Meyer arrived at one-thirty with the three crumpets, complete with swim togs. While they changed in our cottage, he explained to me that a crumpet was a cheeklet with a warm muffiny heart, whereas a cheeklet was a crumpet with a talent for creating special problems. I told him that was worth knowing, certainly. He told me his tree was fine, and he had driven with raceway verve, and he could understand why the Mixtecs took Mitla away from the Zapotecs. He said that he had checked with the girl at the hotel, and that the redhead had picked up the two tickets and had made the flight.
We lolled the long afternoon, with sunshine, hamburgers, beers, and pleasant, sidelong, inconspicuous admiration of the tender textures of the maidens of Guadalajara. Enelio arrived at rum-time, full of such fury at the arrogance and ignorance of visiting engineers that he had to swim a dozen thrashing laps before he could get the scowl off his forehead. Before he left, taking Lita with him, he brought a map from his car to the lighted cottage and spread it out and showed me, by drawing a pencil line, the road which the Chevy truck had probably been on when Laura Knighton had seen it.
On Tuesday morning at a little before eleven, Meyer and I were standing out in front of the lobby entrance to the Victoria when Enelio, in a yellow jeep, came roaring in low gear up the steep hotel driveway. It was the earliest he could get away from the agency. Enelio looked very elegant and dashing in his white-hunter hat. He came to a flashing grinning stop within a few feet of us. The jeep had those special fat low-pressure tires useful for traversing open country full of stone and sand.
As we clambered in, two little Mexican boys who had been vigorously rubbing a tourist sedan with greasy rags came trotting over to examine the vehicle with their quick, bright obsidian eyes. They looked at the gas can racks and the power takeoff winch and the big spotlight.
One asked the other one a question, and got the authoritative answer, in the slightly contemptuous tone of all authority, “Es un heep especial, seguro.” Enelio spun it in a tight turn and went charging down the hill. He stopped at the bottom to wait for truck traffic on the highway. The word had been echoing in my head.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Please wait right here a minute.”
Enelio turned and looked back at me. “Forget something?”
“Remember something. Any ‘j’ is pronounced like an ‘h.’ Jalisco. Jugar. And so, by God, we are riding in a heep.”
“Very fonny joke. But very old,” Enelio said.
“I know what he’s getting at,” Meyer said. “That kid at Mitla. You couldn’t understand that thing he was saying.”
“Heap-di-row. Jeep de rojo. Jeep de color rojo.”
“Yes indeed,” said Enelio. “A red jeep. And this is a yellow one. Is the game over?”
Meyer had hitched almost all the way around so as to look directly at me. “A painter and a sculptor. Why not? What’s Mike’s last name? Barrington?”
“And Della Davis.”
“Too much sun at this altitude,” Enelio said, “and the brain gets cooked and people don’t make sense.”
“Enelio, what’s the name of the road toward the airport?”
“The Coyotepec Road.”
“And about a mile out, is there some kind of a tourist place that burned?”
“I know the place. It burned a long time ago.”
“Can we go out there?” I asked. “I want to check something out.”
I leaned forward and hollered the explanations over the wind roar and tire whine as Enelio pushed the jeep hard.
The place had been surrounded by a thick high adobe wall, enclosing about an acre of land. There were shade trees inside and outside the wall, but the land around it was bare and flat, and planted with parched and scraggly corn. Over the wall, which began back about a hundred yards from the highway, I could see the broken and sooty stone walls of the structure, open to the sky, with an angle of charred, leaning beam that had rank green vines clinging to it. The old red jeep was parked close to the wall over at the left, under the shade trees. Several little groups of people sat and squatted in the shade, at respectful distances, looking toward the wall. Two police cars were parked with their noses toward the red jeep, and at an angle to each other, as though snuffing it.
“Something bad is going on here,” Enelio said. “Those are people who have stopped working the fields to come and wait and watch. They don’t do that for a small thing. Something very bad, I think.”
Both doors of the entrance gate in the side wall stood open. A very shiny black Mercedes sedan was parked inside the compound. An adobe cottage was built into the corner of the compound, so that the encircling wall formed two walls of the cottage. Two wooden sheds had been attached to it, one on either side, braced against the wall.
A big young man sat in the sunlight on a scarred wooden bench. He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, shoulders thrust high. He wore dirty gray denim work pants and a clean white shirt. He was barefoot. The fringe of a huge glossy black beard curled inward around the edges of the hands he held against his face. A bald man in a black suit was standing in front of him. Three uniformed policemen stood off to one side.
Our acquaintance, Sergeant Martinez, in civilian clothes, stood a couple of paces behind the bald man.
All except the man on the bench looked toward us as we came through the open gate. I saw a startled look cross the sergeant’s face, immediately replaced by that cop look I had seen before, but this time considerably reinforced by this new coincidence.
The bald man said, “Enelio! Using you for speaking here, maybe?”
He came several steps to meet us. Enelio introduced us to Doctor Francisco Martel and then the doctor launched into such rapid Spanish I gave up trying to catch the meaning of any part of it. He did much gesturing and pointing, and spoke with dramatic emphasis. The sergeant joined them and there was discussion for a time, then Enelio came and told us what had happened.
An hour ago a man had run out and waved a city-bound bus down and told the driver people were dying behind the wall. The driver stopped at the first telephone and reported it. The police sedan had arrived just before the ambulance. The young black girl was just inside the gate, sprawled in the dust, killed with a single blow that had apparently come from behind, and had so ruined her skull that brain tissue had made a spatter pattern in the dust. The big blond bearded American youth had been over beyond the shed, the whole upper left side of his forehead smashed inward. There was a heartbeat but it had stopped before they could load him into the ambulance. Near him lay the Mexican woman, dead of a similar single stupendous blow over the left ear, eyes bulged and staring by the force of the hydraulic pressure created within the brain case. And the black-bearded one was sitting on the ground with her head in his lap, weeping. He claimed he had arrived minutes before the police, and found them like that.
“Have they identified him?”
The sergeant brought the tourist card over. It was sweat-stained and dog-eared. The ink on the signature had run. He was Jerome Nesta. Enelio said, “Martinez knows he’s guilty of being in Mexico illegally. The card has run out. Guilty of one thing, guilty of everything. That’s how the official mind works, eh? So I have the permission to ask some questions. Come listen. Maybe you two think of some, help me out a little.”