The Return Trip
The trip to Guadalajara had been a blur, the trip back an infinite nightmare where the events that had played out were compressed into seconds that drug on for a lifetime. Both Chichi and I were exhausted and spent. We tried to plan for our arrival at the Ranch of the Cult of the Crippled Dogs, but the plans slipped into obscurity. In the end we wound up scrapping those plans in favor of spontaneity, my strong point.
The broken-down Ford would never lend itself to a sneak attack so we abandoned it at the gate to the ranch and walked the last couple of miles. I was back in my jeans and t-shirt. Chichi wore the Mormon suit to blend into the night. It wasn't ninja gear, but it was close. Our faces were blackened with soot from the truck's exhaust pipe - commando mode.
At the compound we took a few moments to rest and reconnoiter. Direct confrontation with the enemy was a losing proposition. We were going to have to engage in a gorilla war. Escape was our primary objective, but we meant to hurt the bastard too. That meant the Impala had to survive any engagement. When we reached my car the top was up, but the windows down so Chichi crawled in through the driver's window and slipped the transmission into neutral. I put the top down. Then Chichi joined me at the rear bumper and we both bent our backs to the task of pushing the Chevy away from ground zero.
Our arsenal consisted of the three remaining sticks of dynamite. While Chichi rigged primer cord fuses to the munitions I scrounged up a length of garden hose and a five-gallon can from a maintenance shed. After siphoning gasoline from a vehicle into the can I let the hose run out onto the ground under all the remaining cars and trucks in the lot. Opening all the gas caps on those vehicles I splashed fuel on their fenders and trunks creating a dozen potential bombs. Chichi arrived and planted the first stick of dynamite.
Next, we crept to the corner of the bunkhouse and planted our second round. Then we poured a liquid fuse from both bombs back to the rear end of the Impala. I used the remainder of the can to top off the Impala's tank and it was time to bring our comrades into the plan. Chichi pointed me to a ground level arch. I planted the final stick in the bars at the base of the window, which was recessed about two feet below ground level. Knowing nothing about shaping a charge or directing the explosive force it was all I could do that insured the focus of the blast would be into the bars and the wall above creating an exit for our trapped friends.
"Psst... psst... Evans? Martina?" I whispered. Are you guys in there?"
"Surfer," Martina answered, "is that you? Oh, God, you did come back. I knew you could come back. You see, Billy, I told you."
"Yeah, yeah, I was told." Evans grumbled; then directed to me, "Did you get El Tigre's shit? Because the charm of this place has worn thin and I'm ready to boogey."
"No, there weren't any golden plates of Nauvoo. Never were," I answered.
"We're dead," Evans sighed.
"Not yet, heito," Chichi said rushing to my side. "You gotta trust Chichi. We got a plan."
"Please, Surf," Evans said disgustedly, "tell me this isn't one of your plans."
"This, my Hawaiian friend is the great Kahuna of all plans. Is there some place you two can cover up?" I answered.
"Why would we want to do that, David?" Martina answered before Evans could think of a stinging complaint.
"Because we are going to blow a hole in this wall big enough to drive a truck through and there's going to be a lot of flying glass and shrapnel. You need to be out of the way."
"There's an alcove in the back with a big wooden desk. We can get under there. It should be safe enough," Evans replied.
"Go," I ordered. "Stay down until the smoke clears and then come running. I'll be here to help you up and out. And don't freak when the next explosions go off. Chichi has a surprise planned for anybody trying to stop us. Any questions?"
"Are you sure..." Evans began.
"Okay, no questions. Look, Bill, ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. No, man, I'm not sure. But it's all we got. Trust me, okay?"
"Go for it, dude. I'll take care of the little lady. You just listen to the hot mama out there. I'd want that babe in my fox hole any time." A double thumbs up given and returned set us both in motion.
"I'm counting to twenty and then lighting the fuse. Chichi said it would take about ten seconds for the blast after that. Is that enough time for you to get ready?"
"No, we're going to need a couple of minutes to get back there and a couple more to move stuff around. Can I have five minutes?"
"Shit, Bill, would you like dessert and a beverage with that? We have got to move. Somebody could come out here any minute, catch us, and the whole thing is over. Okay," I said to his imminent protest, "you have exactly five minutes. I'll be right here. Yell when you are ready. The blast goes off ten seconds later. Understand?"
"Do it, man, let's get out of here and head for home."
Evans grabbed Martina by the hand and headed for the back of the wine cellar where the office alcove was located. He stashed her under the desk and threw one of the metal filing cabinets in front of the modesty panel for additional insulation. Then he grabbed the second cabinet and pulled it in behind as he wedged himself in with her. A piercing whistle was my signal to light the fuse and run for cover. The first matchstick shattered against the box. I always keep a box of stick matches in the glove compartment of my car. One never knows when an emergency will arise and a signal fire will be needed. And you really can't light a doobie with an in-dash cigarette lighter, even with a roach clip. Despite my shaking hands the second match caught and I touched the flame to the fuse. As it sputtered to life, I took flight.
Chichi waited for me in the center of the compound at the apex of our arsenal. I tossed her the matchbox figuring trusting Evans was the wisest move I could make. Chichi was the expert here. I was just the grunt, the "ground-pounder" following orders. She caught the box in her right hand, smiled, and then stuck her index fingers in both her respective ears. It seemed like a good idea to follow her example.
With my fingers in my ears all I could hear was my heartbeat counting down the seconds; three, two, one. A brilliant flash lit the compound, followed by a roar that split the silence of the night. The blast, though concentrated inward and upward by the window well, still knocked the two of us to the ground. I was up and on my way to the window before the dust subsided.
A gap ten feet wide had been ripped through the adobe wall from floor to ceiling. I heard Martina's screams before I reached the hole. "Martina? Martina, are you okay? Evans? Come on, move it. We have got to go."
The alcove, set back from the brunt of the blast had survived intact. The desk provided perfect shelter for my friends who weren't even scratched by the deadly maelstrom. But both Evans and Martina were momentarily stunned and deafened by the concussion.
"Billy? Shit, where are you guys? Martina? Come on, we have got to get to the car and get out of here. Trouble is going to arrive quickly," I shouted into the darkness.
At that moment Evans ran up carrying Martina over his shoulder. Blood trickled from his ears. "I can't hear a mother-fucking thing you're saying, bro. And I'm wading ankle deep through broken glass so hurrying is out of the question. She's out; you're going to have to take her from me. Can you hear anything I'm saying? I can't even hear myself talking. It feels like my head is full of bumblebees."
"Give her to me," I said reaching down to indicate I understood. Evans hefted Martina upward like he was doing a military press. Grabbing her around the waist I took hold, but when Evans released her, she almost fell back into the cellar.
"Christ, David," Evans shouted, "put your back into it. She can't weigh more than 110 pounds even soaked in burgundy."
"I'm trying, Evans. This isn't the time for your bitching. Boost her up before I lose her."
Evans again lifted her from below and with my feet braced on the wall I managed to pull her out of the darkness and roll her atop me into the window well. Standing up I dragged Martina to her feet and propped her over the edge of the well. "Now give me your hand," I said to Evans.
"Get out of the way, little man. I can climb out by myself." And he did, lifting himself out in a slow crawl, wrapping his arm around Martina's waist, and rolling both of them out into the open air. "Go, go... the bad guys are going to show up soon. Get on with this plan of yours. I'll take care of things here."
"Look, Billy, if you can't hear me, look where I'm pointing. See the Impala? Take Martina to the car and wait for us. Okay?" I said flashing him a hand sign.
The middle finger he flashed back told me he understood completely and I ran for Chichi. Lights were coming on in the bunkhouse and main hacienda. We could hear men shouting, the clank of arms coming to bear. Then the door of the bunkhouse opened and Chichi touched a match to the pool of gasoline in front of her. The startled man in the doorway stopped as a river of blue flame raced toward him. The fire hit the portal engulfing it, driving the guard back in to the structure. A tongue of flame continued around the bunkhouse and raced toward the main power pole and fuse boxes located there. The blast from charge number two plunged both houses into darkness and sent all occupants diving for cover.
"Now, chico, hurry for the car. We got to make our get away," Chichi screamed. "We go before they figure out they aren't really hurt."
Evans had the Impala started and sat in the backseat holding an unconscious Martina's head on his shoulder. I hurdled the driver's side door in a single bound. Chichi stopped at the rear bumper to strike another match and set our next salvo in motion. Then she hurried to the passenger side where Evans had gentlemanly left the door open for her.
I slammed the shifter into first and stood on the accelerator pedal. As we shot out of the compound a string of fire raced in the other direction engulfing the vehicles behind parked behind us. The fire set off the final stick of dynamite and El Tigre's compound looked like an F-4 Phantom had dropped a load of napalm on it.
The dynamite set off a chain reaction igniting the gasoline remaining in the vehicles' tanks. The resulting blast blew out all the windows in the compound. The roof of the bunkhouse portal collapsed preventing those inside from using the front door for escape. As we sped out the gates I my rearview mirror revealed a dozen half-naked men tumbling out of windows on the backside of the building. Preventing our escape was not even an object of concern. Few if any had noticed us. Most were involved in first saving their own skins and then in containing the fire engulfing their house and vehicles. But then the door on the main hacienda opened and El Tigre and his lieutenant stepped into the venue. The tiger scanned the scene and immediately recognized our diversionary tactic. His keen eyes picked out our fleeing car and he began shouting orders to his men.
The big V-8 roared as I raced to put distance between us and our would-be captors. We ran headlong into the night blindly, only the moonlight illuminating the road. Head and taillights would make us an easy target and already sounds of gunfire barked at our heels. The seconds ticked off in my head; six, eight, ten. I figured the new engine would rocket us down the quarter mile in ten seconds. But 400 yards was nowhere near out of range for El Tigre's high-powered rifles. Zero to 60 in five seconds. Up to 100 in eight. We could hit top seed in 15 seconds, but I'd never be able to negotiate a bumpy gravel road at 170. I could reach the one-mile mark at 40 seconds and have a margin of safety. Twenty seconds and counting; with the top down we could hear bullets whiz by all around us. Thirty seconds and the road began a gentle bend behind a small hill. Thirty-five and the flames illuminating the compound vanished from sight. We were no longer a viable target for the gunners targeting us.
"We made it," Evans screamed from the backseat.
"Don't slow down," Chichi warned. "El Tigre won't give up so easy. He is going to follow us."
"We took out all his transportation," I shouted. "He can't catch us on horseback."
"His car collection," Evans yelled, "he's still got all those cars."
"He's not going to chase us in a Rolls Royce or a Bentley or a Lamborghini," I responded.
"Yes, he will," Chichi said. "You have damaged his pride. That is worth more to him than any golden treasure. He will send everything he has after us. Our only chance is to get out of Mexico. El Tigre won't cross the border. In Mexico he has power. In the U.S. he is just another illegal."
"Okay, so where do we go? Nogales?" I asked.
"No," Chichi answered, "he will expect us to head that way. It is the shortest route. He will have men waiting at the border to stop us. We should go east to Douglass-Bisbee. I told you I know people there. We can get help to get us across the border."
With that decision made we rode on in silence until we reached the gate at the main road. The old Ford sat where Chichi and I had left it. I stopped, ran back and jumped into the cab. The truck fired up on the first try and I pulled it across the road wedging it between the gate's pillars blocking the entrance to El Tigre's ranch. Locking the door behind me I threw the car keys as far as I could out into the desert then reached into the truck bed and retrieved the guitar case and Chichi's purse which held the golden records.
My hands shook as I fumbled but finally found the case latch. Grabbing the Tommy gun and wrenching the spent magazine free I found the spare and rammed it home. Locked and loaded I took aim and ripped a blast blowing all four truck tires. Running back to the Impala I tossed Evans the machine gun. He caught it, and then dropped it like I'd tossed him a boa constrictor. Hawaiians seem to care as much for guns as they do snakes.
Handing Chichi the purse I tromped on the gas and we took flight.
"Ju getting to be one pretty good revolutionary, Surf," Chichi said smiling. "Maybe ju should make a career out of it."
"Just keep watch for headlights behind us. And, Evans, keep that gun ready. You've got about 40 rounds left. Don't waste them."
"No way, man," Evans shouted trying to hand the gun over the seat to Chichi. "Guns kill people. I'm the conscientious objector; remember? I'll play medic and tend the walking wounded. Your babe back here still doesn't look too good."
"Is she hurt badly?" I asked.
"More shock than anything, I think," Evans answered. "Just drive. Surf, get us out of here without anybody getting killed; or us killing anybody and she'll be fine." Again, he tried to push the Thompson into the front seat.
"She's fine right now," I heard Martina protest. "Give me the damn gun, Billy. David or Chichi can't shoot at someone behind us from the front seat. If anyone shows up, I'll give the bastards what for."
"Give her the gun, Bill. And get me a map," I shouted. "I need the map to find the right road."
"Chichi got the map here, chico," Chichi said tapping her forehead. "Ju just drive and Chichi will get you there, okay? Ju know some music might be nice. How does this radio work?"
"It's an 8-track," Evans shouted. "Just push in that cassette."
Chichi did what she was told and suddenly Sly and the Family Stone were "thankin us for makin them be themselves..."
"Jes take this road east, Surfer," Chichi said patting my arm. "Ju don good back there. Ju should be proud. Ju save jur friends and we gonna get away. It's gonna be fine, jus wait and see. Ju one hell of a man, Surfer, one hell of an hombre."
"I think I pissed my pants."
"No, baby, that's jus gasoline."
"No, I'm pretty sure..."
"Listen, heito, ju did fine. Ju did what ju had to do. That makes ju a hero. Ju think heroes don't piss their pants. Sure they do. But since they heroes nobody says, 'Hey, he piss on himself.' Nobody is going to say anything but Surfer was a hero, so that's all ju are going to say. Ju comprende?"
"Yeah, I comprende, fellow hero. When we get home, we'll have a party. Thanks, Chichi."
"Sure, Surfer. Oh, by the way, I think we got company coming. I can see headlights on the ranch road."
The old Ford blocking the gate was going to slow them down. They would need a tow truck to move it. And nothing short of an Apollo booster rocket was going to catch the Impala on the open road. We had a good chance of out running them to Douglass. Worrying wasn't going to help. Yes, I said that. So, I settled back and let her fly. Live in the moment... Come the future we could laugh about the past. But it was only by fulfilling present demands that I could ensure any future possibilities. The moment demanded all my attention.
I consider myself to be a great driver. Not only did I get 100 on the Arizona driver's license exam, the traffic control officer who administered the behind the wheel test said he had never seen anyone parallel park at such a sustained high rate of speed. Driving is automatic, a reflex action I normally handle with a minimal amount of concentration. Behind the wheel I usually reserve high-brain activity for more important and demanding tasks like memorizing song lyrics or cramming for a morning biology test. Tonight, however, was different. Doing 120 mph down unmarked Mexican highways filled with buses, tractors, donkey carts and the like demanded all the concentration of a brain surgeon operating on a roller coaster. In the last 72 hours I'd had less than two hours sleep. Running this gauntlet was like playing Donkey Kong with a six-pack buzz.
"I don't understand why we are doing this, David. Why didn't you just give him what he wanted?" came from the backseat.
"We don't have what he wants. The Mormons don't have what he wants. They never did. We were screwed from the start," I shouted back.
"The whole thing was bogus?" Evans asked.
"No, man, we got to the party like we planned, blew the safe, and, well, look for yourself," I said tossing the bag into the back.
"Elvis Presley's golden records," Evans whispered reverently. "Dude, these are worth some big bucks. Dee Dee has friends that would sell their mother for one of these records. I mean, they're like holy relics to Elvis freaks."
"So, let's give them to El Tigre," Martina suggested. "Maybe he will be satisfied."
"Babe," I began, "it's not what he wanted. He impressed me as the kind of single-minded type who fixates on his primal desires, not the compromising type. And we just blew his ranch all to hell. I don't think the guy is going to be happy or satisfied with a handful of rock and roll idolatry. Plus, we kind of ripped him off for forty kilos. No, definitely not cool. I think our best course of action is to haul ass over the border and never come back to this miserable cesspool of a country. No offense, Chichi.
Chichi didn't seem to take any. "We can outrun them in this car, ju think?"
"We can outrun anything in Mexico except a gas station," I answered. "We're going to have to stop before we get to the border."
"Didn't you think to fill the tank?" Evans shouted incredulously. "You were throwing Molotov cocktails all over everywhere back there."
"Pardon me," I responded, "I was a little busy. I didn't think about it. Getting your ass out of the can seemed to be more important. And I'm not the one whose unauthorized modifications get us about four gallons to the mile running at these speeds. We've got 80 miles before we start sucking air. Anybody got any ideas and by that I mean any helpful ideas because I'm tired of the crap. Or better yet, you can all cram your ideas and sit on it. Cash, does anyone have any cash?"
A quick inventory revealed that once again we were tapped, strapped and bare to the bone. The best laid plans, right? But Chichi, God bless her, came to the rescue. "Don't ju worry, chico. Martina and I will use the feminine charms to get the gasoline. Ju jest drive. Everybody else should get some rest. I get the feeling we gonna need all the energy before this is over."
That said we all settled back into a somber silence. Evans and Martina tried to sleep. I pushed the Impala past the red-shift line, past the limits of man's imagination going where no man has gone before. Chichi changed tapes and read maps by the glove box light. We ran east into the darkness and whatever karma might bring steering by the stars, “second to the right, and straight on ‘til morning.”
At just below the speed of sound (we didn't want sonic booms to disturb the countryside and announce our location to our pursuers) it didn't take long to reach the tiny red dot on the AAA travel map indicating a service station. This was not your typical American idea of a gasoline retailer. This purveyor of petrol sold more tequila than high test, but there were two antique dispensers tucked on the parking lot side of the bar. I parked as close to the island as possible and then hid with Evans on the far side of the car. The plan was for Chichi and Martina to wake the owner in his nearby trailer and depending on circumstances; either beg for help for two pitiful young ladies or advertise their girlish charms and wanton ways and count on the lascivious nature of the male animal.
After an agony of pounding on the aluminum frame door a disheveled man finally answered. It was obvious from the start that lechery rather than Christian charity moved this fellow. Chivalry would have never raised him from his bed. Chichi's cleavage raised a lot more interest. A brief conversation brought the man outside. He strolled to the station office with a wandering arm wrapped around the waist of each senorita. Martina twisted away seating herself seductively on the hood of the car while Chichi took the owner inside where he turned on the pumps. Several times he grabbed at her, but she adroitly ducked his advances with a shake, a twirl, and a laugh teasing him along with the promise of things to come after he fulfilled his part of the bargain.
She steered him back outside where he rang the dispenser to zero, took the nozzle from its holder, and inserting it in the fill-pipe began to pump fuel into my car. As he pumped, Chichi fiddled with his zipper and he groped her breasts. Martina hopped off the hood and began to caress the pump jockey from behind blocking his view and completely diverting his attention from anything except the task at hand. And as his hands slipped inside Chichi's tee shirt and hers inside his soiled and grease stained pants Evans rounded the front of the car. Pushing Martina out of the way, Billy replaced her arms with his, the sensual caress suddenly becoming a crushing bear hug squeezing all the air out of our unsuspecting victim.
Evans rose up to his full height hoisting the man's dangling feet off the ground and continued to crush ribs until the poor fellow finally succumbed and lost consciousness. Then Billy gently set him down on the island propped between the two pumps. Chichi finished filling the tank, shut off the nozzle, and replaced it on its hook. "Ju didn't break nothing, did you, heito?"
"No, I'm fine; didn't hurt myself at all."
"I meant ju din't hurt him. Poor hombre, I feel bad he din't get to finish, ju know what I mean? After all, we are stealing his gas."
We all had a feeling we knew what she meant, but nobody wanted to elaborate or question. Evans finally answered, "He's going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, but that's it. I didn't bust any ribs or anything if that's what you mean. I know what I'm doing. I've got three sisters. You can't hit girls, but you sure as hell can't let them walk all over you. So, I came up with this. I've had lots of practice. I think of it as a non-violent defensive tactic."
"Hey, Chichi," I called out in an agitated whisper, "would you and Andre the Giant get a move on? We still have ground to cover. Let's go."
*****
BACK IN THE USA
We had been back in the good old USA, parked in the shade of a cottonwood tree for about an hour trying to catch up on a little sleep, safe and sound where the bad guys couldn't touch us and we felt a measure of security and relaxation, when a swarm of angry bees ripped through the air above our heads. We heard insects zipping around us but couldn't spot anything to swat as we flailed away at our assailants with tee shirts and baseball caps. Then one of the bumblebees ripped the cap from Evans hands. Another cracked through the frame of my windshield high up on the passenger side. Billy retrieved his hat and cried out, "The sucker punched a hole clear through the bill. Look at that, will you? I can put my little finger right through there. What the hell kind of Mexican killer bees can do that?"
"That is not a bee hole, chico," Chichi called out, "that is a bullet hole. Get us out of here, Surfer. They are shooting at us."
Turning back over my shoulder I see the white puffs of smoke from the rifles firing from the Mexican side of the border. My life is suddenly a Marty Robbins ballad but instead of the Streets of Laredo we were parked on a hill overlooking the border crossing. Our elevated position was causing the posse to shoot high. But it wouldn't take them long to realize and correct for the optical illusion. Soon I would be feeling the bullet deep in my chest. El Tigre had found us and momentarily his men would be streaming across the border. I seriously doubted some fanciful line drawn on a map would keep him from seeking his revenge on us. And sure enough, as I watched, a Rolls Royce came crashing out of the mesquite and bounced through the desert heading for the crossing.
The Impala roared as I turned the key and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. I had no idea where I was headed except away. Run away, run away as fast as you can... The speedometer leapt past 100 as I shifted from third to fourth. We were pegged when I slammed it into fifth and the needle snapped off the scale as we blasted past 180. My F-4 Phantom was outrunning the enemy Mig fighters, I banked hard right negotiating a curve avoiding an air-to-air missile. At 190 everything not tied down in the car was ejected as chaff to confuse enemy targeting radar. A cloud of beer cans, burger wrappers, tee shirts and miscellaneous trash covered our escape when I went supersonic. Surfer to base, Surfer to base... Come in base... I have bogies on my tail...Do you copy?
From the back I heard a scream. "The next right, Surfer, turn right. That's the road we want. Do you bear me?" Chichi roared. "Slow down, ju are gonna kill us quicker than those muchachos back there. They aren't gonna get across for at least ten minutes. We are out of range. So, slowdown..."
It made sense. Thanks to Evans' modifications when I hit Mach 5 the gas gauge needle on the Impala goes down as fast as the speedome