The Mexico Run by Lionel White Read Free Book Online

of what Bongo had told me, back there in Saigon. Told me about a certain Captain Hernando Morales of the Mexican Federal Police Department. Narcotics Division.
        "A most interesting and unusual man, sergeant," Bongo had said. "If he were hare, here in the Orient, he would be a millionaire. Many times over."
        "But in Mexico he is a policeman," I said.
        "Yes, a policeman. But more than just a policeman. A good deal more. When I was there, in Mexico, I handled the girls for him. But that was just a small part of his business. He was in everything. Hard goods, gambling, protection-you name it. Yes, a most unusual man. And dangerous. He would as soon kill you as do business with you. Not a man to take lightly. You are sure that you want to see him, sergeant, when you go back to the States? He is very tricky."
        "But he also has connections and power," I said.
        "That he has. A great deal of power. He is only a police captain, but his power is immense. The right connections, you understand. With the politicos and with the big racket people. But if you find him, be very careful. He is tricky, as I have said, and very dangerous. Very tough."
        "And he will remember you if I use your name, Bongo?"
        "He will remember Bongo. You may be sure. He will remember me. After all, didn't he try to have me murdered? But he has respect for me. Respect because he didn't succeed. A recommendation from Bongo will mean much to him."
        Later on, before I left Saigon, he wrote out a short note in longhand for me to give Morales, when and if I should look him up. The note was carefully folded and wrapped in a sheet of plastic in my wallet.
        I looked at my watch, and it was eleven o'clock. Leaving the restaurant, I paid my check with a twenty-dollar bill and received my change in pesos. Despite the unpopularity of American money in most foreign countries, the Mexicans still prefer the U.S. dollar. At least in the border towns.
        I left the car parked in front of the restaurant-one urchin, one quarter-and walked down the block until I came to a Mexican bank. A bilingual vice-president arranged for me to rent a safety-deposit box and left me alone while I took off the money-belt. I extracted two five hundred dollar bills and placed the belt holding the rest of my capital in the box, locked it and left the bank.
        I still had a little time to kill. I wanted to get back to the hotel by noontime, but no sooner.
        I spent the next forty-five minutes driving around the city. I wanted to reorient myself.
        At three minutes to twelve, I was again pulling into the lot next to the El Camino, and my young Mexican friend was waiting.
        This time, as he accepted a dollar from me, he told me his name was Carlos. He didn't want to take the dollar at first, reminding me that I had already given him six dollars. I explained that I was building up my credit. He felt he should offer something beside protection for my largess and showed me a handful of dirty postcards. When I shook my head, he smiled slyly.
        "Perhaps the senor would like to change his luck. I have this young cousin. Very clean, very young. A virgin. Arrangements can be…"
        I thanked him for the suggestion, but assured him my luck was holding out fine. He climbed back behind the steering wheel as I started for the lobby.
        I went up a flight of stairs and down the hall to Room 24. I put my key into the lock, but I didn't need it. When I pushed open the door, the first thing that hit me was the unmistakable sweet odor of marijuana. The first thing I saw was Sharon, sitting on the side of the bed, a slender cigarette in her mouth. She was dressed exactly as I had last seen her, but she had smeared her mouth with lipstick and was again wearing the eyeshadow. It didn't enhance her appearance, or make her look sophisticated; it merely made her look like an underaged prostitute.
        She