Chapter 19
Renosa was a dusty, tourist trap. Its one main street was lined on both sides with shanty style shops. Color-coded day-trippers dragged bulging shopping bags from store to store, grinning like they had caught the last train to heaven. I parked the rental in a pay-lot across the street from a pharmacy that boasted an attorney in residence. There was gilding on the upper story window that read, 'Pedro Martinez El abogado en la ley' with an arrow pointing to the side of the building. I went over and took wooden steps up, two at a time.
"¡Los saludos y salutaciones, mi amigo!" Martinez greeted me. He was short, plump, and clean-shaven, dressed in neatly pressed beige suit. His black hair was cropped short in business fashion. His wrists jangled with layers of gold jewelry. "I was told to expect you, Mr. Bishop. I understand from Mr. Widgeons you have an interest in the Blue Turf Mining Company. Do you plan to purchase it?"
As lawyers went, Martinez did not put up much of a front. His offices consisted of two rooms: a nearly barren reception area sans receptionist, and his private office. The former contained half a dozen dusty waiting chairs. The décor in the latter consisted of a scarred wooden desk, a green metal swivel chair, five gray metal filing cabinets and two straight-back customer chairs. In both rooms, Casablanca fans whirred sloppily overhead, mixing hot air with more hot air. I decided he was either painfully honest or painfully poor in court.
"I've got something else in mind."
His thick black eyebrows arched and then fell in disappointment. "I was very surprised to hear from Mr. Widgeons after all these years." Martinez moved behind his desk and sat. He pointed to one of the customer chairs. "Regardless, it was good to hear his voice. He requested I extend all professional courtesy to you at his expense. Something is amiss at the mine?"
I sat down. "You tell me."
Martinez made a tee-pee out of his fingers, pursed his thick lips and studied me carefully, as if there might be a profit in his discerning what I knew. "It is a very secretive operation. No one is allowed there without a pass procured from the owner. I might be able to obtain photographs or a video tape of daily activity if that would help."
I loosened my tie against the stifling heat. There were four of us in his tiny office. Martinez propped in the swivel, me perched in one of the straight backs, a big brown spider propagating her web at one corner of the ceiling, and a large black cockroach paddling up one wall. Martinez, the spider and I were on the clock. The roach was just passing through.
"What kind of mining operation, is it?" I asked.
Martinez fished a plastic toothpick from inside his suit-coat and prodded a molar. "My knowledge—that of everyone in town, for that matter—is limited to hearsay." He noisily sucked his gums. "I can attest to its general activities. That is to say, there are people working at the mine from time to time. I, myself, have seen trucks entering and leaving, although not on any regular schedule."
"How long do these active sessions last?"
"Not long," he replied, examining the results of his mouth-dredging. "There is often a long period of inactivity in between. In fact, the approach road sometimes overgrows with weeds." He wiped the toothpick off with his fingers and then returned it to his coat pocket.
I lit a cigarette. "That fits my suspicions."
His upper lip curled, flashing a shiny gold front tooth. "What suspicions, Mr. Bishop?"
"How can I get out there?"
The swivel chair squeaked with his disappointment. "I can direct you, of course. However, entering without a pass would likely get you killed. There are armed guards in residence, day and night. I could petition the owner for a pass. But he would have to concede a reason that required your presence. And, even if that were valid, my friend, permission could take months in coming, assuming I was successful—to which, I can offer no guaranty."
"And the owner is?"
"Why, Philip Woods; the mayor of McAllen. I thought Widgeons told you."
"Mines have to be inspected from time to time in the United States. Same requirement in Mexico?"
He sat up straight and adjusted his suit. "There is a certificate of operation that must be renewed annually. It does require an inspection. However, the inspector would come from Mexico City, not here. And who is to say he has not already completed his obligations at Blue Turf for this year?"
"Meaning he collects an envelope of cash for doing nothing."
Martinez made a vague gesture. "Eso podría ser, por supuesto. If I had some idea of your specific interests I might be in a better position to serve."
"I take it this mining operation butts up against the United States border?"
He thought for a moment tugging at the fat lobe of one ear, his eyes on mine like we were new neighbors on opposite sides of a fence. Then Martinez's gold tooth sparkled. "I'm beginning to understand. El contrabando! Yes, from its entrance you can almost toss a stone into your country. And, the trucks are bringing in the goods to be smuggled. Human cargo, I assume?"
"Cocaine. How many are at the mine?"
His brown eyes widened. "¡Mi dios!" He withdrew a manila folder from a lower desk drawer and set it in front of himself.
"I took the liberty of updating my files after Widgeons telephoned," Martinez said with no small amount of satisfaction. "There are three men out there on a regular basis, not considering who might be in the delivery trucks. According to my sources the regulars are two Security officers and a Mining Engineer. Their titles are fictitious of course."
"Do you know any of them?" I asked.
Martinez nodded grimly. "Strictly on a professional basis."
"You were their defense attorney on the last charge?"
"Charges, plural. And, naturally, I was successful. By name they are Jesus Agora, Ramón Niagara and Thomaso Femora. My brother-in-law is Renosa's chief-of-police. Cualquiera que emplearía ellos tiene algo de otra manera que seguridad, en la mente!"
"Anyone who would hire them has something other than security in mind?"
"Or so he says."
"Maybe, your brother-in-law can get me in there. Absent owner or not, the police have a right to look around."
The cockroach gave the spider web a wide birth as it headed for the base of the overhead fan. I blew smoke in its direction and wondered when the spider last had lunch.
Martinez offered a dismal shrug. "I would have to speak with him before making such a commitment. The mine is a local politics issue and his willingness would depend upon whose side of the political machine Philip Woods' money is riding. Unfortunately, that would not be until tomorrow, at the earliest. Today, he is at the doctor in Metamora—prostate problems, you know. Nevertheless, don't worry. Renosa has a very nice hotel with excellent accommodations. My cousin owns it so I can get you a special rate."
I shook my head. "I don't have time for an overnight stay. Write out directions to the mine and I'll see what I can manage on my own."
He thought for a moment and then said, "Widgeons would be horrified if you were delivered back in a coffin. It would be safer if I drove you."
"This could get messy, Martinez."
He spread his hands palms up. "I am being extremely well paid. Do you have a sidearm?"
I shook my head. "There was a little problem back in McAllen and it was confiscated by the locals."
Martinez opened one of the lower drawers in his desk, took out an ancient .45 automatic and shoved it across to me. Then he fumbled under his suit coat a moment and withdrew a small-caliber snub-nosed revolver. I picked up the automatic, checked its clip, set the safety and then stuffed the tire weapon into my suit-coat.
"I don't think we'll need these but it's best to be on the safe side," he remarked, as he checked the rounds in the weapon's cylinder. "What do you plan?"
"I want a look inside the mine. It'll take maybe twenty minutes. What's your plan to get me to it?"
Martinez considered my question for a moment and then snapped his fingers. "In
surance investigator. Insurers demand annual inspections of commercial properties. Why not mines, as well? We will go out there on that premise, I being the local attorney the insurer contacted, you being their inspector. I have just such an order for a factory north of town. I will simply have that document replicated by the stenographer next door with the mine being the object of interest. She is my sister, so we can rely upon her discretion."
I was not convinced an insurance agent demanding access to the mine would get me anywhere near it, unless to bury my bones. And I was even more skeptical about going out there armed with a tired Colt and his feeble snub-nose as our only means of defense. However, Martinez was confident enough for both of us and his being along just might do the job. After all, my part of hell was long overdue for a good freezing.
"Have any of the locals worked at the mine?" I asked. "Other than the goons guarding it?"
His lips pursed and then he nodded. "Several that I knew. But that was early on," Martinez replied. Then he spread his hands deprecatingly. "Unfortunately, they are all dead."
"Something unpleasant and unexpected?"
He nodded grimly. "Of one kind or another. Accidents, of course. And if one did not consider the low probability of those incidents happening to one small group of individuals, those deaths would go unnoticed."
"Did your brother-in-law investigate them?"
"As best he could—considering there were never witnesses. Unfortunately, there was nothing to indicated murder. In one case the individual was under his car changing its oil when it fell off the jack. In another, the individual was repairing a leaking roof and fell to his death. In all cases, a plausible accident."
"Who owns the property on the American side?"
His gold tooth winked at me. "I thought you would be interested so I made some inquiries. I cannot guaranty accuracy but according to my sources that land is owned by Eli Huggins of McAllen, Texas. Do you know who he is?"
"Lately, he's dead. What kind of business is it?"
"A gas station facing a dirt road that nobody travels on. Not the best place to build such a facility. Nevertheless, trucks do stop there—infrequently."
"In synch with truck arrivals at the mine?"
His brown eyes went dreamy. "Possibly. Cocaine, eh? A lot of money could be made with an operation like that."
"Has Philip Woods been out to the mine lately?"
Martinez shrugged. "He was in my offices to sign the purchase agreement years ago," he said. "Since then I have not seen him." He folded up his file and secreted it back into his desk. "But another man, a big American, has been out there quite frequently. I see him in town at least once a month. I don't know his name, although my brother-in-law might. He has a face full of scars—quite hideous."
"Delaney. He's captain of Police in McAllen."
His eyebrows arched again. "So it is that type of arrangement, eh? My brother-in-law will be jealous. You think Mr. Woods is part of the cocaine smuggling? Or is he merely a dupe?"
"Part and parcel; but I don't have enough evidence for an indictment. I'm hoping to find that at the mine. How long before we can leave?"
Martinez checked his watch. "We'll drop off the inspection order at my sister's office and then have lunch. That should give her plenty of time to type it. I would say we should arrive at the mine shortly before dark—not an imprudent delay, let me assure you. They will not be able to telephone the insurance company to verify our intentions. Accordingly, they will have no alternative but to accede to our request. What would you like to eat?"
He stood up and grinned. I got to my feet wondering if I was about to have my last meal.
"My cousin owns the tortilla factory," he continued, "which supplies the entire town. She also has a delightful café that serves true Mexican cuisine, not the phony tourist fare you Americans are handed. Come. One bite and you will die before leaving Renosa."
As we walked out, the cockroach disappeared behind the fan's base and the spider crawled into the center of its web. Neither had any interest in mines. As I followed Martinez down the steps to the street, I guessed that the two insects had more brains than he and I, put together.