The Raiders

1

BAT? WHY BAT? BECAUSE YOU'VE USED THE NAME Batista?"

Jonas and Bat were together in Bat's Porsche 356. Bat had told him that moving into a hotel floor in Acapulco was foolish, that he could live in a comfortable house in a good neighborhood here in Mexico City, for a fifth of the cost. Besides, privacy and security and communications would be easier from the city than from Acapulco.

Jonas had accepted the idea. It seemed to him that his chances of establishing a good relationship with his newfound son would be improved if he accepted the boy's suggestion about something important.

Using his contacts in the local real estate industry, Bat had found a place he thought suitable. He was driving Jonas out to have a look at it.

"I didn't make a choice of names," said Bat. "Here in Mexico I am thought of as Cord. In the States, where they don't understand the Spanish tradition of using both parents' names, I am thought of as Batista because it's the last name in the string."

Jonas sat as far as he could to the right in the somewhat cramped little car, so he could study this son of his. He found the boy bland. No, that was not right. He found him enigmatic. His life seemed to have left no mark whatever on him, and he stared at the road and the traffic ahead of them with the innocence of a young man who'd had no experiences in this world at all. Jonas looked for the mark of a soldier who had been grievously wounded, and he didn't see it. He looked for the curiosity, or maybe the resentment, an illegitimate son might feel toward the father who had abandoned his mother — and he didn't see that, either.

"You understand, I didn't know your mother was pregnant."

Bat glanced at him. "Would it have made any difference?" he asked.

"Yes — Yes, goddammit, it would have. It sure as hell would have made a difference."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Bat dryly. Neither the hard raised voice or the "goddammit" had penetrated his calm. He whipped the little car in and out in the heavy traffic.

Jonas changed the subject. "You know why I'm in Mexico, of course."

"Yes. I read the newspapers."

"I'm not a fugitive from justice," said Jonas.

"Maybe from injustice," said Bat.

"It's political."

"That's how I read it," said Bat.

Jonas nodded. "You understand about it, then?"

"I'm sure I don't have all the information. From what I know —"

"I'm probably pretty much what my reputation says I am," Jonas interrupted. "But I'm not a goddamn crook. I really am not."

"You don't have to convince me," said Bat dryly.

For a minute or so Jonas stared at the road. Then he said, "I treated your mother ill. I'm glad to see she's happy. She would not have been with me. You know? You know enough about me to understand that. Don't you?"

"Don't try to justify yourself," said Bat without taking his eyes off the traffic. "You don't need to. And if you did need to, you couldn't. She made up her mind about you a long time ago. Even now, you contacted her only because you think she might have some influence you can use, with her uncle."

"You've got your mind pretty well made up," said Jonas. "I couldn't justify myself with you, either. The fact I didn't know you existed makes no difference."

Bat glanced at his father. "Exactly," he said.

Jonas leaned against the right-hand door of the car and scowled at his son. The boy was more of a Cord than he had suspected.

"Changing the subject, I do have to ... hide."

"Why?" asked Bat. "Officially, the Mexican government doesn't know you're here. Unofficially, it won't acknowledge it. That can be arranged for very little money. Besides, I sense the American government has become bored with the chase. There have been editorials saying the government surely has something better to do than hound you. What did those editorials cost you, incidentally?"

"Jonas ... Bat. You know too fuckin' much."

Bat smiled at last. "A man can get along in this world knowing nothing. Or he can get along — maybe no better — trying to know everything."

Jonas stared at his son and nodded. "Like I said, you know too much. I didn't buy any editorials. I just fed those papers information."

"It would have been more direct to buy them," said Bat.

"So you're cynical, too."

"Cynical is another word for realistic."

Jonas grinned. "You inherited something from me — and from your grandfather. You — you wouldn't mind using the name Cord?"

"Here in Mexico, I am Cord. It is only in the States that they have that confused."

"And everyone knows you're my son?"

"Everyone."

Jonas closed his eyes for a moment. "Everyone but me. I didn't know I had a son. Are ... are you married?"

"No."

"Have a girl? A prospect?"

"Maybe. Not really, I guess. I thought I did, but she's a career woman."

"Meaning what?"

"I asked her to marry me, and she accepted. Then she was appointed an aide to a United States senator and went to Washington. Three years ago. I've seen her a couple of times since."

"I'm glad to hear there's some way in which you're a damned fool."

"Meaning what?"

"Either you were a fool to ask her to marry you in the first place, or you were a fool to resent her wanting a career of her own. Which was it?"

"It's personal," said Bat glumly.

"Fathers and sons tend to discuss personal things with each other," said Jonas.

"I wouldn't know about that."

"Neither would I," said Jonas. "My father never talked about anything personal with me, except to raise hell with me about something or other. It was only after he died that somebody told me he once said he loved me."

Bat took his eyes off the road and looked at Jonas. He frowned and shook his head.

"If I'd known I had a son —"

"You didn't ask."

"I didn't guess."

"It may be just as well," said Bat. "I'm not sure I could have coped with you."

"But you can now, hmm?" Jonas asked.

Bat smiled. "Well ... We'll see."

"Are you going to handle this business with the Mexican government for me? I mean, letting me stay in the country and so on."

"I'm a very new lawyer. My firm can handle it."

"All right. You've brought in a client. I'll have a variety of legal problems for your firm. But understand something. Anything that's personal and confidential, I want you to handle it. You have a stake in it, you know."

"What's that mean?"

"You're my heir, you damned fool. What did you think?"

"Heir?" Bat asked, tossing up his chin. "I learned in law school that you can't refuse a legacy, so that you have to pay inheritance taxes even if you don't want the inheritance. You have to accept the inheritance and pay the taxes out of it, before you can get rid of it. But don't do me any favors until I decide if I want them."

2

Mexico City was a city of startling contrasts. Downtown, high-rise office buildings rose above broad avenues. Out a little, people lived in what had to be the world's most squalid slums. The villa Bat had found was located in as pleasant a suburban neighborhood as Jonas had ever seen.

The house had a red tile roof above ocher stucco walls. In the Mediterranean style, it faced the street and its neighbors with windowless walls. All the windows opened on its central courtyard, affording views of a green pool inhabited by large goldfish that swam placidly among lily pads. The goldfish were so tame you could reach down in the water and pick one up. Chameleons scampered among the shrubs, wary of the sharp-eyed birds that watched them from branches and occasionally swooped down and caught one. The rooms were all large, with dark wood floors and white plaster walls. The furniture was heavy, most of it upholstered with leather of various colors, from black to coffee-with-cream tan. The villa suited Jonas very well.

A man and wife worked as household staff: the woman as cook, maid, and laundress, her husband as gardener and houseman. They lived in a suite of rooms at the rear of the house.

Bill Shaw stayed with him and occupied a room on the south side. He had brought Jonas's telephone scrambler, and they attached it to the house line, Jonas called for Angie, and she came down.

Bat came to see him nearly every day, so often that Jonas began to wonder if he came to see him or to see Angie. The young man was not subtle about his admiration for his father's woman. He stared at her legs. It amused her, and she would allow her skirt to creep up. When she noticed him staring at her breasts, she would shrug and thrust them forward. Their little game amused Jonas at first, then ceased to amuse him.

Bat suggested they go to a bullfight on Sunday afternoon. "It's not one of my favorite spectacles, but everybody should see it once."

He bought them good seats in the shade, where they were surrounded by happy aficionados. A noisier and more exuberant crowd sat in the sun on the opposite side. The spectacle was, as Bat had said, something everyone should see once, for the color and the horses and the brassy music, if not for the killing of bulls.

Angie sat between Jonas and Bat, drawing honest stares. She wore a white dress and a white picture hat. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, the way finishing schools taught; and no one, especially not Bat, guessed that her finishing school had been a women's reformatory. She studied her program for some time, then turned to Bat and said, "I hope the score is matadors seven, bulls one. I think the bulls should be entitled to win occasionally."

After the first fight, a group of American tourists got up and left. One of the women had fainted — or pretended to — when the bull's blood gushed from its neck. One of the men, wearing a panama hat, a light-blue suit, and white shoes, proclaimed indignantly that bullfighting was no sport and was brutality practiced to entertain brutes.

"¿Que quiere usted decir?" Bat asked innocently: What do you mean? He judged his group looked norteamericano, too, and he wanted the angry Mexicans seated around them to think they weren't. The tourist in the panama hat shot him a hard look as he bustled by. Bat turned to the Mexicans sitting around them, turned up his palms, turned down the corners of his mouth, and shrugged. The people laughed.

In the second fight, Angie got her wish. The matador was gored and thrown. The bulls did win occasionally.

"It's no secret that I'm in Mexico City," Jonas said to Bat as they waited for the third fight. "Someone knew how to find me."

"Who?" Bat asked.

"A man by the name of Luis Basurto. Ever hear of him?"

"I've heard of him," said Bat. "What's he want?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the cry of a boy selling chewing gum and candy. "¡Chicle! ¡Chocolate!" — Cheek-leh, Choco-lawt-eh.

"He wants to interest me in investing in a Mexican hotel deal."

Bat shook his head. "Basurto is a crook."

"That simple?"

"That simple. Are you interested in investing in a Mexican hotel?"

"Well, I bought The Seven Voyages," said Jonas. "I'm going to make it pay, too. I'm looking for at least one more."

"There's no legal gambling in Mexico."

"Well, that's what —"

"¡Chicle! ¡Chocolate!"

"— that's what Basurto says he can take care of."

"I expect he can," said Bat dryly. "But it would be damned risky. What would happen is, you'd invest in the hotel and pay him a fee to do whatever he does to get officials to look the other way; and then as time went by he'd up the fee and up it again, claiming the locals were demanding more. He'd take a percentage off you. If you didn't pay him what he wanted, he'd have you raided. He'd have you closed down. That's the way he works. He invests nothing, but he takes a percentage."

"I imagine there are ways of handling him," said Jonas.

"He'd have you at a disadvantage. This is his turf, you know. Anyway, why buy into trouble?"

"Well, he's coming out to see me. What do I say to him?"

"Say, 'This is my son Jonas Enrique Raul Cord y Batista, a lawyer with the firm of Gurza y Aroza. That firm will be advising me.' Basurto won't even make the proposition. He'll just pass the time of day and say he's pleased to have met you. And good-bye."

"¡Chicle! ¡Chocolate!"

"There will be others besides Basurto," said Bat. "Some of them entirely legitimate. They will invite you to invest."

"Do you want to vet them for me?" asked Jonas.

"I'll be happy to."

3

After a week, Angie returned to Las Vegas. After she was gone, Sonja called, asking Jonas to come to Cordoba and spend a weekend at the hacienda. Bat would drive him. Jonas agreed, and on Friday afternoon Bat picked him up in the Porsche. He gave him an exciting ride, at speeds sometimes greater than 160 kilometers per hour.

The hacienda was actually some distance to the east of Cordoba. It was situated on a mountainside, and on clear days a very distant view of the Gulf of Mexico could be seen from the windows.

Sonja was the chatelaine of the hacienda, mistress over an extended family and a dozen servants. The mountain land had once been a working sheep and cattle ranch. In years past, Sonja explained, the family had sold the land cheap and on good terms to tenant farmers and farm laborers who now worked all but about fifty hectares of land immediately adjacent to the house. The family kept the house as a home, but the income to maintain it came from oil and other investments.

She showed Jonas the thickness of the outer walls: a meter and more. The dining room had once been a chapel. A pantry had once been an arsenal. The swimming pool had been dug out of the rocky land that had once been a courtyard enclosed by high walls, now torn down, and the well that supplied the pool with water had been inside those walls.

"The place was built to sustain a siege," she said. "Once in fact it was attacked by Zapatistas." She smiled. "And the people inside surrendered."

She gave him the bedroom suite that Fulgencio Batista used when he came to visit — which he occasionally did. Emiliano Zapata had slept two nights in that same room.

She introduced Jonas to one of Bat's half brothers and one of his half sisters. The others were away: the boy in school in France and the girl living with her husband in the States.

The half sister, whose name was Rafaela, told Jonas how Bat had saved her life by shooting a rattlesnake with a pistol.

"You lived in a handsome home," Jonas said to Bat as they stood on a stone terrace looking at the distant sea.

"I didn't live here long," said Bat. "I went away to school."

Over dinner, Jonas stared at Sonja as much as he could without being noticed. He was sure what he had said to Bat had been right: that she was living a better life than he would have given her. Still, he couldn't help reflect on what might have been. He might have lived his own life very differently if he'd known she was carrying his child and had married her. On the other hand, he might have resented her, as men tend to do when they marry women they have made pregnant without intending to.

He remembered her bright wonder as they crossed the Atlantic twice on the big liners. He remembered her gratitude. Painfully, he remembered the hurt he'd dealt her when he left her. He had been simply unable to believe she was as innocent as she was.

A rationalization. He had known.

Now here she was, still beautiful, and now sophisticated and dignified.

She'd brought the boy up wonderfully. It was going to be a pleasure to introduce him to Nevada Smith.

In the Old World tradition, the women left the table after dinner, and the men remained for coffee, brandy, and cigars — Bat and Jonas and Virgilio Escalante. Virgilio and Bat wore white suits. Jonas didn't have one and wore a summer-weight tan suit.

"The price of oil is down," Bat said to Virgilio.

"It will come back," said Virgilio.

"When the price of oil goes down," Bat said to Jonas, "they don't pump as much. Which means that not only do they get less per barrel but they don't sell as many barrels. It makes income fluctuate wildly."

"I never invested in oil," said Jonas. "It has always impressed me as a business in which a fool and his money are soon parted." He nodded at Virgilio Escalante and added, "I mean, señor, it is a business where a man should not venture unless he is knowledgeable about that business."

Virgilio smiled. He was a graying, compact man who could, so far as appearance was concerned, have been a native of the United States or any country in Europe. "I understood your meaning," he said.

"I've never invested in uranium either," said Jonas. "For the same reason. It's a legitimate business in which some men are making fortunes. But for those who don't know what they're doing —" He shook his head.

"You've invested in a casino-hotel," said Bat.

"I have an experienced, knowledgeable consultant on my payroll."

"When I was last in the States," said Bat, "I saw Cord television sets in the stores."

"We're not as successful in the field as RCA or General Electric," said Jonas, "but I think we can compete with Philco, Zenith, Magnavox, DuMont, Emerson, Sylvania, and the like."

"I am hoping to see television broadcasting in Mexico before too much longer," said Virgilio. "I am afraid the broadcasting will be government-controlled, however. It is in most countries."

4

They had no bourbon in the house, so Jonas carried half a bottle of brandy to his room. He took a bath, stretched out on his bed, and looked through an English-language book he had found in the library. Main Street by Sinclair Lewis. He'd heard about it for many years but had never read it. He'd never had the time. Starting it now, he didn't find it terribly interesting and was about to put it aside when someone knocked on his bedroom door.

God! Not Sonja. Surely not ...

No, not Sonja. When he opened the door he found Virgilio standing there.

"May I come in?"

"Of course."

Two chairs faced the small fireplace, and the two men sat down. Jonas had undressed for bed. He hadn't brought a robe, so he'd pulled on his pants before he went to the door. Virgilio was still wearing the white suit he'd worn at dinner.

"I hope you will forgive the intrusion," said Virgilio. "I hope even more you will forgive the reason for it."

Jonas nodded. "Would you like some brandy?"

"No, thank you. I ... I am most embarrassed about what I am about to say. After dinner, when Bat spoke of the price of oil and the wide fluctuations we experience in oil income, he was not prompted by me, but he was explaining something that I would otherwise have had to explain."

Jonas knew what was coming. He was about to be touched for a loan.

"Even the past few months' diminished income would have been entirely sufficient ... but for one thing. I have been very foolish in Las Vegas. I am heavily indebted to the casinos, which of course expect payment. I need time. When the price of oil recovers, which it will, I shall be in a position to pay in full, with reasonable interest. For the moment —" He turned up the palms of his hands.

"How much do you owe?" asked Jonas.

"More than a quarter of a million dollars," said Virgilio glumly. "I owe the Flamingo a hundred ten thousand. I owe The Seven Voyages a hundred sixty-five thousand. Imagine my surprise and embarrassment when I learned that you own The Seven Voyages."

"You gamble badly," said Jonas. "Do you have other expensive habits?"

"No," said Virgilio humbly. "I am loyal to my wife — I mean, as loyal as any man; I have ventured but have never kept another woman. Like any man. No significant money."

Jonas was distressed that the man would bare himself this way. He demeaned himself, confessing his peccadilloes to a man who was almost a stranger to him. "You have what we call a cash-flow problem," he said to Virgilio.

"I believe that is the term."

Jonas's mind worked fast. This man had reared his son for him — and reared him well. He decided.

"One sixty-five at my hotel, one ten at the Flamingo, you say. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

"A loan," said Virgilio.

"We can talk about it again sometime when the cash is flowing. In the meantime, don't even think about it. I'll take care of it."

5

From the villa in Mexico City, Jonas telephoned Morris Chandler on Tuesday, using the scrambler telephone.

"What are we carrying on the books in the name of Virgilio Escalante?" he asked.

"We don't have books for that kind of thing," said Morris.

"Then I'm sure you've got it in your head, Morris — that kind of money."

"Hundred sixty-five," said Morris.

"Write it off," said Jonas.

Morris Chandler said nothing for a long moment, then said, "Well, you own the place."

"Right. Now, I understand that Señor Escalante owes a hundred ten at the Flamingo. Call and offer them fifty for it."

"They won't go for it."

"See if they do."

"Okay," Morris sighed. "You're the boss."

"Let me ask you something," said Jonas. "How much are we carrying for our Mexican junketeers?"

"Oh, I'd say another five hundred thousand. More than that, actually."

"And how much do we make from them in a year?"

"Offhand —"

"Enough to justify flying a plane back and forth from Mexico City twice a week, right? Enough to justify rooms, meals, drinks, gifts, right? Well then, it's enough to invest a hundred sixty in one of their high rollers. It's business, my friend, business."

6

When Bat came to the villa on Friday evening, Angie was there again. She had come down on the Thursday junket flight and would return to Las Vegas on Tuesday.

From the moment when Bat walked into the living room, Jonas saw that his son was angry. Dressed in a gray suit of some shiny material, with a narrow black necktie, Bat looked more Mexican than Jonas had ever seen him. He didn't sit down and spoke to Angie.

"I hope you won't be offended, Angie, but I would like to speak with my father alone ... for a few minutes."

Angie rose, nodded, and quietly left the room.

"Why?" asked Jonas.

Bat stepped over to the chair where his father was sitting. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He handed the envelope to Jonas. "There," he said. "There's twenty-five thousand in cash. That's all I could raise for the moment. The balance is represented by a note for two hundred fifty thousand. I'll pay as soon as I can. With interest."

Jonas didn't open the envelope. He thrust it toward Bat, who stepped back and didn't take it.

"May I ask what the hell this is for?"

Bat glared. "Virgilio ... Padre ... put a touch on you for his Las Vegas gambling losses. It was a despicable thing to do. I'm not sure you didn't do something worse, though. You gave it to him."

"I made him a loan."

"Do you have a note?"

"No. A deal like that doesn't need a note. It's a deal between gentlemen."

"Virgilio is no gentleman," said Bat. "His father, the man I called Abuelo — grandfather — would have horsewhipped him for asking money from you, from you of all people! And you gave it to him! 'A deal between gentlemen.' Bullshit!"

Jonas flared. "Who the hell are you to talk to me that way?"

"I want a straight answer to a straight question."

"Let me hear your straight question," Jonas muttered, his face glowering and red.

"The two seventy-five thousand cleared accounts between you and Virgilio, didn't it? It wiped the books clean. He married my mother, knowing she was pregnant by you. He brought me up in his household and treated me as if I were his son. He paid my tuition — well, part of it. Most of that was paid with Batista money, and we know how that is earned. But you and Virgilio. You're even, aren't you? My straight question is Can you tell me you didn't think of it that way? You hand over two seventy-five thousand and you feel no more obligation to Virgilio Escalante. Isn't that the way you figured?"

Jonas shook his head. "In the first place," he said, "you know nothing about casino gambling if you think high rollers like Virgilio have to pay a hundred cents on the dollar. I bought his markers from the Flamingo for fifty thousand. Morris Chandler would have sold him his markers at my hotel for a hundred ten or a hundred twenty. Your note is more than a hundred thousand too rich."

"That's not a straight answer to my straight question," Bat snapped angrily. "What the hell's the difference how much you paid? You paid him off! Didn't you?"

"If you've made up your mind to that, why should I even answer?"

Bat stiffened as he drew a deep breath. He stood for a full quarter of a minute breathing heavily. "Because," he said hoarsely between clenched teeth. "Because — All right. If you give me your word on it, I will believe you. I have no choice."

Jonas smiled, almost imperceptibly. So — His son. Formidable. He had backed his father — not just his father but Jonas Cord — into a corner.

Almost. "I will give you my word on a condition," said Jonas.

"Which is?"

"Which is that you take this money and this note back. Virgilio will repay me. If he doesn't, it's a business risk I took, for reasons that are sufficient for me — and which have nothing to do with you."

Bat nodded. "All right," he muttered. He reached for and accepted the envelope.

Jonas looked up and met Bat's eyes with his. "I did not pay off Virgilio Escalante for what he did for your mother, for you, or for me."

"What choice do I have, but to believe you? I used to think I didn't want to meet you until I was in a position to tell you to go to hell. So now I'm in that position."

"Are you telling me to go to hell?" asked Jonas. Bat shrugged scornfully. "'What's the difference?"