perhaps... money, politics and then there is love. Nothing is lovable in Cuahtenotl, on that we agree, no? Nor are we of interest to Madero... let alone Villa, Zapata, Orozco or Porfirio Diaz. That cousin of his..."

"Nephew," José corrected, for he sensed that the Jefe sensed that a pretense to ignorance would be more suspicious than ignorance itself.

"Nephews! Another failure... a non-entity, as we are to Mexico. So," the Jefe reasoned, "that leaves money. And, as anyone in Veracruz could have told you, Cuahtenotl is no place for the growing of coffee. And," he added, tapping his head so as to impress upon the visitor that he was a man of deep, potent intellect, "old Eliseo has allowed me to know that there was a stranger here, an Oficiale... he said... more likely a manhunter, asking after our dissolute refugee from the Greek isles. A man who, himself, asked questions after another. And so it sets me to wondering that... if some agency of the government wishes this fellow discovered and brought back to the capital, what nature of crime has he committed to elicit the interest of such able persons as yourself and Señor Kanegis?"

Through the damp stillness of the Plaza, a passing gust of mal viente inspirited the Major to draw the little Browning secreted in his boot and shoot the astonished Jefe Patricio for making such a comparison... not fatally, but through the hand or, perhaps, an ear. Unaware of his peril, however, the policeman continued ruminating.

"Is he a danger to my own flock... sorry as it may be? Are there others who would follow him here, for whatever Godforsaken reason? What is the nature, and the magnitude..." the Jefe asked, eyes glittering with greed in the fluttering light of his lamp, "...of the price placed upon his head? These are questions that a sensible man might ask, no?"

The Major removed his tobacco and some papers and carefully rolled a cigarette... after an exchange of glances, he rolled another for the Jefe of Cuahtenotl. They sat and they smoked for some time in silence... even within, the dampness of the village rendered their little cheroots heavy and, somehow, sweet... and, finally, José acknowledged the other also to be a man of patience and, consequently, some intellect, despite the meanness of his posting. So, he held the cigarette between the fingers of his right hand... though in a way that it could be quickly dropped if he had to reach for his Webley… and unfolded, before the Jefe, that version of the truth which he had been preparing.

"The location of my competitor," remarked "Jorge", icily, "has already been discovered, owing to the fine qualities of your visitor from beneath, Señor Kanegis. The growing, preparation and marketing of coffee is a ruthless trade, Capitan, vicious... in its own way... as politics. Would it surprise you to learn that this thief who has come here to hide did not work for my competition, but was employed by the same people who have requested that I follow him here and recover that which he has stolen?"

"If you wish," said Patricio. "But what is the cause of all of this... magic beans?"

"If you wish," José smiled back. "For my part, the way to a resolution is simple... this fellow must be persuaded to give back what he has stolen. Questions of justice, discipline... these are secondary. Nevertheless," the Major sighed, "there arises the possibility of some regrettable violence."

"As ever," agreed the Jefe.

Having heard no contrary word, "Jorge" now ventured into certain practicalities of the municipal life of Cuahtenotl.

"I have seen no other office here. Is there a Jefe Politico, or a Mayor... or is yours the only authority? Is there a court of law?"

"I am empowered to act as judge, here," Patricio allowed, "though most disputes, sadly, are settled by the pistol."

"Then is there a Coroner, who signs and files certificates of death?"

"I am he."

"A doctor?"

"If you are feeling unwell, I can provide you with a tonic, the partners of El Gato with others. When fresh medical supplies are brought to San Sebastien, they are... sometimes... kind enough to let us have those which have gone, as they say, out-of-date?"

"What about schools?"

"Life is hard here, Señor Bustamente. It is much work to locate things which have fallen from the railroad that others will buy, in the first place, to clean them and carry them down to the businessmen in San Sebastien. A child's hands are valuable... too valuable to be wasted fidgeting at a desk while some teacher prattles on about his angles of declination, or of the politics of Ottomans."

"Too bad," the Major shrugged. "I was in the Army, you know, and... during that time... my General was Jefe Military and Jefe Politico, Chief Justice and schoolmaster. He drew a salary upon the treasury of the Republic for each posting."

"We are unfortunate here. Diaz cared nothing for Cuahtenotl... it was only a place in which to dump the refuse he had no longer any need of. Madero has been no better... nor, I think, would any of those others. Even Zapata... a man may have all the land that he wishes, here, so long as it is land bearing only weeds. And he has liberty to sell what he salvages to Señor Garces or Señor Fraser in San Sebastien, at the price they will pay. Paradise!" the Jefe declared, threw his head back, and blew out a stream of smoke that quickly became indistinguishable from the fog that had crept through the cracks and the crannies of the sad Palacio Municipal.

"He did not draw the Coroner's salary," José added, to cheer up this fellow, on whom the success of his mission partially depended.

"I do not draw a salary either. Only the fee for the burial permit," Patricio sulked, "and perhaps half the villagers here still owe me on the death of a parent, or a child, or a spouse. Death does not wait for money to be raised... corruption comes to the rich and the poor alike, and if there is no burial, there will be plague. When I was in the Army, I learned that, if little else."

Now José sat up, snuffing his cigarette out on the desk... for there was no ashtray and the lamp revealed many other such burns. And, for his part, the Jefe swung his legs off the desk and straightened, facing his other in the expectation of business being done. "What would be your fee for one burial permit... signed and notarized... paid in advance?"

"Cause of death?" Patricio inquired.

"Misadventure."

"The coroner's concurrence would be necessary, were such finding to be lodged in our records."

"The coroner's fee, also."

"Burial... first class... in our proud little cemetery. A casket... not extravagant, but not some piece of junk, either, a coffin fit for a coffee-trader, no? A few flowers, a few bottles for the mourners... hired, of course... and a gratuity for Padre Luis, if God is able to drag him away from his latest whore... fifty pesos for the lot?"

José lifted the damp satchel to the old, scorched desk. "If I were to pay you one hundred pesos for two of them... good pesos... would I receive your assurance, as an Oficiale of honor and scrupulosity, that you would not go to this other and attempt to secure, from him, a comparable prepaid arrangement of death, perhaps at a slightly higher premium."

"Señor, you are running a risk of giving offense to me," Patricio replied. He opened a drawer to the desk and José's right hand, idly drumming the rhythm of a popular corrida upon the surface of the desk, slithered backwards towards its edge, the better to reach for his Webley. But the Jefe only removed some papers, laying them on the desk between them.

"To relieve any suspicions you might entertain, I shall prepare the certificates of death by misadventure now... one copy for the archives of the village, one for yourself. If there are details presently unknown, or still to be determined, we can leave those spaces blank, and I shall affix my signature. Dionisio, over there..." and he gestured towards the iron cage with its one, unhappy occupant, "shall witness this transaction for payment of one half of a bottle of beer. Agreed? Now, what is the name of the first poor, deceased soul?"

José squirmed with embarrassment. In all his years in the Territory, as well as during the hunt upon Bravo's orders, he had never bothered to learn the real name of the General's disloyal henchman. "That part... best leave it blank for the present."

"As you wish," Patricio frowned. "Next, the date of decease. Do you wish, also, to leave this until such unhappy circumstance ensues?"

"No, fill it in," José smirked. "Tomorrow!"

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