Read Online The Mexico Run by Lionel White - Free Book Online Page B

first.
        The Mexican was watching me with flat eyes, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
        "Look," I said. "I'd like to know what I am doing here? And where am I?"
        He shrugged, hunched his shoulders and lifted his hands, palms up. He shook his head.
         "No hablo ingles, senor."
        I doubted if my Spanish was any better than his English, but I gave it a try anyway. I didn't have much option.
         "Donde estoy, capitan?" I said.
        He shrugged again, nodding at the cell behind me. I guess he figured it would be useless to tell me I was in jail if I didn't have enough sense to figure it out for myself.
         "Puedo usar el telefono?"
        He shrugged again, and looked sad. Shrugging was getting to be a habit.
         "No telefono, senor," he said, almost apologetically.
        I thought I'd try him on one more. A lawyer would be better than a phone call anyway.
         "Puedo acupar un abacado, capitan?" He was no captain, of course, but I thought the title might make him feel good. It was all I had to give him.
        This time he just shook his head. He said something to the Indian in a dialect I couldn't follow. The Indian left the cell, closing the door after himself. I could hear the bar which guarded it falling back into place.
        During those brief minutes the door had been open I had looked past the desk at an open, unbarred window and noticed a stretch of bare desert. I already had guessed that I was not in jail in Tijuana. They must have taken me to some obscure spot out in the desert to bury me. I guessed maybe he was telling the truth about not having a phone.
        The tray held a large bowl of beans and chili, an unlabeled brown bottle, which to my amazement was filled with slightly warm beer, and a half-dozen paper napkins with a floral pattern. I didn't have to guess what they were intended for.
        The chili was very good, and I cleaned the bowl. Even the dried up tacos on the tray tasted all right.
        After I had eaten, I hit the enamel pail in the corner of the room. I was feeling a lot better, almost good enough to start worrying.
        I figured sooner or later someone was bound to show up. I didn't know what it was all about, and I couldn't even guess. They hadn't booked me in the jail in Tijuana, so I figured they weren't going to book me at all. And it didn't make sense just to hold me indefinitely in some obscure country jailhouse.
        The only thing I could think of was that they'd keep me a few days and then take me over to the border and dump me. They had my money, they probably had the Jag, which would be easy enough to peddle below the border. Even if I were freed, there wasn't a damn thing I would be able to do about it. They would be smart enough to know that. They probably just didn't want me to be kicking around Tijuana.
        So I waited. But by the time it began to get dark, I got tired of waiting. I started to bang on the steel door and when my bruised fist told me that whatever sounds were coming through on the other side wouldn't be loud enough to wake up the Indian, I picked up the water pail and used that. I had already used the water to wash with.
        It got action after a few minutes.
        This time the jailer was alone when he opened the door, and instead of looking sad, he looked mad. He was yawning, and I guess I had interrupted his siesta. He stepped back after kicking the door open, and he kept one hand on the gun at his right hip.
         "Un abacado," I said. "Puedo acupar un abacado? Pronto!"
        He shook his head. Next to shrugging, it was his favorite gesture.
         "Mariana," he said. "Mariana. Si?"
        He nodded his head and then slammed the door and shot the bar home.
        Darkness came, but no more tray. I guessed they served only one meal a day. I was lucky at that. Prisoners in Mexican jails must pay for their own food, and at the moment I was not