Dillinger

Dillinger took out his wallet and extracted a five dollar bill. ‘Watch it real good.’

The man examined the bill, his face lit up as if he’d just won a jackpot. ‘Thank you,’ he said, stretching the ‘you’ out.

Dillinger picked up his suitcase again when he heard the man say, ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere, mister? You been in Laredo?’

‘No.’

‘San Antone?’

‘No,’ Dillinger said, and headed up the steps to the hotel entrance.

‘Hey, I know who you look like,’ the old man said. ‘You look like John Dillinger.’

Dillinger looked around to see if anyone was standing within earshot. The only person close enough to have heard was a fat Mexican woman carrying a basket on her head. No chance she’d know the name even if she’d heard.

‘I seen your picture,’ the man said. ‘You’re him, ain’t you?’

Dillinger turned slowly and moved back to face him. ‘You’re mistaken, friend. The name’s Jordan – Harry Jordan.’ He parted his jacket slightly so the old man could see the butt of the Colt pistol holstered under his left arm. ‘You should be more careful, old timer. Americans should stick together in a place like this.’

The old man said, ‘I guess I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’

‘Make them myself every day,’ Dillinger said and went into the hotel.

On the balcony above the hotel entrance, sitting well back out of the sun, the man who’d rented the best room in the hotel had listened to the exchange with interest. Although he hadn’t heard the actual words, the new gringo spoke with an authority he liked. He picked up his Malacca cane, and straightening his wide-brimmed hat, he headed down to the lobby, walking with the confident gait of a man who knew what he wanted.

Dillinger, waiting at the desk for his key, saw him coming in the mirror. He was tall, with good shoulders, his temples brushed with grey, and the broken nose looked out of place in the aquiline face. There was an elegance about him, a touch of the hidalgo in the way he carried himself. He was a breed the revolution had almost destroyed. The proud ones who never gave in. Who had to be broken.

He removed the long cigarillo from his mouth. ‘Senor Jordan?’ he inquired in careful, clipped English.

Dillinger froze. How did the man know the name on his passport? No point in denying it. The hotel clerk knew. The old man in front knew. ‘Yes,’ was all Dillinger said.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. Don Jose Manuel de Rivera.’

Dillinger could tell from the way the hotel clerk nodded to the man that he was a wheel.

‘My business can be stated quite briefly, senor,’ Rivera said. ‘Perhaps I could accompany you to your room? We could talk as you unpack.’

‘We can talk right here in the lobby,’ Dillinger said, gesturing to a glass-topped wicker table with two chairs beside it.

‘As you wish,’ the man called Rivera said.

Just then they both heard the commotion outside, and a cracked voice yelling, ‘Scram! Vamoose! Get the hell out of here!’

‘Excuse me,’ Dillinger said, and walked quickly to the front entrance, where, as he suspected, the old man was trying to chase away three shirtless teenage Mexican boys, one of whom had already opened the near door of the convertible and was peering into the glove compartment.

With quick strides Dillinger was at the car and grabbed the kid by his hair and yanked him out of the car, then twisted the kid’s arm behind his back, paying no attention to the stream of Spanish invective. Calmly, Dillinger looked at the other two boys, who were stand-ing on the running board on the other side. Whatever they saw in his eyes, plus the yelping of their friend, sent them dashing down the street.

The old American came around so he could yell at the captive’s face. ‘Ladron! Ladron!’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Dillinger asked.

‘Thief.’

‘Tell him I’m going to break his arm so he won’t steal any more.’

The old man translated it into rough Spanish. The kid looked frightened.

Then, with one motion, Dillinger flung the kid to the ground, giving him a chance to scamper away.

Dillinger laughed, and only then did he notice that the whole scene had been observed by Senor Rivera from the doorway.

‘Bravo, Senor Jordan,’ Rivera said.

‘I apologize for the intermission,’ Dillinger said, ‘but I really like that car the way it is.’

‘Understandable.’

The old man, his face a mask of disgrace, was holding out the five dollar bill Dillinger had given him. ‘I guess you want this back. I didn’t do too good watching your car for you.’

‘You did fine. If you hadn’t yelled, I wouldn’t have come out. Just what I wanted.’ He reached under the front seat of the car and pulled out a big flannel rag. ‘Here. Why don’t you clean the dust off the car while I talk to this gentleman. If you’re dusting it, I don’t think anybody else will bother it.’

‘Absolutely, Mr Jordan,’ the old man said, taking the rag and hastily pocketing the five-dollar bill again.

Rivera said, ‘Perhaps now we can talk in your room where it will be quieter, senor?’

Dillinger hesitated and then shrugged. ‘Why not?’

He collected his suitcase from the front desk and led the way up the broad wooden stairs to the first floor and unlocked the door at the end of the corridor. The room was like an oven. The fan in the ceiling was not moving.

Dillinger yanked the pull chain; nothing happened. He flicked both switches on the wall. One turned on the light. The other did nothing.

‘Mexico is not like the United States,’ Rivera said. Dillinger moved to open the French windows and nodded towards a table on which stood a pitcher of iced water and several glasses.

‘Help yourself. If you don’t mind, I’ll have a wash.’

When Dillinger took his jacket off, Rivera noticed the underarm holster and gun with interest. No wonder the man could act with such authority. So much the better!

Dillinger put the holster down within easy reach. This Rivera looked rich. Dillinger trusted rich people less than poor people.

He stripped to the waist, poured lukewarm water from a pitcher into the basin on the washstand in one corner and sluiced his head and shoulders.

Rivera said, ‘If you have not been to Mexico before, I recommend you order bottled water, Senor. American stomachs do not like our water.’

Dillinger nodded his thanks. Rivera sat down in a wicker chair by the table and Dillinger walked to the window, towelling his damp hair. A steam whistle blasted once, the sound echoing back from the mountains across the flat roofs, and a wisp of smoke drifted lazily into the sky from the station.

Rivera put down his glass and said, ‘I’d like to offer you a job, Senor Jordan.’

‘What kind of a job?’ Dillinger was amused. This guy certainly didn’t know who he was.