The father glanced across the cab at the son, who was behind the wheel hunting for the Agua Negra offices. 'Mr. Lourdes, the American and Brit companies have a billion dollars in this. They know what packets of money and a sense of purpose can do.' He threw out his arm to take in all that they could see. 'By their standards ... I am just a common assassin.'
They drove through the railyards. Hundreds of workers were being unloaded from freight cars and herded into lots like cattle or goats. El Enganche-the Hooking-was what the process was called. Peasants from farms and villages in the hills were recruited at bazaars and carnivals by wily agents known as enganchadors who promised transportation, free room and board and three to four pesos a day if the peasant contracted to work for a period of time. Of course, when they reached Tampico, they would be told by the companies that the contract was not to be honored and that pay amounted to one peso a day. More than they might ever make in some rural pisshole, but the cost of living in Tampico turned them into hard-working indigents.
The father tapped the dashboard with his knuckles to draw John Lourdes's attention to an array of wall graffiti defiling the Yankee and the Brit. It was not the first run of epithets seen chalked on a wall about the state of mind the people had toward the brutal realities in Tampico.
'The women up top,' said the father, 'are heading for the same fate as those bummers on the train.'
John Lourdes knew this, though it was the first he'd ever actually contended with that fact. It was not something he should involve himself in, yet he stopped the truck and got out. He then began to explain to the women what their future held.
It was not news, he discovered. A girl not much older than Teresa summed up their response by holding out and opening a small but empty purse.
When John Lourdes started the truck back up the father asked, 'Mr. Lourdes, would you say I'm an intelligent man?'
'Sadly ... I would.'
'You should have left the truck in the desert. You should have left the women at the train. You should not have done what you just did. You are driving straight toward ruin.'
THIRTY
HE AGUA NEGRA offices were on the Fiscal Wharf. A dredger was docked beside a pile hammer punching at the river bottom. The wharf was crowded with traffic for the tankers. Jack B was out in front of the rolling doors of a two-story shed having a smoke when he spotted this flock of women riding atop a truck. He was a figure of astonishment when John Lourdes pulled up in front of him.
Rawbone tipped his hat. 'Not even a hello?' He stepped out of the cab. 'Would you be so kind as to tell the good doctor we've brought the truck.'
Jack B disappeared inside the shed without so much as a word.
'There goes a starved mind,' said the father.
John Lourdes now stepped out of the truck and the women climbed down from the back. It wasn't long before Doctor Stallings walked into the daylight followed by a handful of officers and guards. As Rawbone expected, Stallings was not felled with astonishment but rather maintained the deadpan mask that was his trademark.
He looked to John Lourdes. 'Your note ... it may well have made the difference for us.'
Doctor Stallings ordered Jack B to get the women organized. He then asked John Lourdes how they managed the Sierras. He walked around the truck while John Lourdes explained. The father watched Doctor Stallings intently. When finished, as an afterthought, John Lourdes said, 'We lost a few crates before we had the cars braked.'
The doctor listened silently. He told Jack B to get the women to the field cafeteria. 'Except this one and this one.' He singled out Alicia and the girl Teresa.
He then ordered both men into the truck and joined them. As John Lourdes slipped behind the wheel, Teresa signaled him as if to say goodbye. Doctor Stallings directed them to drive up along the Panuco. He sat with arms folded and offered no conversation until he began to point out the tank farms that lined the river. The Aquilla ... National Petroleum ... Waters-Price ... Standard Oil ... East Coast Gulf ... The Gulf Coast ... The Huasteca ... and those were only the northern fields.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'this has become its own nation.'
Amidst an array of boiler stacks and paraffin plants and refineries was a garrison of long, low huts and a corrugated warehouse. A sign posted above the gate read:
AGUA NEGRA
