One Good Turn

Along the narrow and curving road that was the only means of access from the north to the old seaport of Puerto Perdido, Paul Devlan had driven most carefully. The road map showed the highway as a thin, red, unbroken line; but this was a gross exaggeration, as the road often disappeared in a mesa or along the beach. In the latter case, it had not been difficult to pick it up, for when the hard-packed beach ended in a bluff, the road started again, winding back up to another mesa. Here it again would disappear and he was forced to course the opposite end of the plateau, searching for it, much in the manner that a setter crisscrosses a field in search of birds. His motorcycle, however, made a hell of a lot more noise than any dog. Near dusk, he came down a hillside toward the water and this time, the road did not disappear in the hard-packed sand of the beach, choosing, instead, to straighten and run parallel to it. Gratefully, he increased his speed and soon he saw in the distance the muddy outline of the city of Puerto Perdido, where he planned to spend the night.

Centuries earlier, Puerto Perdido had been one of the busy seaports for the conquistadors, but gradually it had become so full of silt that the harbor today could service only the shallow-draft shrimp boats that brought in the harvest, which provided the basic industry for the community. From here, according to the most unreliable road map, the road was paved all the way to La Paz, some 50 kilometers to the south. Tomorrow, he would drive to La Paz and there, within a few days, he and his motorcycle would board a cargo ship and return to the United States.

It was dark by the time he entered the outskirts of Puerto Perdido. The streets were absurdly narrow for a town with so much open space around it. The stores had no windows, only doors, but no one need enter them to conduct business. The merchants stacked their wares on tables and on the sidewalk outside their stores for easy viewing by the possible customers who were thus forced to walk in the street. Devlan slowed his machine and the popping of the exhaust echoed loudly against the walls, causing the shoppers and the strollers to turn toward him.

He noticed a particularly fine specimen of a woman approaching, hips swaying, breasts loose under her peasant blouse. She had the walk of a person trained to carry a load on her head. As he drew abreast of her, she returned his stare boldly, raised her eyebrows and provocatively thrust a hip in his direction. He realized delightedly that she probably was a prostitute and, at the same time, that he had not had a woman since he started his trip more than a month earlier.

Turning in his saddle for another look, he barely had time to notice that she, too, was looking over her shoulder before the front wheel of his bike twisted violently. Instinctively, he tightened his hold on the handle bars, but the reaction caused him to advance the hand throttle. The motorcycle roared and smashed into the high curb and, at the moment of impact, he was lifted from his saddle and thrown forward. He had a brief second of awareness that he was flying toward a sidewalk stall full of serapes, rebozos, sombreros and huarachos before the world became a smothering black.

He knew when he landed. There was a stinging on the palms of his hands as they slid on the cobblestones for a brief instant before he rolled instinctively, like a tumbler, with the fall. The somersault was followed by a dull thudding blow against his head that stunned him. For a moment, he lay motionless where he had fallen. Then he became aware that he was blind and that he was having a considerable amount of difficulty in breathing. Yet he felt no pain. Far off in the distance, he heard a swelling cacophony of voices. He could move his arms and his legs with no pain; nor was there any pain in his chest. Experimentally, he raised his arms slowly to his head, felt the rough texture of wool and realized that his head had become enveloped in a serape or a rebozo. He pulled at the cloth but could not loosen it. Then, carefully, he felt with his hands until he found an end and unwound it like a turban. As he slowly freed himself, the voices around him became louder; then, when he finally emerged and gulped in the fresh air, the voices stopped abruptly.

He was surrounded. At least 100 brown-skinned, black-eyed faces of both sexes and all ages tightly pressed together stared at him. On not one of the faces could he detect the slightest expression. None showed sympathy or curiosity; but also, none showed any anger or hostility. The clothing stall was a shambles, garments strewn in all directions. There were no signs of anyone injured, which seemed incredible, considering the crowded conditions of the street. His motorcycle had struck the corner of the stall that had collapsed. Apparently, he had flown through the stall headfirst, which was very lucky, he decided, as his head had picked up a sufficient number of serapes to act as a cushion when he rolled into the adobe side of the building. He was lying now on the sidewalk. Moving very slowly, he raised himself to a sitting position and leaned against the wall. The crowd seemed to sigh and Devlan did likewise. It was best to move very slowly. If someone had been injured, he wanted no revengeful mob descending upon him. The sigh was a good sign that the crowd was not angry.

Thus far, no angry proprietor had appeared. The door to the shop was to his left and inside it was empty and this, too, was odd. A few feet beyond the shop door was a wrought-iron gate that barred the entrance to a shop garage and a patio. A few seconds after he noticed this, it was opened and an obese middle-aged man with a villainous mustache appeared, shrugged, glanced briefly at the wreckage, then turned and pushed the gate wide open. He next walked over to the motorcycle, righted it, slipped the gear into neutral, then rapidly pushed it inside the gate. Devlan noticed that the front wheel wobbled slightly, but otherwise, the bike appeared to be undamaged.

The gate swung shut with a loud clang, followed by the unmistakable sound of a heavy bolt sliding into its socket. Someone in the crowd, a woman, tittered softly. Then a small boy giggled. Devlan sighed deeply in relief. The crowd was not angry. He grinned, raised his hands waist-high with palms up, then shrugged. Several men in the crowd smiled. Two or three boys swooped up some of the rebozos and fled as three women, who looked like criadas, and two men suddenly raced out of the shop, shouting angrily, and began to gather up the scattered merchandise. The incident was finished. The crowd disappeared, moving along the street unhurriedly. No one any longer paid attention to Devlan.

For perhaps a couple of minutes, he remained against the wall, then slowly he stood up, moved around a busy criada, walked to the gate and looked between the bars. There was only a short driveway leading to a garage. His motorcycle was nowhere to be seen. He went back to one of the men folding the serapes gathered by the criadas.

"What happens?" he asked.

"He has sent for the police, señor. If you are still here when he comes, then you will be arrested."

Devlan nodded. "There is insurance to pay for the damage," he replied. "And also, there is the matter of my machine."

The shopkeeper shrugged and continued to fold the serapes.

A quarter of an hour later, the police came. He came on foot, a young man, about Devlan's age, neatly dressed in a khaki uniform, with a gun in a shiny holster fastened high on his waist. He wore the pips of a captain.

"Buenos dias," the captain said politely, kicking aside a broken sombrero. He glanced cursorily around at the wreckage of the stall.

"Buenos dias," Devlan replied.

"Do you have the necessary insurance?"

"Si, señor."

The captain held out his hand. "May I see the papers, please?"

"They are in the saddlebags of my motorcycle," Devlan answered. He nodded with his head. "The machine was taken inside by a gentleman of many kilos."

The captain nodded and went into the shop. A moment later, he returned and shrugged apologetically. "You will please come with me, señor." Devlan sighed and walked with the captain around the splintered wreckage of the stall. Then he paused and looked down. Lying in the street was a short length of drainage pipe, not attached to anything. The black skid mark of his tire could be seen against the hard clay. "You found the insurance papers?" Devlan asked.

The captain evaded the question. "In Puerto Perdido, we have a jeep, but it would not start, so we must walk. You must accept my apologies."

"The insurance papers." Devlan pressed.

The captain touched him on the elbow. "It was the business of Don Antonio Macias that your machine hit, señor. It is unfortunate." The captain shrugged as they strolled down the narrow street. "He says he must keep your machine locked in his garage until you pay for the damage to his stall. He would not let me into his garage to get the insurance papers."

(continued on page 187)One Good Turn(continued from page 138)

Devlan carefully controlled his temper. Anger was a luxury one could ill afford in this country. "But if Don Antonio is to get his money, I must have the insurance papers," he explained.

"Usually," the captain agreed. Again, he touched Devlan on the elbow to guide him across the street and into a narrow alley. "However, Don Antonio has had bad luck with his stall recently," he continued. "Four times, it has been destroyed by a passing visitor to our city. Three times were by automobiles. This is the first time it has been hit by a motorcycle. Possibly, you noticed there is a piece of sewer pipe lying in the road. It lies at such an angle that if it is hit, it turns the vehicle into the stall." The captain turned toward Devlan and smiled. "This is why no one ever is in that stall. There is too much chance of becoming injured."

Despite his predicament, Devlan found himself smiling back. "And the idea never has occurred to anyone to remove it."

Again, the captain shrugged. "Everyone who lives in Puerto Perdido knows that it is there, señor." He took a Delicado cigarette from his pocket, then proffered the pack to Devlan. "The last accident involved a gringo tourist who had driven up from La Paz. He had insurance, but the insurance company told Don Antonio that he should have learned by now that the sewer pipe caused damage to his stall and they would pay him nothing. Now he feels it is better to take something as a security."

"Don Antonio is a true bandido," Devlan said conversationally. "He gives this city a bad reputation. The tourists will not come anymore."

The police captain shook his head. "There are no tourists here, but very rarely. This is a town for the shrimp and the vegetables that are grown in the hills. There is nothing here for the tourist, except that we have two very fine whorehouses."

"Nevertheless, Don Antonio is a bandit, a robber. You should put him in the jail rather than me."

The police captain paused and leaned against the wall in the narrow alley, puffing on his aromatic cigarette. He sighed and exhaled. "But you are only a gringo and he is the brother of the alcalde."

Devlan shook his head. "I am a writer and he is a mere thief with a brother who is a politician."

"Then that makes both of you dangerous." The officer toyed with the flap of his holster. "There is a bus that goes to La Paz," he suggested.

Devlan shook his head. "How much does Don Antonio ask for damages, Captain?"

"Fifteen thousand pesos. About the same as he can get for the machine, señor."

"His shop is not worth a quarter of that."

The captain shrugged and looked at his watch. "There is an inn on the plaza, señor. Not the best inn, but is more comfortable than the jail. Because you are a very reasonable and a very agreeable gringo, you may stay there until a solution to this problem presents itself. However, please do not attract attention to yourself in the town, because Don Antonio, a bandit, still is the brother of the alcalde, and he thinks you will send for the money more quickly if you are in a jail."

"How soon do you think this solution will present itself?"

"Tomorrow is a fiesta. Possibly, it will be the day after this."

Devlan smiled and held out his hand. "Vaya con Dios, Captain," he said.

The captain shook his head. "Go with the bus to La Paz," he replied and, turning, he walked away.

Devlan continued down the alley for no other reason than to avoid following the soft-spoken police captain. It turned out to be the proper direction, for the alley opened onto the plaza of the community. A carnival had been set up in the square in preparation for the fiesta. The Ferris wheel jutted into the sky as high as the steeple of the church. A workman carried a shabbily painted horse toward the merry-go-round and two others pounded on a large stake, the heavy sledges alternately hitting their target in perfect rhythm. Apparently, this preparation was the prime attraction for the evening in Puerto Perdido, for all four sides of the large plaza were rimmed by the young and the old watching the workmen. The posada Devlan sought was but a few yards to the right of the alley and was identified as such by a small blue-neon sign.

The captain was being charitable when he referred to the place as an inn. It consisted of five rooms over a cantina. Devlan signed the register on top of a small ice chest that contained beer and soft drinks, paid his five pesos to the bartender, then climbed the stairs at the rear of the cantina to his quarters. The room smelled strongly of fish and beer and he wondered idly as to the condition of the jail if this room was better than a cell. A 15-want bulb hung from a frayed cord in the center of the room. The roll curtain over the window was torn and mended with cellophane tape. The mattress on the bed had the thickness of a couple of blankets. Devlan went back down to the bar and ordered a Dos Equis.

"I witnessed your unfortunate accident earlier this evening," the bartender said as he uncapped the bottle of beer.

"I understand there have been many unfortunate accidents there."

The bartender chuckled and opened another bottle for himself. "Perhaps you would have noticed Don Antonio's little pipe had you not turned to study the backside of Sarita. It is not good to look backward when one is driving forward, true?"

"True," Devlan agreed. "I would not be surprised, however, if she is a part of the trap. Does she work for Don Antonio?"

"Oh, no, Señor Devlan." The bartender raised the bottle to his mouth, drank a good half of it, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Sarita works at the Casa do las Munecas. She is very much a woman. She comes from Jalisco, which is my home, also."

"You have two very fine establishments in Puerto Perdido," Devlan said. "The captain told me."

"The very best. The other is El Eco, which is across the street. For myself, I prefer the Munecas, but they are both very fine. It is that the rooms are better at the Munecas."

Devlan grinned and tipped his head toward the stairs. "Better than these?"

The bartender nodded, then finished his beer. "These are only for the fishermen who sometimes get too drunk to get back to their boats."

• • •

When Devlan awoke, the sun flooded in the window and the breeze that billowed the curtains carried with it the smells of the waterfront community, of fish and tacos and enchiladas and the oil in which they are cooked. Sarita sat naked at the foot of the bed, legs crossed Indian style, brushing her waist-long, coarse black hair. Her black-tipped breasts swayed with the movement of her arms. Muscles over her rib cage rippled. She was a magnificent animal, perfectly proportioned. Her face did not meet the accepted standards of the beauty contestant. Her nose was squashed and her right canine tooth was gold capped, but Devlan liked her. "One more time," he said, clasping his hands behind his head.

"Una propina?" Her black eyes sparkled.

"I'll give you more than a tip," he replied. "Today is a fiesta for something. I will take you to the carnival and then to the best restaurant in Puerto Perdido. Then I will bring you back here at six o'clock, kiss your hand and, with a tear in my eye, turn you over to your new lover."

Sarita laughed, threw her brush on the floor and leaped upon him. "You are crazy gringo," she said breathlessly after a while. "I give you last time as a propína."

He shook his head. "We shall go to the carnival."

"La Señora Valentine will not allow."

"Why not?"

"One girl go out with customer, then soon all girls go out with customer. This is very bad for Señora Valentine."

"How many girls in Las Munecas?"

"With me, eleven."

"And Señora Valentine makes twelve. You will all come."

Rolling off the bed, she stood up and looked at him curiously, her head tipped to one side. "You very crazy gringo," she said.

"I'm serious," he replied, once again clasping his hands behind his head. "Go tell her."

Sarita shrugged, slipped into her skirt and blouse and went out of the room. For a moment, Devlan lay quietly on the bed, then, with a laugh, he got up and went into the bathroom. On a small shelf above the basin, he found a razor with an incredibly dull blade with which he managed to scrape off most of his whiskers before he went back into the bedroom and dressed. As he pulled on his boots, he heard the first salvo of firecrackers. It was, indeed, a fiesta. He checked the roll of bills in his pocket. There was almost 5000 pesos and he still had some traveler's checks. Sarita came back into the room. "It is impossible," she said. "First she said no, then she said yes, and then she said no again because of Señora Querida at El Eco."

"Ah, El Eco," Devlan said. "And how many girls are there at El Eco?"

"It is the competition," Sarita explained. "Señora Valentine is afraid we will lose some of our regular customers to Señora Querida. There is good business during lunch and then there is the fiesta, which will bring in the farmers tonight."

"How many girls at El Eco?" Devlan repeated.

"Only six."

"Plus Señora Querida makes seven. That is a total of nineteen. Will you ask Señora Valentine to ask Señora Querida to join us with her family?"

Again, Sarita tipped her head. "And you will pay for everyone?"

"Until my money has disappeared."

It took the better part of two hours to convince the two madams that he was serious, and then he time of departure for the outing was set at noon. Some of the girls had worked late and needed to sleep, but at noon precisely, the two houses were locked and Devlan, who also had napped with Sarita, accompanied by 17 girls of assorted shapes and sizes, two madams, both rotund and heavily corseted, marched the short block to the Puerto Perdido plaza, where they descended en masse on the concessions and various rides.

"The girls could all well afford to come here," Señora Valentine commented as the Ferris wheel lifted her and Devlan and Señora Querida up over the city, "but it is unlikely they would have come alone."

"This is true," Señora Querida agreed.

"It is good for them to have a rest, for tonight they shall be so busy."

Devlan nodded and took another bite from his ice cone. "The farmers coming in for the fiesta," he said.

"And the fishermen will return tonight," Señora Valentine added. "Our poor darlings."

The wheel started on another round and Devlan shifted in an attempt to find a more comfortable position between his two rotund companions. He had a feeling that the two madams were keeping him a prisoner, but it did not bother him.

"Why do you spend so much money on our girls when you could give it to Don Antonio and get back your machine?" Señora Valentine asked after a while.

Devlan pushed the remainder of his ice cone into his mouth and swallowed it. "Don Antonio is a bandit," he replied, wiping his fingers inside his pants pockets. "There are few people who like bandits, including myself. You ladies have temples of love and there are few people who do not like love, including myself. A man feels good when he does something for people he likes. Only a politician does something for a person he does not like." He laughed. "And, in addition, I do not have enough money to pay Don Antonio all that he seeks."

"He is a politician," Señora Valentine said. "He is the brother of the alcalde."

At a quarter of six, Devlan turned down invitations from both Señora Querida and Señora Valentine, said goodbye to Sarita and started away from the two houses, when he literally bumped into the police captain. "This is a wonderful thing you have done," the captain said. "Never before in the history of Puerto Perdido has a North American made such a magnificent gesture to the girls of our community."

"You are very kind, Captain."

"It must have cost you a fortune, Señor Devlan."

"Not so much as I thought."

"From one end of the town to the other, people have been guessing how much it did cost you."

"About one thousand pesos," Devlan said, "including the dinner."

The police captain shook his head. "Don Antonio called his brother and the alcalde wants to know why I let you spend so much money on the ladies of pleasure when you cannot afford to pay for the damage you incurred at the shop of Don Antonio."

"I am afraid I have not been very discreet."

"Alas, that is true." The police captain nodded. "Now I must take you to the jail." He touched him on the elbow. "However, I am very happy that you had the opportunity to enjoy yourself last night. Sarita is very much of a woman."

The cell was worse than the hotel room over the cantina. It was very small and the bed was nothing more than a series of straps laced between wooden posts. The food, however, was good. It was brought in from the outside, the jailer said, and consisted of gallina con mole with refried beans. With it were two bottles of cold Dos Equis.

About 11, the police captain came to the cell, opened the door and motioned for Devlan to come out. "The front wheel on your machine has been repaired, amigo," he said, "and we have filled your tank with petrol."

"You are very kind, Captain," Devlan replied cautiously.

"Don Antonio has removed his pipe and it has been agreed that he will not put it back. It has made him very angry with you."

Devlan looked at the even-tempered police captain curiously. The officer again motioned for him to pass through the door. "It is the wish of the alcalde that you move yourself to La Paz as quickly as it can be arranged," he said.

With a faint shrug, Devlan stepped out into the anteroom of the jail. The turnkey who had brought him his supper looked up and smiled, then turned away as the prisoner and the police captain stepped outside. The fireworks exploded steadily in the nearby plaza and Devlan could hear the happy cries of the carnival patrons. His motorcycle stood on its pedestal by the curb, guarded by another police officer. "And why has the alcalde become my friend in need, Captain?"

"He is not your friend, Señor Devlan." The police captain tipped his head. "He is even more angry than is Don Antonio." He touched Devlan on the elbow to guide him toward the motorcycle. "But he admires the manner in which you solved your difficulty. I myself think it was magnificent and I am sorry only that you cannot stay in Puerto Perdido, for I would like to have such a clever man as my friend personally."

Devlan paused beside the motorcycle. "What did I do to solve my difficulty, Captain?"

The police captain stared at him for a moment. "You do not know, señor?" Then, suddenly, he began to laugh and he slapped the broad belt that held his gun holster. "I myself thought that you had planned it this way." Then he slapped Devlan on the back. "I will tell you, amigo," he said presently, when he regained control of himself. "It was the girls at El Eco and Las Munecas, amigo. On fiesta night, the night of our patron saint, they went on strike. Not a fisherman, not a farmer, not a soul can enter their doors until you are released from our jail." Again, he laughed. "There are more angry men in front of the house of the alcalde at this moment than there are children at the carnival."

Devlan suddenly began to laugh with his friend. He straddled his machine and kicked the starter. When the engine caught with a roar, he turned to bid the captain farewell--and saw Sarita. She stood smiling in the middle of the street behind him, the light reflecting on her gold tooth. She waved, then turned and skipped along the pavement like a small child.

Devlan watched the road very carefully until he was well outside Puerto Perdido.