His stakeouts continue. He wants to nail her at the location. Tell me why I should trust you. Declare your loyalty and lead me to the gold.
Salvy was late. Dudley teethed on Constanza. He saw her in white gowns. Her shoulder straps kept slipping. He saw her in Brownshirt riot gear. She raised her riding crop and whipped Marxist thugs.
“Mi hermano, I apologize for my tardiness. Greenshirt business has kept me occupied.”
There he was. Salvy snuck up on you. He was Latin decorous and ever deferential. Dudley raised a hand to slap him. Dudley hugged him instead.
“Your tardiness is confounding, but I trust and revere you, regardless.”
Salvy laid on back slaps. He had that Latin love-tap touch. Salvy beamed. Latins lived to ingratiate.
Dudley pointed to the lead bus. The driver goosed the gas. The engine purred. The gun guard jacked shells in his piece. The shackled slaves pitched boo-hoo.
“Bon voyage, lad. Call me from Fresno or Bakersfield. I’ll be staying with Constanza in La Paz.”
Salvy shook his head. “I cannot accompany the convoy, Dudley. La Causa needs me here. I have urgent duties in Ensenada, and at the encampment. There will be many other convoys, but I cannot go with this one.”
Dudley saw red. He flushed and felt his veins swell. Salvy love-tapped him. Poquito cuffs.
“Do not be angry, brother. I see that you are disappointed, and your anger hurts me. The Staties will perform my duties, and I will accompany the very next convoy. I promise you that.”
Dudley flushed, warm to hot. He stepped close and almost threw elbows. Salvy love-tapped him. Dudley almost screamed.
The box rows flanked a service counter. The boxes were pullout, shelf-parcel size. They were numbered off-kilter. 1823 adjoined 901.
Dudley stood by the stamp machines. The PO resembled a pint-sized Alamo. He’d caught an Army flight down. He wore civvies and a belt piece.
Constanza called him in Ensenada. She suggested a tryst and come-hithered him. He said, “Sí, mi corazon.” She said, “My place at six.”
It was 3:20 now. Constanza said she had afternoon errands. She mentioned the grocery store and the post office. She decreed this surveillance herself.
It was stand-around/blend-in surveillance. That’s the most boring type. Dudley read postal circulars and wanted bulletins. The bulletins tagged U.S. fugitives and deserters. Dudley yawned and stayed awake.
3:40, 4:00, 4:20. Dudley got impatient. His thoughts boomeranged.
Salvy had mollified him. He should have hit him and cowed him right back. Constanza had a darkroom. She developed her wildlife photos there. She might possess her own microdot camera.
The Wolf appeared. He enjoyed La Paz. He hunted wharf rats and peeped Mexican women. Constanza loved the Wolf. He slept between them most nights.
4:40, 5:00, 5:10. Constanza walked in and strolled to box 1823.
Dudley peeped her. She unlocked the box and pulled out four envelopes. She sifted through them. The last one tweaked her. She evinced surprise.
She slit the envelope. Dudley stepped close. She examined the contents. Dudley got muy close. He saw a soft-blotter page.
Constanza looked up and saw him. She smiled, Latin stylish.
She said, “My alert darling.”
He said, “I’ll need to read it, of course.”
The process consumed her. He watched her work. The darkroom cast pulsing red light.
She placed the page flat on a workbench. It was magnification glass — topped. A small arc lamp beamed light from below it. The light was bright-bright.
She sprayed saline water on the page surface. It brought up collodion and aniline dye. The page glowed purple now.
Constanza donned magnification-lens goggles. She loaded her camera and placed the lens up against the page. She moved the lens left to right and snapped photos. She shot twenty-four exposures per quadrant. Her photographic field covered the full page.
She unloaded the film and cut it into ninety-six strips. She placed them in a developing pan. She sprayed on emulsifier. It brought up ninety-six small prints.
Spanish words appeared. Constanza kept her goggles on and skimmed the out-of-order texts. She took a white grease pencil and numbered the prints from 1 to 96. She clipped them to three clotheslines.
The prints dried in an hour. Dudley donned the goggles. Constanza turned on a fluorescent arc light. She positioned Dudley beside print #1 and had him read left to right.
Message #1 was a variant. Hideo described the postcard texts. This was more of that.
Lists:
U.S. defense installations. Leftist and rightist plants there employed. Established gold prices now. Gold prices predicted, up to ’44. Jap sub berths upside Baja. Secret airfields. All upside San Joaquin Valley farms.
Message #1 dittoed postcard information. Message #2 was all new. It revealed this:
A list labeled “Defense Contacts.” Lists labeled “Farmers,” “Ordnance Makers,” “Airfield Supervisors.” San Joaquin Valley locations, listed below.
One ellipsis loomed large. There was no closing salute. Plus, no admiring nod to Juan Pimentel. Plus, no admonition: “Do not reveal to JLS & CLS.”
Dudley tracked the logic. The postcards were sent to Pimentel himself. Elmer Jackson intercepted them and shot them to Hideo Ashida. The postcard dots expressed exclusion. They nixed the two Lazaro-Schmidts. Said dots nailed them as submembers of a factionalized cabal. The postcard sender distrusted the two Lazaro-Schmidts. This dot sender trusted them fine.
One cabal. Stratified and well buffered. Factions within factions. The intelligent, the resourceful, the superbly self-protective. To wit: Pimentel and the Lazaro-Schmidts. To wit: Meyer Gelb and Kyoho Hanamaka. Allied with the reckless and near insane. To wit: Jim Davis, Saul Lesnick, Lin Chung. To wit: Tommy Glennon and Catbox Cal Lunceford. To wit: dead cops Wendell Rice and George Kapek.
Dudley removed the goggles. Constanza ran her hands through his hair.
“You see how many layers there are, and how little most of us in the middle range know.”
“I knew you and your brother were part of it. You all but told me some weeks ago. You wouldn’t have known what you know about the gold if you were fully on the outside.”
They stepped out of the darkroom. The normal light burned Dudley’s eyes. Constanza placed her hands over them.
“I have not betrayed you. I simply omitted what you had already surmised. I assumed that you already suspected Juan Pimentel.”
Dudley nuzzled her hands. “You forward dot mail sent to you. The various forwarding levels are buffered past comprehension. Pimentel was one step up from you and your brother. Beyond that, you have no idea who’s who.”
Constanza stroked his cheek. “I have never doubted your ability to assess and extrapolate.”
Dudley said, “I have a certain matter to discuss with your brother.”
Governor Juan’s office. It was a big-cheese refuge and spot to receive and anoint. Note the pedestal desk and throne chair. Short beaners sit tall here.
Dudley walked in. Constanza followed him. She shut the door and bolted it. Governor Juan looked up.
His chair sat on risers. His desk sat waist-high. Goldbug Juan. All these gold figures on shelves.
His perfect suit. Gray wool with flecked gold highlights. His gold collar pin and burnt-gold necktie.
Dudley walked up to him. Constanza sat beside the desk. She lit a cigarette. Juan’s desk lighter flamed.
Juan sensed intent. He slid his chair back. It bumped a window ledge. Dudley picked him up and threw him. He crashed into a bookshelf and fell to the floor. Gold-etched volumes fell on his head.