Montezuma’s Revenge

Tony slid in through the open door and lay flat, knees tucked, up, an empty package of Alas cigarettes under his head. The cab lurched into motion and ground its way toward the gate, speeding up—then instantly slowing almost to a stop while Tony’s heart behaved in an identical manner.

“Your fly-infested burro is a blight to the eyes and a hazard upon the road,” the cab driver called out cheerily toward an uns party.

“Keep this moving,” an ofEcial voice said just outside the window, almost stopping Tony’s heart completely. Then the cab moved on.

Done. He lay on the floor a bit longer until the weakness had drained away, then crawled up onto the seat.

“Simple enough,” the driver said, dodging around a wooden oxcart that rode upon automobile wheels and tires, narrowly missing explosive destruction against the grill of a truck coming in the opposite direction, both drivers blowing their horns steadily in chivalristic challenge. “Is there a particular address you wish to go to?”

“There is, but I prefer to get out in the town square.”

“A wise man needs no instructors!”

The driver lifted both hands skyward in a gesture of appreciation irregardless of the fact that the cab then proceeded to slew across the road in the direction of an irrigation ditch, regaining control only at the last instant. In this heartily enthusiastic manner they proceeded to Cuernavaca where Tony paid and tipped again, then sought the solace of the nearest bar for a large brandy. There were some hours yet before he had to be in Cuautla, which necessitated passing the entrance to Cocoyoc again, so prudence dictated that he remain here as long as possible. It was not hard to do. The bartender produced a gratuitous plate of cacahuates picantes, peanuts rolled in red pepper, which did fine things for his thirst necessitating beer as well as brandy to slake the fires below. As the sun crept down toward the mountainous horizon his spirits rose in counterpoint until, when he went to find the Cuautla bus, he was feeling no pain at all. The trip was an easy one, and even had one moment of bittersweet pleasure when they stopped at Cocoyoc and he peeked out at the stir and bustle of police cars from behind the security of Terras Guide to Mexico. Lieutenant Gonzales must be very annoyed.

Cuautla was bursting with people as the siesta ended and the sleepers emerged for the joys of evening. Without much difficulty he located the drugstore of the two volcanoes, early as it proved, leaving more than enough time for another brandy. At six precisely he walked through the wide-open front of the store and addressed himself to the gray-haired woman with the purple birthmark who sat behind the cash register.

“Enterovioform, if you please.”

She coughed moistly in response, took the slim white package from the shelf behind her without rising, then wrapped it in a square of brown paper. “Six pesos, fifty.”

He fumbled for his money, not realizing beforehand that a 1 mate purchase would be involved, paid and left with his regulatory prize. Farther down the street he found a doorway in which he could unwrap the box, nor was he very surprised to find within the paper.

WALK NORTH ON AVENUE FIFTH OF MAY

Since he was already on that street, proceeding in the indicated direction, he continued on his way, pills in pocket, bag in hand, book clamped under arm, feeling that unseen eyes were following his every motion. As indeed they were. Two blocks farther on he crossed a street, sealed off for vehicular traffic by an excava and stacked pipes, where a firm hand seized his arm and an e firmer voice grated in his ear.

“Into that car, schnell!”

As they jumped in, the black Packard pulled out, even before the doors were closed. A neat ploy, anyone following on foot would be left behind, while there was no way for a pursuing car to follow at all. Tony glanced sideway at a familiar bulldog jaw, scarred cheeks, shaven head.

“Is the painting in there?” Robl asked, jerking a thick thumb at the airline bag.

“No. Inside this book. You want to see it?”

His only reply was a negative grunt as the car squealed around a corner and out of the back streets, sped down the highway and across a bridge spanning wide sandy flats cut by a small stream in the middle, then rushed through the outskirts of town. It v faster now through the cornfields, then spun left at a fork where a sign indicated the road to Agua Hedionda. Stinking water? Tony remembered, sulphur baths here, favored spot of the Aztecs, Spanish spa, still valued by the tourists, great curative powers theoretically lurking in their sulphurous depths.

“Nummer?” the driver asked, turning his head to throw the word over his shoulder, as solid-necked and shaved-headed as Robl; only his scars were in different places.

“Dm?’