101 Mystery Stories

48 The Pulque Vendor Hal Ellson

The great bronze bell in the old Cathedral was tolling the hour. Luis Mendoza, the pulque-vendor, lifted his head, counted eleven strokes and felt the stillness move in on the deserted plaza. Tune for the deadly appointment.

He arose from the bench, half-expecting to feel the wooden yoke on his neck and the weight of the two huge jars of pulque which he carried through the streets of the city from sun-up till the hungry shadows of night struck from the desert. Across the plaza he moved, striding rapidly through the shadows cast by sour-orange trees heavy with fruit, past the fountain, then directly across the gutter toward the Municipal Building, dark and mute in its crumbling splendor. A half-dozen police motorcycles stood at the curb in front of Police Headquarters. Inside, a ragged beggar stood bare-headed at a desk, pleading with the officer on duty. Another beggar lay curled on a bench behind the wooden bars of a tiny cell, Mendoza frowned and moved on, rounding the corner into a narrow street, where the shadow s swallowed him. He emerged on a large plaza, more desolate than its counterpart, crossed it and vanished into another narrow street much like the one where he lived. Its houses were crumbling and silent, windows dark and barred, and not a single light to indicate the existence of tenants.

Halfway down the street, he stopped abruptly and glanced back. The walk was shadowed and empty. No one had tracked him, and none but the three inside the house where he stood knew of the meeting. For the moment he hesitated, wondering if he could go through with the task. The odds were against him. Others had failed dismally and lay in their graves, shot down by the General’s gunmen.

Suddenly he made up his mind and entered the house. Three men awaited him in a small patio barely lit by the pale yellow light of an oil lamp. Greetings were exchanged. Mendoza remained standing and looked from one to the other of the three men. One was old, with white hair and a pale gaunt face. The other two were younger, dark like himself, with the same soft eyes that belied the anger smoldering in them.

The old man was Don Gonzalo Aponte, professor without students, aristocrat without funds. Indirectly, General Macia had deprived him of his post at the university, relieved him of the family hacienda, a proud but crumbling ruin, and appropriated the land surrounding it. The order had been signed by the Governor, who was no more than a puppet. The intent of the General was clear, to break the spirit of Don Gonzalo Aponte.

Aponte’s spirit was far from broken, but he was old and weak. To strike back on his own was impossible. Still, there were others who hated the General. Some had been brave enough to join with Aponte, an even dozen men — and nine were already dead, slaughtered by the General’s gunmen in three bungled attempts at assassination. Bandits, the newspapers called them, preventing the truth at the request of the General.

Thinking of the dead who’d been buried in the desert where they’d been shot, Aponte nodded to Mendoza. “So you came,” he said, measuring the wiry frame of the pulque-vendor.

“I said I’d be here,” Mendoza replied with a shrug.

Aponte nodded to the young man on his right. “Your friend, Estaban, recommended you. You know the risk?”

“I know it well.”

“Nine men have already died.”

“They were unfortunate.”

“Death is always unfortunate. If you wish to withdraw...”

“I wish no such thing.”

A faint smile lit the old man’s face. “There are few, if any, who would say that, but a question. Why are you willing to risk so much?”

“Because I am poor, Señor. I have use for the money.”

“Many are poor, but...”

“Perhaps they like being miserable.”

“Then your only concern is the money?”

Mendoza frowned, then shook his head. “The General is evil, the gunmen are animals. One kills them without feeling. Especially Pancho Negron, who murdered my friend. He has to die.”

Aponte nodded and clasped his hands. A diamond ring flashed light. “You are ready?”

“Yes, Señor.”

“Then it is tomorrow. You know the Mayor’s residence?”

“I know it.”

“At noon three cars will be there, and the gunmen. The center car will be for the General. The gunmen will be guarding the street. One will escort the General from the Mayor’s residence to the car. A dozen men, all armed.” A dry hacking cough wracked the old man. With his fist against his lips, he stemmed the attack and looked at Mendoza. “A dozen men,” he repeated.

“I understand,” said Mendoza.

“You will have no help. The odds are completely against you.”

“It’s a gamble,” Mendoza conceded. “Twelve against one, but I still possess an advantage.”

Aponte failed to see it and asked to be enlightened.

“It’s very simple. I am only one man, a poor pulque-vendor,” Mendoza explained. “The gunmen will hardly expect trouble from me, and so the element of surprise will be on my side. Besides, I have a plan.”

“Which is?”

Mendoza smiled faintly. “That is something I prefer to keep to myself. If it succeeds, or doesn’t, you will know about it tomorrow.”

Aponte looked at the two younger men beside him and shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, turning back to Mendoza.

“And now about the payment?” said the pulque-vendor.

“I see you haven’t forgotten that.”

“Nor my family,” replied Mendoza. “I am doing this for them.”

Aponte nodded gravely. “Tomorrow morning at the Cantina of the Matadors you will have your money. As for your mission, I wish you the best of luck.”

“I’ll need more than that,” Mendoza shrugged. “Say a prayer for me.” With that, he turned on his heels and left.

As the door closed after him, Aponte shook his head. “A brave fellow, a fool, or...”

“Or what,” said Estaban.

“Perhaps he is one of them.”

“No, he’s all right,”

“Perhaps, but if it’s money he wants, he may go to the General. It would be worth his while to betray us.”

“I’ve vouched for him. He won’t betray us.”

Aponte nodded. “Perhaps not. Tomorrow will tell, but I wonder about his plan.”

“Whatever it is, it’s a gamble. He may kill the General, but he won’t survive the gunmen.”

“Perhaps he wishes to die.”

“No,” said Estaban. “But he’s poor, and the poor are always desperate.”

“He appeared very calm,” said Aponte, rising slowly from his chair. His thin face was gaunt with fatigue, his hands had begun to tremble. The two younger men noticed and prepared to leave. As they said good — night and moved toward the door, Aponte halted them. “About the payment,” he said to Estaban. “I suggest you leave the money with the barman, properly packaged, just in case...”

“I trust Mendoza. I will give it to him myself,” said Estaban.

It was still early, the city awake, clamorous and vibrating with life after the black stillness of sleep. As the bronze bell in the Cathedral crashed out the hour, Mendoza crossed the plaza and stopped before the huge main door with its carved figures worm-eaten and scarred by dry-rot to a point of semi-obliteration. A step brought him beyond the door into the dim interior. At first it appeared empty, but a black-shawled figure knelt on the floor; a sibilant whispering came to him, candles flickered palely on the altar. To the left a dim chapel appeared like a grotto. Entering it, he felt the chill motionless air. The flames of half a dozen candles burned like white jewels and lighted the smooth cheekbones of a dark saint of his own blood. He knelt before the statue and began to pray.

With the long morning still before him, Mendoza returned home. Suddenly he felt tired and went to bed. His eyes were barely closed when he heard a familiar sound that brought a smile to his face. His granddaughter had come in from next door. Her small bare feet padded through the house and into the patio, where she greeted and nuzzled his son’s pet lamb, which was tethered to a stake.

Back into the house she came, straight to Mendoza’s bed to demand her morning kiss, then went off and he fell asleep with a smile on his face. Soon she returned, chewing fritto and bearing a cup of steaming coffee. She shared it with him and carried away the empty cup. Again he fell asleep and awakened to the voice of his daughter calling him to the kitchen table for breakfast — tortillas, with hot sauce and coffee. When his daughter returned to her own house, he lit a cigaret and stepped into the patio. A rare cold spell a month back had killed off the tops of the avocado and orange trees. Thought of the disaster made him frown, but tender new leaves were already appearing on the lower limbs in the heat of the morning. He smiled to himself and saw in this revival the fruits of his own loins, daughter, son and granddaughter. You die, but they live on for you, he thought in joy and sadness.

A moment later his son, Julio, stepped onto the patio. His skin was dark bronze like his father’s; his black hair glistened.

“You ate?” said Mendoza.

The boy nodded.

“Good,” Mendoza went to a raffish shed in back of the patio where the lamb was tethered and lifted a wooden yoke to his shoulders. Two huge jars attached to it balanced each other. The boy brought him his sombrero.

“Let’s go,” he said and off they went, the man with his heavy burden, the bare-footed boy holding a cup before him.

The sun was well up now, the streets hot. Mendoza felt the yoke and the weight of the jars. Sweat dripped like water from his face, salt stung his eyes. He had no complaint. It was good to be alive, to hear his son’s sharp cry — “Ay, pulque! Ay, pulque!” But now it was a lament, piercing the streets, the sun and his heart — an innocent and terrible announcement of the imminence of disaster.

They rounded the plaza and moved on to the fly-ridden market with its stench, crossed a bridge to a devastated area of shacks and crumbling adobes where goats wandered in the rutted streets. At eleven they recrossed the bridge, sat on their haunches at a market stall, ate tortillas and a thin com soup, then moved off to the Cantina of the Matadors.

Here Mendoza put down the ever-growing weight of the jars and stepped through the front door beneath a sign that proclaimed this to be the “Entrance of the Bulls.” Estaban awaited him within. Over a bottle of beer the money was passed. Mendoza left through a side door, where another sign stated the legend — “Where Dead Bulls Go.” Round the corner his son awaited him. Handing him the money, which was wrapped carelessly in a soiled piece of brown paper, he said, “Whatever happens, don’t lose this. Put it inside your blouse.”

“What is it?” asked Julio.

“Never mind. It is for you, your sister and the little one.”

The boy put the money inside his blouse, and Mendoza placed the yoke on his shoulders. I may die, but they will have money, he thought, and nodded to his son.

“Ay, pulque! Ay, pulque!” cried the boy as they moved off.

It was very hot now, the streets almost deserted. At one minute of noon Mendoza and his son rounded the corner of the block where the Mayor’s residence stood. Three cars were parked in front of the house, an ornate affair of white stucco, red tile and ornamental iron. Nine of the gunmen, including Pancho Negron, stood on the sidewalk. Three sat at the wheels of the cars. No one else was about.

“Ay, pulque!” Julio cried out, and suddenly Mendoza felt the yoke on his neck, the weight of the jars. One for pulque, and one for death, he thought, and the boy called out again.

A short man with broad shoulders and a pockmarked face, Pancho Negron’s alert eyes riveted on Mendoza and his son. The others stood at ease, for the pulque-vendor and boy posed no threat.

“Listen to me,” Mendoza whispered to Julio. “When I tell you to run, make certain to run as fast as you can.”

The boy was puzzled, but asked no question. Again he cried out, and Mendoza glanced at the Mayor’s house. No sign of the General. He slowed his steps, finally stopped before Negron and put down his burden.

“A drink, Señor?” he said, taking the cup from his son.

Negron made a face and shook his head. “From that filthy cup which everyone in the city has put his lips to?” The gunman spat to show his distaste.

Shrugging, Mendoza put a cigaret to his lips and, from the corner of his eye, saw the Mayor’s door swing open, the General step from the house. Immediately the gunmen came alert; one hurried toward him to escort him to the car. Mendoza crushed his empty cigaret pack and said to Julio: “Get me another pack at the corner. Run.”

The boy hesitated. A stinging slap across the face sent him off. The gunmen laughed. Bare feet padded on the walk as Julio fled. Mendoza heard them and gritted his teeth, then turned and saw the General ten feet from him, squat and ugly, his round face with its two small eyes set deep under his bulging forehead. The face was a brute’s, the small eyes belonged to a reptile.

Casually, Mendoza lit his cigaret and held the match. In the burning sun its flame was barely visible, a pale innocuous flare that fell from his fingers into one of the jars as the General stooped awkwardly to enter his car. A terrible explosion shattered the scene and rocked the area for blocks around.

Deadly silence followed the blast. Then the Cathedral bell began to toll wildly above a medley of confused cries. Mendoza, the pulque — vendor, had fulfilled his trust.