Bat said impatiently, “Why pick on New Woodstock? I’ve never heard of anything like this before. You haven’t attempted to turn back other towns.”
The older man’s voice said, “Quite deliberately, Mr. Hardin. Obviously, what we do is illegal by Mexican law. However, we are dedicated and determined men. You will be an example. The fact that you are a mobile art colony, with all the connotations that brings to the average person’s mind, will make the example stronger. Were we to attempt to stop a city or town composed almost entirely of elderly retirees, it would be more difficult for us to gain sympathy both in your own country and ours. But an art colony has a connotation of Bohemian life, immoral artists, wild parties, much drinking of alcohol and smoking of marijuana.”
Bat said bitterly, “You’d be surprised how hard working and staid most real artists are.”
“That is beside the point. It will be what people think, not the reality. Those that support us will draw a vivid picture of the depravity of New Woodstock, Mr. Hardin, and how God-fearing, country-loving Mexicans turned you back in indignation.”
“And if we don’t turn back?”
“We are dedicated and determined men, Mr. Hardin.”
“I suspect you’re just a handful of malcontents. The majority of Mexicans don’t support your views.”
“It hasn’t been put to a vote, gringo,” his original captor said. “However, there’s more of us than you would think. All right, the ultimatum has been served. What is your answer?”
“It isn’t up to me,” Bat said flatly. “New Woodstock is operated democratically. It’ll have to be brought before the executive committee.”
“Very well,” the old man said. “Jose, return him to his car.”
José, evidently the original captor, spoke rapidly in Spanish for a moment, then took Bat by the arm. “Let’s go, gringo,” he said.
Bat came to his feet and suffered the other to lead him back the way they had come earlier. They retraced the route in the same elderly steamer and the blindfold was not removed until they reached the spot where Bat’s car had been left. They kept him carefully covered.
José looked into the interior of the car thoughtfully. He reached out with the barrel of the revolver he carried#longdash#it was an old-style, possibly World War Two vintage, six-shooter#longdash#and smashed the screen of the vehicle’s phone.
“Hey, that was a dirty trick,” Bat protested.
José said apologetically, “Sorry. We’d rather you not be able to communicate with the police immediately.”
“I’ll do just that when I get back to Linares.”
“That will give us time enough.”
“How about my gun?”
“I’ll keep your gun, Senor Hardin. “I’d hate to have you using it on me, later.”
“I told you our guns were not to be used against the citizens of this country.”
The other’s voice was dry. “That remains to be seen, gringo.”
Bat climbed into the car, started it up and made a wide turn, heading back for the site where New Woodstock had settled for the previous night.
He swore under his breath. He supposed he could have asked the Mexican to return his pocket TV phone but on the face of it the other wouldn’t have for the same reason he had broken the electro-steamer’s phone. It was going to be a hassle to get another pocket phone here in Mexico. He’d probably have to wait until he got to Mexico City and the American Consulate. These days, the unique device combined not only a portable TV phone, but your identity number which embraced your credit card, your voter’s registration, your military number, what amounted to your post office box, your income tax registration, and everything else in the way of identity, including passport.
Well, it couldn’t be helped.
New Woodstock was beginning to get itself together preparatory to leaving, when Bat arrived. However, it would undoubtedly take a couple of hours or so more before it was really ready to roll. Instead of going to see Dean Armanruder immediately, he returned to his home with a cup of coffee in mind. He wanted to think about it a little before confronting the executive committee’s questions. Obviously, they would depend largely on his opinions and Bat Hardin wasn’t quite sure what they were.
He entered his mobile home and stared at the table. His pocket phone cum credit card was on it.
He took it up, still gaping disbelief. So far as he could see, there was nothing wrong with it. He said into it, “New Woodstock, Al Castro.”
Al Castro yawned at him but on this occasion it was not simply a mannerism. He was still in bed. “Hi, Bat. What’s up?”
“Sorry,” Bat said. “I was just testing my phone. Forgot you’d be sleeping.”
“My pal,” Al yawned, fading off.
Bat left his home and looked up and down. Sam Prager’s mobile home and electronic repair shop was parked next to him on one side but nobody seemed to be about his place. Probably still in bed. The Pragers were inclined to read late into the night and arise at a late hour.
Ferd Zogbaum’s camper was on the other side but there was no sign of Ferd. Bat strode over in that direction and ran into his comrade on the far side of the camper. He was evidently deep in a heated discussion with Jeff Smith, a discussion that was already just short of physical violence by the looks of it. Not that Bat had any illusions about the possible outcome. Ferd had size on the feisty southerner, and, besides that, Bat hadn’t missed the professional pugilist shuffle the other had gone into the night before.
Smith was saying, his voice shaking with rage, “All right, I’ve told you, Zogbaum, stay away from her.”
Ferd said, only slightly less violently, “And I tell you, Smith, that all this is up to Diana. To her and to me. She’ll associate with whoever the hell she wants to associate with. You’re not her husband.”
“All right,” Smith snapped. “You asked for it!” He began to fall into a fighter’s stance. At least, Bat decided, the little man had guts.
Bat began, “Okay, okay, you two. Break it up, you’re not a couple of kids.”
Jeff turned on him, glowering. “Shut up, nigger.”
IX
Bat stared at Jeff Smith for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.
“Ill be damned,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that word. I thought it was out of date. You must be the last of the old-time Southerners. As a matter of fact, my maternal grandmother was a Black, but I doubt if even she was full-blooded. In this day and age there are precious few full-blooded Blacks in the United States except for that small number of recent immigrants from Africa.”
“Any nigger blood at all makes you a nigger, nigger.”
Bat grinned at him. “So I understand was the law in some of the southern states in the old days. Your name is Smith, eh? Probably British descent. Did it ever occur to you, Smith, that the Romans never drew the color line? Some of the emperors, even, were Africans.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Smith snapped.
“The Romans never drew the color line and they occupied England for half a millennium. How can you be sure that you are as lily-white a Caucasian as all that? Are you sure none of your ancestors didn’t marry one of those Romans who’d been touched with the tar brush?” Bat laughed his contempt.
“Why, you black bastard.”
Ferd Zogbaum, as disgusted as his friend was, growled, “As far as that goes, Bat’s complexion isn’t much darker than your own.”
“Keep out of it, Zogbaum,” Smith snapped. It was hard to tell, at this point, who his primary antagonist was.
Bat said, conversationally, “For that matter, I wonder just what percentage of your Southerners have African blood in them. For two centuries and more you had your black slaves. For all that time, your men forced themselves on the more attractive girls. What was the old saying among your young fellows? You’re not a man until you’ve had a nigger? And don’t forget the old custom in towns like New Orleans where young aristocrats set up apartments in the French Quarter for their quadroon or octaroon mistresses. You know what the children of an octaroon look like, Smith? They look white and they move to another town and pass as white. Did you labor under the illusion that the famed Creole beauties of Louisiana were solely of French descent?”