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Chapter 49
That night we returned to reading from Italo Calvino's short stories, which MacClayne always seemed to have at hand. After reading for about an hour, we were ready to turn in.
I quickly fell asleep, and into a series of troubled dreams that seemed to last all night. The one I remember most clearly was the last one, in which I was looking for the office of the newspaper Bernardino wrote for. On my way I met a 12-year-old girl who told me she was searching for her father. She was in a hurry to find him before something dreadful happened to him, so I set out to help her find him. I followed her up one narrow street and down another. As we walked, she got farther and farther ahead of me, and I struggled to keep up with her. The faster I ran, the more I got behind. Then I tripped, and the world spun around like a pinwheel
I awoke. It was morning and I was back in my own bed
"Buenos días," said MacClayne, seeing that I was awake. "¿Como amanesciste?"
Recovering my equilibrium, I replied to him in Spanish, assuring him, in our ritual fashion, that I'd never felt better, at the same time wondering privately why I'd had such an anxious dream, but, rather than discussing such things with MacClayne, I said brightly, "Shall we go get a newspaper?"
"What for?"
"How can you ask what for?" I said.
"You don't expect we'll be in it, do you?"
"The reporter told us we would be."
"You really believe that?"
"What about the photos? Would a guy take photos for nothing?"
"Probably didn't even have film in his camera. The guy was stringing us along," MacClayne said. "Couldn't you see that? He was a bullshit artist."
"What makes you say that?" I said.
"I've heard such before. Many times. When somebody starts telling me he's going to put my picture in a newspaper I play along with it, have a laugh or two, and maybe I can even get a few drinks out of it. But I know better than to take it seriously."
MacClayne, the eternal cynic, I thought to myself and groaned silently. But a tinge of doubt did enter my mind, and I hated to appear so gullible. Well, later I'd get the newspaper and find out for myself. Till then it'd be best to say nothing more.
The first thing on our agenda for this morning would've been to visit the place where the first Mexican constitution was signed back in 1814. Of special significance to us was the man who'd presided over that historic event--General José María Morelos.
General Morelos was a native of Michoacán, and a former mule team driver. During his career as a muleskinner, Morelos had spent years traveling much the same roads we had. We'd decided that at the end of our journey we'd have to pay homage to his memory.
However, at this moment I was annoyed by MacClayne's remark about the reporter and didn't feel in quite the mood to go pay respects. So finally I said, "Maybe we should go eat."
MacClayne assented. Having given me his ration of negativity, he seemed to be back in a cheerful mood now.
The sky had cleared so the sun was shining as we set out. Since our hotel was fairly close to the plaza, it was a fairly short walk to the place we'd eaten the night before, the restaurant we whimsically called Van Gogh's Café.
As we sat down, I opened up the newspaper I'd just bought at a plaza newsstand. MacClayne watched me as I began paging through it, and I could almost hear a derisive remark forming in his mind. I wished I'd waited till I was alone to search for the article, but it was too late now. I tried to appear nonchalant.
"I'm just looking to see what the weather forecast might be," I said.
"So, what does it say? More rain?"
"I haven't found it yet."
At that moment the waitress came by, the same one as the evening before. "Ustedes son los Vikingos," she said with a grin.
"¿Vikingos?" I repeated.
"Permítame," she said, and turned a page of my newspaper.
There it was! A group photo of the three of us. It was a remarkably good picture, and Cuauhtémoc came out best of all. MacClayne commented on how photogenic the rooster was, and naturally the egotistical bird crowed.
"He likes his photo," I said. I felt like chastising MacClayne on his cynicism about us being in the newspaper, but I wasn't in the mood for quarreling any further.
"I don't think he recognizes himself."
"No? Then why's he crowing?"
"Because he hears us talking about him," replied MacClayne.
"Sure, but he also saw his picture."
"You're not going to tell me he can read Spanish as well?"
"I never said he could. But then, who knows?"
MacClayne glanced at the bird and grinned. "He is a remarkable rooster, no denying that," he conceded, and turned back to the newspaper. "So what does the article say?"
"Vikings discover Apatzingán!" proclaimed the title. It was a lengthy article; I studied it carefully, then translated for MacClayne. It read in part:
When Vikings reached Northamerica around the year 1000, it still remained for them to discover our city of Apatzingán. Nevertheless, this extremely urgent task was unaccountably set aside and remained uncompleted for an entire millennium. Now at last this destiny has been fulfilled by a descendent of the ancient explorers, who reached our city yesterday after a long and difficult journey . . . . . .
The Norseman was accompanied by a Scottish bard who is a veteran of the wars and sailor of the seas, and by a Mexican fighting cock known as Cuauhtémoc the Warrior Chicken.
"We received our due recognition," MacClayne quipped as we got up to leave the café.
"Yes, the news media was here to meet us," I said. "A fitting finale to our journey."
"Perhaps now we should visit the place of the signing?" he said. "Do you have any idea where it might be?"
I asked the waitress, and she pointed it out to us. It was a museum now, located right on the edge of the plaza. We'd walked right by it on our way to the café.
The museum was dedicated to General Morelos and the signing of the Constitution. Inside was a display of drafts of the Constitution along with swords, uniforms and other items relating to the era.
We took our time and also talked with the curator, who happened to recognize us from our photos in the paper.
"Our fame has preceded us," I said to MacClayne as we left.
"Truly. Do you have any particular plans for the rest of the day?"
"I want to pay a visit to the newspaper office. Okay if we head in that direction?" I said. "And, after that I have a phone call to make."
"To Chayo, I presume. You think she might be back in Uruapan by now?"
"There's a good chance of it. She said she'd be out of town for a couple of weeks, probably not over a month. We've been gone for three weeks, so she could be back any day," I said. "I'd like her to know that I arrived here safely and that we even got our names in the paper."
We chatted as we strolled along, commenting on the article about us. People glanced our way and smiled or nodded, some even greeting us with "Buenos días." They'd apparently seen our photos in Bernardino's write up. I was especially glad to see how it lifted MacClayne's spirits.
Cuauhtémoc seemed to be enjoying it too.
We soon reached the newspaper office. "You're welcome to come in with me," I told MacClayne, "though going through old newspaper files may not excite you, especially since they'll all be in Spanish."
"I think I'll go back and spend some time in the plaza," he said.
"Then I'll look for you there."
"And if I'm not in the plaza, I'll be at the hotel."
"Okay," I told him.
* * *
It was a small office. The only person there was a middle-aged lady who I guessed was the editor. She glanced up as I came in the door with the bird on my arm.
"Hey, you're the fellow in our newspaper," she said with a welcoming smile. "And this must be Cuauhtémoc the Warrior Chicken."
The bird crowed a hearty response.
"He's my bodyguard," I said with a grin. "Though I'm sure he'll be difficult to live with now that he's become famous."
Bernardino, who'd written the article about us, wasn't in at the moment but he'd told the editor that I might stop by. She gladly showed me to the files.
I found a place for my bird on the backrest of a chair, and on the floor below him I spread some old papers I took from a wastebasket. Thus accommodated, he sat and watched while I estimated the approximate date of the decade-old murder and began my search.
At first I didn't find anything and I soon began to wonder if there'd even been an article about the killing. This was a small paper; most issues had only four pages, and so it shouldn't have been hard to find. Maybe I'd missed it. I tried starting with an earlier issue, and again found nothing. It was on my third time through that I found it--in the very first issue I'd looked at, one from February 1963.
It told basically the same story I'd heard from Chayo, doña Josefina and others. The rancher, don Pánfilo, had been shot to death on a street here in Apatzingán. However, the motive was assumed to be robbery since his money and watch were missing.
"Find anything?"
I glanced around. It was Bernardino, and I congratulated him on the story he'd written about MacClayne, the bird and me. We chatted about it for a few minutes, then returned to the topic of the murder.
"There should be more," he said. "I remember writing a follow-up piece some months later." He dug into another file and found an issue which he handed to me.
According to this article, a suspect had been apprehended. I hurriedly read on, wondering if it might have been Juan García. It wasn't. Instead, there was a name I hadn't heard before--Julio Pérez.
"His girlfriend turned him in," said Bernardino. "She even produced a watch which reportedly had the dead man's name on it."
"Really? The people in Uruapan didn't seem to know anything about that, or at least they didn't say anything."
"Well there wasn't much to say. Nothing really came of it, other than that the girlfriend disappeared a few days later."
"I suppose Julio Pérez killed her," I said.
"Apparently not. Julio was still in jail at the time."
"But she disappeared?"
"She's not been seen since," Bernardino said. "Not in all these years."
"How about the watch? That could have been used as evidence."
"The watch and a few other items the woman turned in were somehow lost from the police files. And Julio had an excellent lawyer who got him released."
"So who was this Julio Pérez?" I asked.
"Just a guy with a gun and an attitude."
"That all? A pistolero?"
"That's about it. A thug. A hoodlum. A thief. Suspected perpetrator of half a dozen killings."
"But it sounds like he was well connected," I said.
Bernardino nodded.
"And," I said. "I can guess who his connection was. The guy who paid for the lawyer."
"Yes?" said Bernardino, raising his eyebrows.
From his perch on the backrest of a chair, Cuauhtémoc watched us, listening attentively as usual.
"Juan García," I said.
"The guy you mentioned last night? The one who took over the ranch and was later hounded to death by the Cucúi?"
"Yes," I said. "Juan García was behind it all."
"Hmm," said Bernardino. "You could be right. But Julio did have other connections. Still does, in fact."
"You mean he's still around?"
The reporter nodded.
"Really? And his current connections. Any idea who they might be?"
"The local Mafia. They run drugs, smuggle contraband and provide a strong-arm service to corrupt politicians and crooked businessmen. Rent-a-thugs. For a reasonable sum, you could have someone beaten up, or even killed."
"¿De veras?"
"Stroll along the plaza arcade some evening and you might see two or three of them sitting in one or another of the cafés, drinking beer. You might even see Julio Pérez."
"It's that open?" I said. "You know who they all are?"
"Most of them. Some are very high profile. There's one guy, Raul Rodriguez--"
"¿El Cubano?"
Bernardino's eyes widened slightly. "You know him too?"
"I guess I do. I met him in Uruapan."
"Well, as I was saying, they're pretty visible."
"Let me ask you something," I said. "Rodriguez told me a bizarre story, and I've always wondered if any of it's true. Maybe you'd know."
The reporter grinned. "I suppose he told you that he's the victim of an international Communist conspiracy."
We both chuckled.
"Yes, he certainly did," I said. "I guess you know that's something that plays big in the US, and some people up there never tire of hearing such tales. But what I wanted to ask about was his career with the CIA."
"Ah yes, he's not shy about telling people that either."
"Do you think there's anything to it?" I said.
"I've not been able to confirm it. But yes, he may have worked for the CIA as a cargo handler, loading and unloading freight from airplanes. Nothing terribly impressive."
"I see. And in that capacity I suppose he could've smuggled drugs into the US."
"Very possibly," said Bernardino. "I understand he does have contacts in the North American drug traffic, and that appears to be of use to the suppliers down here. Those contacts could be something he established during his time with the CIA. But all I know for fact is that he arrived here in Michoacán a couple of years ago and found himself a niche."
Two years ago? It occurred to me that was when Watergate was getting exposed and the Plumbers were scurrying off to hide in distant places. Rodriguez had boasted to me that he'd been one of them, and perhaps he was, a break-in guy or something like that. But, that was historical trivia. The important thing I'd learned was that the killer of Chayo's father was Julio Pérez.
"So Julio Pérez can be found in the cafés along the plaza?" I said.
"From time to time," the reporter replied. "More often he hangs out at the Verde Rosal."
"That's a bar? It's also a line in a ballad, isn't it? A ballad about a guy who gets stabbed and left to die by a rosebush."
"I don't know where they got the name, but yes, I believe you're right about the ballad. You seem to know our songs quite well."
I told him about my interest in Mexican ballads and we chatted about that for a while, then returned to the topic of the bar known as the Verde Rosal. Bernardino told me it was a hangout of hoods, lowlife, criminals, and of course Julio Pérez.
Bernardino was glancing at his watch. There was a lot more I wanted to ask, but I'd taken enough of his time.
As I was leaving, I said, "I'm hoping to find out more about Julio Pérez."
Bernardino sucked in his breath. "You're always welcome to come by and look at our back issue files, and if you come up with any information in the meantime, I'd appreciate if you'd share it with me. I can always use material for another story. However, I'd advise you to be extremely careful in asking questions about Julio Pérez. It's not certain how he might react if he heard about it. He'd just as soon kill a guy as look at him."
As I walked back towards the plaza, I kept thinking what a busy, eventful day this had turned out to be, and my head was swimming with the significance of the information I'd suddenly come upon. It seemed like a lot of diverse strands were coming together here in Apatzingán. Well, not surprisingly--that's what Grail cities were supposed to do for chevaliers and seekers.
The bird sat peacefully on my shoulder. All the time we'd spent in the office he'd perched quietly on the backrest of a chair, showing his best behavior. A model bird. He hadn't even crapped on the papers I'd spread on the floor. I knew this couldn't last, and from the glint in his eye I could guess that before the end of the day he'd be doing something incredibly obnoxious.
From the newspaper office I went to the plaza, thinking I might find MacClayne. He didn't seem to be there, and I returned to our hotel, but as I was about to enter--
"Permítame, ¿Usted es Olaf?"
He was a man of about thirty, dressed casually but elegantly, in designer blue jeans, a ranch-style belt with an intricately engraved buckle, and finely tooled boots.
"Sí, soy Olaf," I responded.
"I hope you'll forgive my intrusion," he said. "I saw you in the newspaper, with the rooster."
Cuauhtémoc raised his neck feathers. The man grinned and said, "A handsome creature. Shows real spirit."
"Yes, he certainly has that," I said. I always felt pleased when someone complimented my bird.
The fellow introduced himself. "Me llamo Jaime Salinas."
We spoke for a bit. Then he invited me for a drink in one of the cafés, and, being in no particular hurry at the moment, I obliged. I must say that, having never before had my picture in a newspaper, I was thoroughly enjoying the attention that my bird and I were getting.
"What would you like to drink?" asked Jaime as we sat down. We were in a rather fashionable establishment.
"Coffee," I said. "I always have coffee."
"How about wine?" he suggested. "In this valley we produce some excellent wines."
"Wine? Sure," I said after a moment of reflection. Though I didn't much care for anything with alcohol in it, I gracefully accepted, and, glancing at my bird, I said, "He'll have water."
I took some paper napkins from the table and laid them on the floor below Cuauhtémoc's perch, then turned back to our conversation.
As we chatted, it became apparent to me that Jaime was well informed on the history and affairs of this region, and he spoke with an eloquence that made him enjoyable to listen to. After talking for a while on sundry topics, Jaime mentioned that he'd noticed the paper said I was a geologist.
I acknowledged that I was.
"So I suppose you work in petroleum."
"In mining," I said.
"Mining, you say." He looked at me thoughtfully.
The wine arrived at our table. The waiter placed a glass in front of each of us, and uncorked the bottle carefully, handing the cork to Jaime, who sniffed it appreciatively. Then the waiter poured a miniscule amount in Jaime's glass, and Jaime tasted it.
"¿Es bueno?" asked the waiter.
"Excelente," said Jaime, putting his glass down and the waiter poured both our glasses about half full, then departed. Jaime swirled the wine around in his glass. He must have seen the puzzlement in my eyes, for he answered my unspoken question:
"The purpose of swirling is to air the wine," he said. "Most wine that's for sale is fairly young, and it still needs several years of aging. Airing is a way to accomplish the same result as aging. A wine which has been aged long enough doesn't need any airing at all, but a really young wine might have to be aired for several hours before it realizes its taste potential."
Following Jaime's example, I swirled my glass and took a sip. It tasted exceedingly sour to me, but I didn't want to say that to Jaime.
"You started telling me what you do as a geologist."
"Exploration work," I said. "For example, I might look at a property and determine what minerals are to be found and make an estimate of the orebody."
I started off with a brief explanation because I doubted that the details would interest him. However, it turned out that he was very curious to hear how mineral deposits were evaluated. This being one of my favorite topics, I went into it at some length.
"So, if someone were considering the purchase of a mining property, they might first have you look it over, estimate its worth."
"Exactly," I said. "That's part of what I'd be doing."
"Good. The reason I ask--well, I may as well tell you, and I hope you'll forgive me for being so bold as to approach you like this--when I read in the paper that you were a geologist, it occurred to me that you might be the person my father was looking for."
"Yes?" I said.
"Let me first say that you'd be well paid."
I nodded, curious to hear more. Whatever this might be, I felt quite flattered. My bird, however, continued to raise his neck feathers. The patient, good behavior that he'd displayed in the newspaper office had indeed been too good to last. Fortunately, he was at least showing no interest in the wine.
"My father is investing in a mine," Jaime said. "He needs the services of someone who does what you do."
"A mineral evaluation?" My heart nearly bounced with excitement.
"Yes. Would you consider it?"
"Tell me more."
"Of course this is strictly confidential, you understand. Do I have your word on that, before I continue?"
"You certainly do," I promised. "Whatever is said, I'll keep it to myself."
"Good." He raised his wine glass. "¡Salud!"
"Salud," I responded. We clicked glasses and I took another sip. It was still exceedingly sour. I guessed that was the way good wine was supposed to taste. "This must be what they call dry," I said, trying to pretend some knowledge of the subject.
"It is," said Jaime. "Wines of the valley of Apatzingán are known for their elegantly dry quality." He took a sip and said, "Still a little closed tasting. Don't feel obliged to drink it if it isn't to your preference. I could get you something else."
"No, no. This is fine," I said, not wanting to offend him.
"I'm pleased to hear that. Actually, this comes from the vineyards of my family's estate."
"That's here in this valley of Apatzingán?"
"Yes, of course. My forefathers have lived here for generations on the same ranch. It's not far from town. We trace our lineage back to a Spanish family of the 1600's. My father used to be the congressman representing this region in the national assembly. Maybe you've heard of him--Pedro Salinas Mendoza."
I admitted that I hadn't heard the name, but it didn't at all surprise me to learn that Jaime was a scion of an old family of hacendados--he certainly fit the image, and even reminded me slightly of Errol Flynn in the role of a Spanish nobleman. It almost seemed strange to me that Jaime was speaking to me in Spanish, rather than the stage English of Hollywood.
Cuauhtémoc sat on his perch, listening attentively.
"Where is the mine?" I asked.
"In the region of Coalcomán. Between there and Aguililla. That's across the valley from here."
I nodded. "I visited both towns on my way here."
"Then you know the general area," he said. "The mine dates back to pre-Hispanic times. I'm told it was worked by the Aztecs, and later the Tarascans."
"Is it currently in operation?" I asked.
"No, it was shut down during the Revolution, and has remained that way ever since."
"What was mined there?"
"Gold."
"I see." I nodded and ran my hand across my chin. This was now beginning to sound like one of those lost mine stories. "Have you visited the site?"
"Naturally. I wouldn't be here talking with you if I hadn't. Perhaps you've heard of it? El Limón."
"No, I haven't. Is it well known?"
"It's legendary." He lifted his glass to his lips.
I did likewise, but the wine remained unpleasantly sour, or as Jaime had said, 'elegantly dry.' "Legendary?" I said.
"There are many stories about it."
"Interesting," I said noncommittally, and reflected on the possibilities. If the mine were what Jaime believed it to be, it could be of historical interest--but it was probably exhausted and economically worthless. I recalled the thousands of old mine shafts and tunnels that honeycombed the mountains and deserts of California. Occasionally an unscrupulous individual sells one to an unsuspecting investor who doesn't realize that a worked-out gold mine is only an empty hole in the ground.
"Does your father have any previous experience with mining?" I said.
"No, mining is about the only thing he hasn't been involved in till now," said Jaime. "I guess that's why he wants to do this. It's something new that he hasn't done before."
"Your father sounds like an interesting person."
"Oh he certainly is," Jaime grinned and told an anecdote about one of his father's investments.
"Your father hasn't bought the property yet, or made any financial commitment?"
"No, my father's a very cautious man."
"Good," I said. "I'm glad to hear that."
"You sound cautious yourself," said Jaime with a smile.
"One is always cautious about a mine," I said. "That's part of being a geologist."
"Yes, I can understand that, and I'm glad to hear it. You impress me as a man who'd do this very carefully, the man my father needs for this job. Could I ask you to meet with him?"
"Certainly," I said. "I'd be glad to. When would be a good time?
"Possibly this afternoon. I could phone him right now and see if he's in. Could I ask you to wait a few minutes?"
"No problem," I said.
Jaime went to find a phone. I waited with Cuauhtémoc and turned things over in my mind. Could the mine really be worth anything? Probably not. Most likely I'd be exposing a fraud of some sort and by doing so, save these people their investment money.
Would I be up to this? I figured I would be. I recalled a story about a scam artist who'd used a shotgun to salt a mine with gold dust--a ruse that would be pretty easy to discover. Another well known trick was to scatter a few high grade ore samples around. There might also be some phony documentation, glowing reports of great wealth. Not to mention a legend or two. In mining as in anything else, most crooks probably weren't that clever, assuming of course that the present owner wasn't on the up and up.
Despite my doubts, there was always a chance that it might be a worthwhile investment, and I wasn't about to close my mind to such a possibility either, however unlikely it seemed. Anyway, I felt I could do the job. This would be my first undertaking as a professional geologist, and I felt a tremendous excitement. It was hard to sit still.
I attempted another sip of the wine, but found it hadn't improved much during the last hour. Sour stuff. I asked the waitress for some sugar, which I stirred in as I sat there thinking about this fortuitous meeting.
"¿Cómo ves?" I said to Cuauhtémoc, who just looked at me. I did wish he'd share some of my enthusiasm, but I guessed that was just too much to ask.
The wine needed still more sugar which I added hurriedly, not wanting to be caught at this by Jaime. In my haste, I overdid it, and now it was too sweet. So I added more wine from the bottle, filling my glass to the brim, and hastily stirred it. The bird watched me with a dubious look in his eye. Then Jaime reappeared.
"I got through to my father," he announced with a pleased smile as he sat down.
"Yes?"
"He wants to meet you. Would you be available this afternoon, say around five o'clock?"
"At five? Sure. This café?"
"No, it'll be another place," Jaime said. "We'll send a car for you. Can we find you at your hotel?"
"Yes."
"Oh, one more thing," Jaime said. "My father likes animals. It's one of his eccentricities. He told me he'd read about you in the newspaper, and he asked if you could bring Cuauhtémoc."
As though in reply, the bird raised his hackles, and I sighed. I could tell that my bird was not in a mood to make friends and influence people right now. This was one time I figured it better to leave him at the hotel.
"My father insists," said Jaime with his charming smile.
It was hard to say no to a fellow like Jaime. "Okay, I'll bring him," I promised. "In an hour then."
We both got up to leave. Then, something else occurred to me. "You've lived here all your life and know this region well," I said. "Have you ever run across a man by the name of Julio Pérez?"
Jaime gave me a rather blank look.
So I added, "I'm told he hangs out at the Verde Rosal."
For a long moment Jaime still didn't respond. Then he said, "I don't believe there is any such place."
"There isn't?"
"Not that I know of," said Jaime. "Nor have I ever heard of this man you just mentioned. Why are you asking?"
"Well, I happened to hear of the guy--that he was a famous pistolero of this region--and I just thought I'd ask."
"There's a lot of such stories around. Some have a kernel of truth, others are made up whole cloth. There are even people who think of Apatzingán as though it were an untamed frontier town in a Hollywood movie. Wild, drunken cowboys whooping it up. Gunfights in bars. Shootouts at the local corral." Jaime broke into a grin as he said this. "Dodge City--that's the image a lot of people have of this town. But really, Do you see anyone here in this establishment wearing a pistol?"
I felt almost foolish as I glanced around. "No," I said, forcing an embarrassed smile. Everyone in the place looked quite genteel.
"At five o'clock then," said Jaime. "We'll send a car for you."
continued in Chapter 50
I quickly fell asleep, and into a series of troubled dreams that seemed to last all night. The one I remember most clearly was the last one, in which I was looking for the office of the newspaper Bernardino wrote for. On my way I met a 12-year-old girl who told me she was searching for her father. She was in a hurry to find him before something dreadful happened to him, so I set out to help her find him. I followed her up one narrow street and down another. As we walked, she got farther and farther ahead of me, and I struggled to keep up with her. The faster I ran, the more I got behind. Then I tripped, and the world spun around like a pinwheel
I awoke. It was morning and I was back in my own bed
"Buenos días," said MacClayne, seeing that I was awake. "¿Como amanesciste?"
Recovering my equilibrium, I replied to him in Spanish, assuring him, in our ritual fashion, that I'd never felt better, at the same time wondering privately why I'd had such an anxious dream, but, rather than discussing such things with MacClayne, I said brightly, "Shall we go get a newspaper?"
"What for?"
"How can you ask what for?" I said.
"You don't expect we'll be in it, do you?"
"The reporter told us we would be."
"You really believe that?"
"What about the photos? Would a guy take photos for nothing?"
"Probably didn't even have film in his camera. The guy was stringing us along," MacClayne said. "Couldn't you see that? He was a bullshit artist."
"What makes you say that?" I said.
"I've heard such before. Many times. When somebody starts telling me he's going to put my picture in a newspaper I play along with it, have a laugh or two, and maybe I can even get a few drinks out of it. But I know better than to take it seriously."
MacClayne, the eternal cynic, I thought to myself and groaned silently. But a tinge of doubt did enter my mind, and I hated to appear so gullible. Well, later I'd get the newspaper and find out for myself. Till then it'd be best to say nothing more.
The first thing on our agenda for this morning would've been to visit the place where the first Mexican constitution was signed back in 1814. Of special significance to us was the man who'd presided over that historic event--General José María Morelos.
General Morelos was a native of Michoacán, and a former mule team driver. During his career as a muleskinner, Morelos had spent years traveling much the same roads we had. We'd decided that at the end of our journey we'd have to pay homage to his memory.
However, at this moment I was annoyed by MacClayne's remark about the reporter and didn't feel in quite the mood to go pay respects. So finally I said, "Maybe we should go eat."
MacClayne assented. Having given me his ration of negativity, he seemed to be back in a cheerful mood now.
The sky had cleared so the sun was shining as we set out. Since our hotel was fairly close to the plaza, it was a fairly short walk to the place we'd eaten the night before, the restaurant we whimsically called Van Gogh's Café.
As we sat down, I opened up the newspaper I'd just bought at a plaza newsstand. MacClayne watched me as I began paging through it, and I could almost hear a derisive remark forming in his mind. I wished I'd waited till I was alone to search for the article, but it was too late now. I tried to appear nonchalant.
"I'm just looking to see what the weather forecast might be," I said.
"So, what does it say? More rain?"
"I haven't found it yet."
At that moment the waitress came by, the same one as the evening before. "Ustedes son los Vikingos," she said with a grin.
"¿Vikingos?" I repeated.
"Permítame," she said, and turned a page of my newspaper.
There it was! A group photo of the three of us. It was a remarkably good picture, and Cuauhtémoc came out best of all. MacClayne commented on how photogenic the rooster was, and naturally the egotistical bird crowed.
"He likes his photo," I said. I felt like chastising MacClayne on his cynicism about us being in the newspaper, but I wasn't in the mood for quarreling any further.
"I don't think he recognizes himself."
"No? Then why's he crowing?"
"Because he hears us talking about him," replied MacClayne.
"Sure, but he also saw his picture."
"You're not going to tell me he can read Spanish as well?"
"I never said he could. But then, who knows?"
MacClayne glanced at the bird and grinned. "He is a remarkable rooster, no denying that," he conceded, and turned back to the newspaper. "So what does the article say?"
"Vikings discover Apatzingán!" proclaimed the title. It was a lengthy article; I studied it carefully, then translated for MacClayne. It read in part:
When Vikings reached Northamerica around the year 1000, it still remained for them to discover our city of Apatzingán. Nevertheless, this extremely urgent task was unaccountably set aside and remained uncompleted for an entire millennium. Now at last this destiny has been fulfilled by a descendent of the ancient explorers, who reached our city yesterday after a long and difficult journey . . . . . .
The Norseman was accompanied by a Scottish bard who is a veteran of the wars and sailor of the seas, and by a Mexican fighting cock known as Cuauhtémoc the Warrior Chicken.
"We received our due recognition," MacClayne quipped as we got up to leave the café.
"Yes, the news media was here to meet us," I said. "A fitting finale to our journey."
"Perhaps now we should visit the place of the signing?" he said. "Do you have any idea where it might be?"
I asked the waitress, and she pointed it out to us. It was a museum now, located right on the edge of the plaza. We'd walked right by it on our way to the café.
The museum was dedicated to General Morelos and the signing of the Constitution. Inside was a display of drafts of the Constitution along with swords, uniforms and other items relating to the era.
We took our time and also talked with the curator, who happened to recognize us from our photos in the paper.
"Our fame has preceded us," I said to MacClayne as we left.
"Truly. Do you have any particular plans for the rest of the day?"
"I want to pay a visit to the newspaper office. Okay if we head in that direction?" I said. "And, after that I have a phone call to make."
"To Chayo, I presume. You think she might be back in Uruapan by now?"
"There's a good chance of it. She said she'd be out of town for a couple of weeks, probably not over a month. We've been gone for three weeks, so she could be back any day," I said. "I'd like her to know that I arrived here safely and that we even got our names in the paper."
We chatted as we strolled along, commenting on the article about us. People glanced our way and smiled or nodded, some even greeting us with "Buenos días." They'd apparently seen our photos in Bernardino's write up. I was especially glad to see how it lifted MacClayne's spirits.
Cuauhtémoc seemed to be enjoying it too.
We soon reached the newspaper office. "You're welcome to come in with me," I told MacClayne, "though going through old newspaper files may not excite you, especially since they'll all be in Spanish."
"I think I'll go back and spend some time in the plaza," he said.
"Then I'll look for you there."
"And if I'm not in the plaza, I'll be at the hotel."
"Okay," I told him.
* * *
It was a small office. The only person there was a middle-aged lady who I guessed was the editor. She glanced up as I came in the door with the bird on my arm.
"Hey, you're the fellow in our newspaper," she said with a welcoming smile. "And this must be Cuauhtémoc the Warrior Chicken."
The bird crowed a hearty response.
"He's my bodyguard," I said with a grin. "Though I'm sure he'll be difficult to live with now that he's become famous."
Bernardino, who'd written the article about us, wasn't in at the moment but he'd told the editor that I might stop by. She gladly showed me to the files.
I found a place for my bird on the backrest of a chair, and on the floor below him I spread some old papers I took from a wastebasket. Thus accommodated, he sat and watched while I estimated the approximate date of the decade-old murder and began my search.
At first I didn't find anything and I soon began to wonder if there'd even been an article about the killing. This was a small paper; most issues had only four pages, and so it shouldn't have been hard to find. Maybe I'd missed it. I tried starting with an earlier issue, and again found nothing. It was on my third time through that I found it--in the very first issue I'd looked at, one from February 1963.
It told basically the same story I'd heard from Chayo, doña Josefina and others. The rancher, don Pánfilo, had been shot to death on a street here in Apatzingán. However, the motive was assumed to be robbery since his money and watch were missing.
"Find anything?"
I glanced around. It was Bernardino, and I congratulated him on the story he'd written about MacClayne, the bird and me. We chatted about it for a few minutes, then returned to the topic of the murder.
"There should be more," he said. "I remember writing a follow-up piece some months later." He dug into another file and found an issue which he handed to me.
According to this article, a suspect had been apprehended. I hurriedly read on, wondering if it might have been Juan García. It wasn't. Instead, there was a name I hadn't heard before--Julio Pérez.
"His girlfriend turned him in," said Bernardino. "She even produced a watch which reportedly had the dead man's name on it."
"Really? The people in Uruapan didn't seem to know anything about that, or at least they didn't say anything."
"Well there wasn't much to say. Nothing really came of it, other than that the girlfriend disappeared a few days later."
"I suppose Julio Pérez killed her," I said.
"Apparently not. Julio was still in jail at the time."
"But she disappeared?"
"She's not been seen since," Bernardino said. "Not in all these years."
"How about the watch? That could have been used as evidence."
"The watch and a few other items the woman turned in were somehow lost from the police files. And Julio had an excellent lawyer who got him released."
"So who was this Julio Pérez?" I asked.
"Just a guy with a gun and an attitude."
"That all? A pistolero?"
"That's about it. A thug. A hoodlum. A thief. Suspected perpetrator of half a dozen killings."
"But it sounds like he was well connected," I said.
Bernardino nodded.
"And," I said. "I can guess who his connection was. The guy who paid for the lawyer."
"Yes?" said Bernardino, raising his eyebrows.
From his perch on the backrest of a chair, Cuauhtémoc watched us, listening attentively as usual.
"Juan García," I said.
"The guy you mentioned last night? The one who took over the ranch and was later hounded to death by the Cucúi?"
"Yes," I said. "Juan García was behind it all."
"Hmm," said Bernardino. "You could be right. But Julio did have other connections. Still does, in fact."
"You mean he's still around?"
The reporter nodded.
"Really? And his current connections. Any idea who they might be?"
"The local Mafia. They run drugs, smuggle contraband and provide a strong-arm service to corrupt politicians and crooked businessmen. Rent-a-thugs. For a reasonable sum, you could have someone beaten up, or even killed."
"¿De veras?"
"Stroll along the plaza arcade some evening and you might see two or three of them sitting in one or another of the cafés, drinking beer. You might even see Julio Pérez."
"It's that open?" I said. "You know who they all are?"
"Most of them. Some are very high profile. There's one guy, Raul Rodriguez--"
"¿El Cubano?"
Bernardino's eyes widened slightly. "You know him too?"
"I guess I do. I met him in Uruapan."
"Well, as I was saying, they're pretty visible."
"Let me ask you something," I said. "Rodriguez told me a bizarre story, and I've always wondered if any of it's true. Maybe you'd know."
The reporter grinned. "I suppose he told you that he's the victim of an international Communist conspiracy."
We both chuckled.
"Yes, he certainly did," I said. "I guess you know that's something that plays big in the US, and some people up there never tire of hearing such tales. But what I wanted to ask about was his career with the CIA."
"Ah yes, he's not shy about telling people that either."
"Do you think there's anything to it?" I said.
"I've not been able to confirm it. But yes, he may have worked for the CIA as a cargo handler, loading and unloading freight from airplanes. Nothing terribly impressive."
"I see. And in that capacity I suppose he could've smuggled drugs into the US."
"Very possibly," said Bernardino. "I understand he does have contacts in the North American drug traffic, and that appears to be of use to the suppliers down here. Those contacts could be something he established during his time with the CIA. But all I know for fact is that he arrived here in Michoacán a couple of years ago and found himself a niche."
Two years ago? It occurred to me that was when Watergate was getting exposed and the Plumbers were scurrying off to hide in distant places. Rodriguez had boasted to me that he'd been one of them, and perhaps he was, a break-in guy or something like that. But, that was historical trivia. The important thing I'd learned was that the killer of Chayo's father was Julio Pérez.
"So Julio Pérez can be found in the cafés along the plaza?" I said.
"From time to time," the reporter replied. "More often he hangs out at the Verde Rosal."
"That's a bar? It's also a line in a ballad, isn't it? A ballad about a guy who gets stabbed and left to die by a rosebush."
"I don't know where they got the name, but yes, I believe you're right about the ballad. You seem to know our songs quite well."
I told him about my interest in Mexican ballads and we chatted about that for a while, then returned to the topic of the bar known as the Verde Rosal. Bernardino told me it was a hangout of hoods, lowlife, criminals, and of course Julio Pérez.
Bernardino was glancing at his watch. There was a lot more I wanted to ask, but I'd taken enough of his time.
As I was leaving, I said, "I'm hoping to find out more about Julio Pérez."
Bernardino sucked in his breath. "You're always welcome to come by and look at our back issue files, and if you come up with any information in the meantime, I'd appreciate if you'd share it with me. I can always use material for another story. However, I'd advise you to be extremely careful in asking questions about Julio Pérez. It's not certain how he might react if he heard about it. He'd just as soon kill a guy as look at him."
As I walked back towards the plaza, I kept thinking what a busy, eventful day this had turned out to be, and my head was swimming with the significance of the information I'd suddenly come upon. It seemed like a lot of diverse strands were coming together here in Apatzingán. Well, not surprisingly--that's what Grail cities were supposed to do for chevaliers and seekers.
The bird sat peacefully on my shoulder. All the time we'd spent in the office he'd perched quietly on the backrest of a chair, showing his best behavior. A model bird. He hadn't even crapped on the papers I'd spread on the floor. I knew this couldn't last, and from the glint in his eye I could guess that before the end of the day he'd be doing something incredibly obnoxious.
From the newspaper office I went to the plaza, thinking I might find MacClayne. He didn't seem to be there, and I returned to our hotel, but as I was about to enter--
"Permítame, ¿Usted es Olaf?"
He was a man of about thirty, dressed casually but elegantly, in designer blue jeans, a ranch-style belt with an intricately engraved buckle, and finely tooled boots.
"Sí, soy Olaf," I responded.
"I hope you'll forgive my intrusion," he said. "I saw you in the newspaper, with the rooster."
Cuauhtémoc raised his neck feathers. The man grinned and said, "A handsome creature. Shows real spirit."
"Yes, he certainly has that," I said. I always felt pleased when someone complimented my bird.
The fellow introduced himself. "Me llamo Jaime Salinas."
We spoke for a bit. Then he invited me for a drink in one of the cafés, and, being in no particular hurry at the moment, I obliged. I must say that, having never before had my picture in a newspaper, I was thoroughly enjoying the attention that my bird and I were getting.
"What would you like to drink?" asked Jaime as we sat down. We were in a rather fashionable establishment.
"Coffee," I said. "I always have coffee."
"How about wine?" he suggested. "In this valley we produce some excellent wines."
"Wine? Sure," I said after a moment of reflection. Though I didn't much care for anything with alcohol in it, I gracefully accepted, and, glancing at my bird, I said, "He'll have water."
I took some paper napkins from the table and laid them on the floor below Cuauhtémoc's perch, then turned back to our conversation.
As we chatted, it became apparent to me that Jaime was well informed on the history and affairs of this region, and he spoke with an eloquence that made him enjoyable to listen to. After talking for a while on sundry topics, Jaime mentioned that he'd noticed the paper said I was a geologist.
I acknowledged that I was.
"So I suppose you work in petroleum."
"In mining," I said.
"Mining, you say." He looked at me thoughtfully.
The wine arrived at our table. The waiter placed a glass in front of each of us, and uncorked the bottle carefully, handing the cork to Jaime, who sniffed it appreciatively. Then the waiter poured a miniscule amount in Jaime's glass, and Jaime tasted it.
"¿Es bueno?" asked the waiter.
"Excelente," said Jaime, putting his glass down and the waiter poured both our glasses about half full, then departed. Jaime swirled the wine around in his glass. He must have seen the puzzlement in my eyes, for he answered my unspoken question:
"The purpose of swirling is to air the wine," he said. "Most wine that's for sale is fairly young, and it still needs several years of aging. Airing is a way to accomplish the same result as aging. A wine which has been aged long enough doesn't need any airing at all, but a really young wine might have to be aired for several hours before it realizes its taste potential."
Following Jaime's example, I swirled my glass and took a sip. It tasted exceedingly sour to me, but I didn't want to say that to Jaime.
"You started telling me what you do as a geologist."
"Exploration work," I said. "For example, I might look at a property and determine what minerals are to be found and make an estimate of the orebody."
I started off with a brief explanation because I doubted that the details would interest him. However, it turned out that he was very curious to hear how mineral deposits were evaluated. This being one of my favorite topics, I went into it at some length.
"So, if someone were considering the purchase of a mining property, they might first have you look it over, estimate its worth."
"Exactly," I said. "That's part of what I'd be doing."
"Good. The reason I ask--well, I may as well tell you, and I hope you'll forgive me for being so bold as to approach you like this--when I read in the paper that you were a geologist, it occurred to me that you might be the person my father was looking for."
"Yes?" I said.
"Let me first say that you'd be well paid."
I nodded, curious to hear more. Whatever this might be, I felt quite flattered. My bird, however, continued to raise his neck feathers. The patient, good behavior that he'd displayed in the newspaper office had indeed been too good to last. Fortunately, he was at least showing no interest in the wine.
"My father is investing in a mine," Jaime said. "He needs the services of someone who does what you do."
"A mineral evaluation?" My heart nearly bounced with excitement.
"Yes. Would you consider it?"
"Tell me more."
"Of course this is strictly confidential, you understand. Do I have your word on that, before I continue?"
"You certainly do," I promised. "Whatever is said, I'll keep it to myself."
"Good." He raised his wine glass. "¡Salud!"
"Salud," I responded. We clicked glasses and I took another sip. It was still exceedingly sour. I guessed that was the way good wine was supposed to taste. "This must be what they call dry," I said, trying to pretend some knowledge of the subject.
"It is," said Jaime. "Wines of the valley of Apatzingán are known for their elegantly dry quality." He took a sip and said, "Still a little closed tasting. Don't feel obliged to drink it if it isn't to your preference. I could get you something else."
"No, no. This is fine," I said, not wanting to offend him.
"I'm pleased to hear that. Actually, this comes from the vineyards of my family's estate."
"That's here in this valley of Apatzingán?"
"Yes, of course. My forefathers have lived here for generations on the same ranch. It's not far from town. We trace our lineage back to a Spanish family of the 1600's. My father used to be the congressman representing this region in the national assembly. Maybe you've heard of him--Pedro Salinas Mendoza."
I admitted that I hadn't heard the name, but it didn't at all surprise me to learn that Jaime was a scion of an old family of hacendados--he certainly fit the image, and even reminded me slightly of Errol Flynn in the role of a Spanish nobleman. It almost seemed strange to me that Jaime was speaking to me in Spanish, rather than the stage English of Hollywood.
Cuauhtémoc sat on his perch, listening attentively.
"Where is the mine?" I asked.
"In the region of Coalcomán. Between there and Aguililla. That's across the valley from here."
I nodded. "I visited both towns on my way here."
"Then you know the general area," he said. "The mine dates back to pre-Hispanic times. I'm told it was worked by the Aztecs, and later the Tarascans."
"Is it currently in operation?" I asked.
"No, it was shut down during the Revolution, and has remained that way ever since."
"What was mined there?"
"Gold."
"I see." I nodded and ran my hand across my chin. This was now beginning to sound like one of those lost mine stories. "Have you visited the site?"
"Naturally. I wouldn't be here talking with you if I hadn't. Perhaps you've heard of it? El Limón."
"No, I haven't. Is it well known?"
"It's legendary." He lifted his glass to his lips.
I did likewise, but the wine remained unpleasantly sour, or as Jaime had said, 'elegantly dry.' "Legendary?" I said.
"There are many stories about it."
"Interesting," I said noncommittally, and reflected on the possibilities. If the mine were what Jaime believed it to be, it could be of historical interest--but it was probably exhausted and economically worthless. I recalled the thousands of old mine shafts and tunnels that honeycombed the mountains and deserts of California. Occasionally an unscrupulous individual sells one to an unsuspecting investor who doesn't realize that a worked-out gold mine is only an empty hole in the ground.
"Does your father have any previous experience with mining?" I said.
"No, mining is about the only thing he hasn't been involved in till now," said Jaime. "I guess that's why he wants to do this. It's something new that he hasn't done before."
"Your father sounds like an interesting person."
"Oh he certainly is," Jaime grinned and told an anecdote about one of his father's investments.
"Your father hasn't bought the property yet, or made any financial commitment?"
"No, my father's a very cautious man."
"Good," I said. "I'm glad to hear that."
"You sound cautious yourself," said Jaime with a smile.
"One is always cautious about a mine," I said. "That's part of being a geologist."
"Yes, I can understand that, and I'm glad to hear it. You impress me as a man who'd do this very carefully, the man my father needs for this job. Could I ask you to meet with him?"
"Certainly," I said. "I'd be glad to. When would be a good time?
"Possibly this afternoon. I could phone him right now and see if he's in. Could I ask you to wait a few minutes?"
"No problem," I said.
Jaime went to find a phone. I waited with Cuauhtémoc and turned things over in my mind. Could the mine really be worth anything? Probably not. Most likely I'd be exposing a fraud of some sort and by doing so, save these people their investment money.
Would I be up to this? I figured I would be. I recalled a story about a scam artist who'd used a shotgun to salt a mine with gold dust--a ruse that would be pretty easy to discover. Another well known trick was to scatter a few high grade ore samples around. There might also be some phony documentation, glowing reports of great wealth. Not to mention a legend or two. In mining as in anything else, most crooks probably weren't that clever, assuming of course that the present owner wasn't on the up and up.
Despite my doubts, there was always a chance that it might be a worthwhile investment, and I wasn't about to close my mind to such a possibility either, however unlikely it seemed. Anyway, I felt I could do the job. This would be my first undertaking as a professional geologist, and I felt a tremendous excitement. It was hard to sit still.
I attempted another sip of the wine, but found it hadn't improved much during the last hour. Sour stuff. I asked the waitress for some sugar, which I stirred in as I sat there thinking about this fortuitous meeting.
"¿Cómo ves?" I said to Cuauhtémoc, who just looked at me. I did wish he'd share some of my enthusiasm, but I guessed that was just too much to ask.
The wine needed still more sugar which I added hurriedly, not wanting to be caught at this by Jaime. In my haste, I overdid it, and now it was too sweet. So I added more wine from the bottle, filling my glass to the brim, and hastily stirred it. The bird watched me with a dubious look in his eye. Then Jaime reappeared.
"I got through to my father," he announced with a pleased smile as he sat down.
"Yes?"
"He wants to meet you. Would you be available this afternoon, say around five o'clock?"
"At five? Sure. This café?"
"No, it'll be another place," Jaime said. "We'll send a car for you. Can we find you at your hotel?"
"Yes."
"Oh, one more thing," Jaime said. "My father likes animals. It's one of his eccentricities. He told me he'd read about you in the newspaper, and he asked if you could bring Cuauhtémoc."
As though in reply, the bird raised his hackles, and I sighed. I could tell that my bird was not in a mood to make friends and influence people right now. This was one time I figured it better to leave him at the hotel.
"My father insists," said Jaime with his charming smile.
It was hard to say no to a fellow like Jaime. "Okay, I'll bring him," I promised. "In an hour then."
We both got up to leave. Then, something else occurred to me. "You've lived here all your life and know this region well," I said. "Have you ever run across a man by the name of Julio Pérez?"
Jaime gave me a rather blank look.
So I added, "I'm told he hangs out at the Verde Rosal."
For a long moment Jaime still didn't respond. Then he said, "I don't believe there is any such place."
"There isn't?"
"Not that I know of," said Jaime. "Nor have I ever heard of this man you just mentioned. Why are you asking?"
"Well, I happened to hear of the guy--that he was a famous pistolero of this region--and I just thought I'd ask."
"There's a lot of such stories around. Some have a kernel of truth, others are made up whole cloth. There are even people who think of Apatzingán as though it were an untamed frontier town in a Hollywood movie. Wild, drunken cowboys whooping it up. Gunfights in bars. Shootouts at the local corral." Jaime broke into a grin as he said this. "Dodge City--that's the image a lot of people have of this town. But really, Do you see anyone here in this establishment wearing a pistol?"
I felt almost foolish as I glanced around. "No," I said, forcing an embarrassed smile. Everyone in the place looked quite genteel.
"At five o'clock then," said Jaime. "We'll send a car for you."
continued in Chapter 50
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