Here Mendoza put down the ever-growing weight of the jars and stepped through the front door beneath a sign that proclaimed this to be the ENTRANCE OF THE BULLS. Estaban awaited him within. Over a bottle of beer the money was passed. Mendoza left through a side door, where another sign stated the legend — WHERE DEAD BULLS GO. Round the corner his son awaited him. Handing him the money, which was wrapped carelessly in a soiled piece of brown paper, he said, “Whatever happens, don’t lose this. Put it inside your blouse.”
“What is it?” asked Julio.
“Never mind. It is for you, your sister and the little one.”
The boy put the money inside his blouse, and Mendoza placed the yoke on his shoulders. I may die, but they will have money, he thought, and nodded to his son.
“Ay, pulque! Ay, pulque!” cried the boy as they moved off.
It was very hot now, the streets almost deserted. At one minute of noon Mendoza and his son rounded the corner of the block where the Mayor’s residence stood. Three cars were parked directly in front of the house, an ornate affair of white stucco, red tile and ornamental iron. Nine of the gunmen, including Pancho Negron, stood on the sidewalk. Three sat at the wheels of the cars. No one else was about.
“Ay, pulque!” Julio cried out, and suddenly Mendoza felt the yoke on his neck, the weight of the jars. One for pulque, and one for death, he thought, and the boy called out again.
A short man with broad shoulders and a pockmarked face, Pancho Negron’s alert eyes riveted on Mendoza and his son. The others stood a case, for the pulque-vendor and boy posed no threat.
“Listen to me,” Mendoza whispered to Julio. “When I tell you to run, make certain to run as fast as you can.”
The boy was puzzled, but asked no question. Again he cried out, and Mendoza glanced at the Mayor’s house. No sign of the General. He slowed his steps, finally stopped before Negron and put down his burden.
“A drink, Senor?” he said, taking the cup from his son.
Negron made a face and shook his head. “From that filthy cup which everyone in the city has put his lips to?” The gunman spat to show his distaste.
Shrugging, Mendoza put a cigaret to his lips and, from the corner of his eye, saw the Mayor’s door swing open, the General step from the house. Immediately the gunmen came alert; one hurried toward him to escort him to the car. Mendoza crushed his empty cigaret pack and said to Julio: “Get me another pack at the corner. Run.”
The boy hesitated. A stinging slap across the face sent him off. The gunmen laughed. Bare feet padded on the walk as Julio fled. Mendoza heard them and gritted his teeth, then turned and saw the General ten feet from him, squat and ugly, his round face with its two small eyes set deep under his bulging forehead. The face was a brute’s, the small eyes belonged to a reptile.
Casually, Mendoza lit his cigaret and held the match. In the burning sun its flame was barely visible, a pale innocuous flare that fell from his fingers into one of the jars as the General stooped awkwardly to enter his car. A terrible explosion shattered the scene and rocked the area for blocks around.
Deadly silence followed the blast. Then the Cathedral bell began to toll wildly above a medley of confused cries. Mendoza, the pulque-vendor, had fulfilled his trust.
To Stop a Fire
by Elijah Ellis
Obscure transactions, even though they may effect massive changes in our lives, are rarely publicized, and for very good reason.
In a section of the state as small and out-at-the-elbow as Pokochobee County, the elected officials at the courthouse, of necessity, work closely together, especially the county attorney and the sheriff.
So I wasn’t too surprised, just irritated, when the phone rang late Friday night, waking me up. Many a time since I got the county attorney’s job last year, Ed Carson, the sheriff, had rousted me out of bed in the middle of the night, usually to take a ride out into the backwoods to view the remains left after a knife fight or shooting scrape at one of the juke-joints.
Now, muttering curses, I fumbled in the dark for the phone. I told my sleeping wife, “I’m going to have this thing disconnected.” But Martha snored on, uncaring.
Half-asleep myself, I growled into the phone, “Yar?”
“Is this Mr. Gates?” a voice asked. It was not a voice I recognized.
“Mmm,” I agreed, and yawned. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Gerald Waner. Sorry to disturb you so late, but it’s necessary.”
Waner! That woke me up in a hurry, and brought beads of sweat popping out on my face. “What can I do for you?” I responded.
“It’s more what I can do for you, Mr. Gates.” A chuckle. Then, “Be out to see you in half an hour.”
“Wait a minute—”
But the line was dead. I jiggled the hook. When the operator answered, I said, “Daisy, where’d that call I just had come from?”
“From the lobby of the La Grande Hotel.”
“Thanks.” I hung up quickly.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the warm June night and lit a cigarette. I needed it. We — the sheriff, myself, and other interested people around the courthouse — had been expecting Mr. Gerald Waner.
But we hadn’t expected him to arrive in the middle of the night. I didn’t like any part of it. There was a good chance that Waner and his associates had committed a murder a couple of days before, over at Thomasville in the adjoining county.
Gathering up my clothes, I tiptoed out of the bedroom, pulled the door shut behind me. I went along the hall. I stopped long enough to look in on my two sleeping boys. Then I went on into the kitchen. I switched on the light and got dressed. It looked like a long night ahead, and I wasn’t expecting to enjoy any of it.
After washing my face at the sink, I picked up the extension phone and called Ed Carson. When the sheriff came on I told him bluntly, “Waner’s in town. Must have got in this evening.”
Ed whistled softly. “So it’s finally our turn, huh? What’s the deal?”
“He’s supposed to come out here to my place in the next half hour or so. Listen, have you heard any more about the killing over in Thomasville?”
“Nope. Nothing new. Just Frank Davis’ body full of bullet holes. They found him lying beside the highway, like you already know. Hands tied behind his back. Real pro job.”
I laughed without humor. “Yeah. Real professional. Listen, I’ll call you back soon as I hear Waner’s pitch.”
“I’ll be waiting. Meanwhile, I’ll get things lined up — just in case.”
I agreed reluctantly. “But Jet’s hope it doesn’t become necessary.”
“You know it’s up to us,” Ed told me. “The other counties arc depending on us to show Waner and his boys a good time...”
We hung up. I lit a fresh cigarette, went through the house to the livingroom. I switched lights on in there and on the front porch. I stood by the open front windows, looking through the rusty screens at the dark night.
There was nothing to do but wait for Waner to arrive.
As I said, we’d been expecting him. Reports had drifted in down at the courthouse, during the last couple of weeks, ugly and disturbing reports.
All concerning the doings of a Mr. Gerald Waner, who was making what he called a “business trip” through the State, accompanied by a collection of prize goons.
Waner had a mouthful of glowing promises, a pocket full of hard cash and, in the goons, the threat of force. What Waner wanted was simple: he wanted to buy the political structure of the entire State — county courthouse by county courthouse. Now, as Ed Carson had said on the phone, it was Pokochobee County’s turn.