“Damn!” he said under his breath and stepped through the batwings of El Perro Negro. Pausing just inside, he let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He could make out a bar on the right, and he crossed the room toward it, stumbling over a chair, but managing to catch it before it hit the floor. Reaching the bar, he sat down near a large man in uniform.
A fat man with a towel tied around his waist was behind the bar, and Mike addressed him. “¿Habla usted inglés, señor?”
The bartender nodded and pulled at his walrus mustache.
“You are Juan?” Mike asked.
“I am Juan,” the bartender answered.
“There’s a station wagon out front that needs gas, and I need some coins for the meter.”
“Did you hear, Carlos?” Juan said to the man in uniform. “It is Pepe!”
Carlos. That would be the official who wouldn’t give the old man a license.
Carlos shrugged his massive shoulders. “Si,” he said, “it is Pepe.”
The bartender took a bottle of tequila from behind the bar and was almost to the door when Carlos’ voice stopped him. “You should not, my friend Juan,” he said. “You should not give Pepe gasoline. He is no station wagon.”
Juan turned without speaking and stepped through the batwings into the glare of the street.
Carlos sighed heavily and looked at the tequila bottle in front of him. With his heavy right arm he swept a saltcellar and a small bowl of cut limes into position beside the bottle.
“What’s wrong with the old man?” Mike asked.
Carlos licked the top of his left hand below the first joint of the thumb and poured salt on it. “Old Pepe?” he said. “Five years ago he was hit by a station wagon in Monterrey. Now he is a station wagon.”
“And everyone believes him?”
“Si. They say he has been touched by the hand of God.”
“And you? Do you believe he is a station wagon?”
Carlos licked the salt, drank from the bottle of tequila, bit and sucked the lime. “Me? I believe that he was hit by a station wagon. It is wrong to let him believe he is a vehicle. It does him no good. But the people will not understand. It is different in your country. But here the people believe in such things.”
“How does he live? Who takes care of him?”
“The people. Juan gives him tequila. Others, food and clothing. I tear up his traffic tickets. He has a shack. He calls it a garage. He is happy, but he could be happy without being a station wagon.”
Coughing and sputtering sounds issued from the street outside, then gave way to loud honks and beeps that faded off down the street.
“He is disturbing the siesta again,” Carlos said, shaking his head as Juan returned to the cantina. “I told you to keep him quiet on the street. Now I will have to give him another ticket for honking his horn. It is a terrible horn. It is the loudest horn in all Mexico.”
“Pepe means no harm,” Juan said, “and the people do not care.”
He raised his hand and pulled at his mustache. As he did, a piece of cardboard approximately five inches deep and a foot wide slipped from beneath his “apron” and fell to the floor. The cardboard had numbers and letters penciled heavily across its face. Juan picked it up hurriedly.
“What is that, my friend?” Carlos asked.
Juan looked away. “The license for Pepe,” he said.
Carlos jumped to his feet. “You have no right to give it to him!” he shouted. “It is no license! It is wrong to give it to him!”
“It’s only cardboard,” Mike said. “What’s the harm if it makes the old man happy?”
“It is wrong!” Carlos shouted. “It is not official!”
“Si. It is not official,” Juan said. “Pepe, too, said it is not official. He would not take it. Only Carlos can make it official. It is a paper license. It cost nothing. But it could make Pepe happy if you gave it to him. Only you can make Pepe official. Carlos, you must! Please, I beg of you.”
Carlos made no reply, and Juan pulled with both hands at his mustache. The two men glared at each other.
“Look,” Mike said, and ran his fingers through his hair, “how about me buying the two of you a drink? I could use a cold beer.”
Juan quit pulling at his mustache and leaned his hands on the bar. “We have beer,” he said, “but it is not cold.”
“Not cold?”
“There is no ice. We have no electricity in Rio Escondido.”
“No electricity? But— You can’t be serious! You don’t have electricity, you don’t have pavement, but you do have parking meters, don’t you?”
“Si.”
“For cat’s sake, why?”
“We are a poor village,” Juan said. “We cannot afford these things. Our government told us that electricity is too expensive; they could not give it to us. They told us they would sell us the meters to make the money to pay for the electricity.”
“But where are the cars?”
Carlos threw up his hands. “We have three — all government vehicles. And they do not pay.”
Mike whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said. “You’ve been taken — and by some A-one con men. Which reminds me, I need some coins for the meter.”
“No, my friend,” Carlos said, “the meters are forever free to the first to use them. We have waited seven weeks. You are the first.”
“We told the government there were no vehicles,” Juan said, “but they told us if we had meters we would have many touristas. You are the first. The others will soon follow.”
“But this place is nothing! Nowhere! You won’t get any tourists here.”
Juan shrugged. “The government told us.”
Carlos pounded the bar. “Si, the government told you, but the government was wrong. You would not listen to me. You never listen! I, Carlos Rodriguez, told you that it was not so. But you would not listen.”
Coughing and sputtering noises could be heard approaching along the street outside. In front of El Perro Negro they stopped and gave way to loud honks and beeps.
“Pepe needs more gasoline,” Juan said. He reached for the tequila, but Carlos took it from him.
“No,” Carlos said, “Pepe is no station wagon — he is a man. He does not need gasoline — he needs tequila. I will take it to him.”
At the batwings Carlos stopped and turned to Juan. “You are all Pepes in this town. You are children. Foolish children. You believe when Pepe tells you he is a station wagon. And Pepe is no station wagon. You believe when the government tells you there will be rich touristas, that there will be much money if you have parking meters. And there are no touristas. There is no money. Si. You are all Pepes. You have spent your pesetas, and for nothing!”
Carlos strode through the batwings and Mike turned to Juan.
“What’s his story?” Mike asked.
“He is the village conscience.”
“Why isn’t he like the rest?”
“A woman.”
“It figures.”
“He no longer believes. He would not hurt Pepe. But he cannot believe. He is a good man. His heart tells him that Pepe should have the license, but not his head. So he cannot give it to him.”
A stream of high, staccato Spanish exploded like a string of firecrackers outside. Mike could understand none of it — it was hardly high-school Spanish, but it was obvious that Carlos was very angry. It was impossible to hear Pepe’s calm replies.
Then all was quiet — a quiet broken at last by Pepe starting his engine and chugging and sputtering down the street.
Moments later a dirty, half-naked boy entered carrying the tequila.