'Tom Swift and his motor boat,' said the father, 'on lake whatever the hell it was.'
John Lourdes flung away his cigarette. He got out of the truck. He turned the flashlight toward the canal. A voice in Spanish called out, 'Jefe.'
John Lourdes answered and the engine cut off as it slipped to shore.
John Lourdes approached the canal with Rawbone a few paces off his flank. From the boat one man came ashore, another remained onboard. The man introduced himself. His name was Mazariegos. He had a pointed face and whittled eyes and he spoke the king's English. John Lourdes let the beam drift over the boat long enough to recognize the man onboard as being the mayor, and that fact he whispered to Rawbone.
Mazariegos carried a lantern. Before he started discussing an arrangement he wicked up the flame and held the light aloft. From beyond the tramway bridge three horsemen came forward out of the reeds. They disappeared into the shadowline of the canal, then lifted up out of the willows on the near shore, their horses snorting and shaking off the wet. The men were rurales and heavily armed.
Mazariegos was there to oversee the discussions, but since both John Lourdes and Rawbone spoke fluent Spanish the talks became direct and unshaded. The price of the munitions had been settled by others, this was about where and when. 'Where' was determined to be the head of the laguna at the place it fed into the canal. The campesinos would bring boats, as boats would give them ample routes of escape should there be trouble.
'When' was the following night. John Lourdes was in the process of agreeing when Rawbone interceded. He wanted it to be three nights from now, as extra time was imperative to ensure a safe delivery. Both sides were adamant, so it was left to Mazariegos to bring about a compromise of two nights hence.
'THE MAYOR DEMANDS protection,' said Rawbone. 'So Doctor Stallings guarantees his security against the very people the mayor is dealing munitions to.'
They were by the truck after all had left, son and father. What one could not surmise, the other was sure of.
'Mr. Lourdes, you're either not seasoned enough or not cynical enough.'
'Given enough selfishness and disdain I'm sure I can measure up to your standard.'
'You're missing the point, Mr. Lourdes.'
'Am I?'
The father came to him. He took the son by the vest collar in a scornful but gentlemanly way. 'Mr. Mayor . . . I can solve both our problems. I want you to put out the word. I'll get you weapons. You get those campesinos to think you're quietly on their side. Put on your best political face. After you deliver them, we'll cut their fuckin' heads off. How does that sound, Mr. Lourdes?'
'It sounds ... possible.'
'If only the turkey could read a calendar, there'd be no Thanksgiving. Mr. Lourdes, you told me you heard the mayor making veiled threats out of one side of his mouth while asking for protection out of the other. He's a walking conflict of interests. I say they have the mayor in their gunsights. The practical application of strategy ... they mean to have order and they're making a case for intervention. The oil fields are too valuable to the future.'
Rawbone drove back to the Southern while John Lourdes sat beside him in silent council with his thoughts. Along the tramway, when they'd pass the occasional light from some roadside building, Rawbone would study the man who was his son. The child he'd squandered had defied the crime of chance. He had not been despoiled or destroyed by the laws of a vile gravity.
They entered the Southern lobby. It was down to the nighthawks now and the couples tucked away in quiet corners. A gentleman played piano softly in the bar. Rawbone stopped halfway through the lobby and took John Lourdes's arm so they could talk a moment.
'Walk out of here. Away from this. You've done it. All that was required and more. This is a quagmire, Mr. Lourdes. And it will never end like you think. Whatever I am, I know the world.'
Rawbone went to the bar and ordered 100 proof drinkin' whiskey. He sat alone in the moody dark. He had come to a place in his own life he could not have fathomed. A place he could neither admit nor exceed. The son would never acknowledge him and he would not break faith with that. He would prove himself, he would hold to it, not because it was right or wrong, but because John Lourdes had willed it and he would match him will to will.
As a water glass with a lethal dose of liquor was placed before him, money was thrown upon the bar. He looked to find John Lourdes easing onto the seat beside him. The father looked furrowed in a manner the son had not seen before.
