Part II - The San Diego Caper

Dear Wolf,

“I don’t think that was a good idea,” I said.

“Look,” said Hank, “all we have to do is go a couple miles out of our way, pick up a package, and deliver it to a buddy of his. What do the directions say to do next?”

“Hang a right at the big intersection up ahead and go for 12 miles.”

The highway undulated in a hot straight line. Heat shimmered off the surface and there was enough rise and fall in the road ahead that I was not sure if we were alone or if there was an 18 wheeler lurking in the hidden recesses of the next dip and fold of the road ahead. We said little. I rolled down the windows trying to get some air. This car was old enough to have little triangular windows in the front corners of the side windows. I turned mine so that there was a stream of hot dry air pushing against me. I opened my shirt to try and cool off. I looked at the sweat on my chest. The car had cloth seats that had that smell of old dry fetid dusty cloth. I guessed it to be about a ’54 maybe ’48. It seemed like it would be more at home in Cuba today than on an American road. 

I tried to picture us as Bogey or Gabel in some 40s drama, but I kept coming up with Broderick Crawford and Highway Patrol,  which really made sense because every time the whale of a car rounded a corner the tires squealed. The only difference was our tires squealed when they went around a corner and not when the sound guy seemed to randomly put in the effect on the old TV show.

“Man, it’s not every day you score a Caddie like this,” said Hank. “Did you notice the cool little bump fins on the back? Or what about those gorgeous round clumps of chrome in the bumper?”

“Yeah, it’s cool all right. I’d be a lot cooler if it had air conditioning and the radio is AM only. I think it’s vacuum tube.”

“Very retro,” said Hank. “I wonder why they did chop and channel it?”

“Huh, did you notice the rust? There’s more rust than side panel. I think they bought it with that in mind and once they calculated the time to do it and the cost they said forget it. By the way what’s that gate up ahead? It looks like the starting gate at Churchill Downs.”

“Customs,” said Hank, “I guess our pal forgot to mention that we were going to Mexico.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Maybe that explains why he didn’t want to make the trip.”

“Probably, wouldn’t have been able to get back,” said Hank. “Zur papers please,” he said in a thick German accent.

Fortunately, we both had our passports and the stop was uneventful. When Hank opened his wallet the Sheriff’s badge on the side opposite his driver’s license flopped open toward the Customs agent.

“Police?” said the agent as he eyed us quizzically.

“Can’t say,” said Hank flipping his wallet closed.

“Okay, go ahead. Have a nice day.”

“10 4,” said Hank.

“You know, you really ought to get rid of that toy badge,” I said.

“Why?” said Hank. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

I started, “We don’t need ...

No stinkin badges,” we said in unison.

“How far?” asked Hank.

“It’s not clear as to distance but we are to go until we see the big red steel shed on the left with the advertisement for tortillas on the side and turn left. The Hacienda will be on the right.”

“Must be one of those big old two story places with a red tile roof and an open courtyard in the center with a circular fountain.”

After five miles we say the shed. It was more likely one of those maquiladoras where they assemble things for the U.S. market. Farther down the road became even more depressing, and degenerated into a series of potholes. On the right was a low slung building with a metal porch on three sides with hitching posts in front of that; I guess to give it that olde Western feel. Motorcycles and dilapidated Toyota pickup trucks were pulled up near the hitching posts in front of the porch. A raised wooden sign painted in faded red, green and yellow colors said “La Hacienda.”

“Here’s the place,” I announced.

“Perfect,” said Hank as he wrestled our whale off the road and into the parking lot bouncing in and out of water filled puddles of unknown depth. By the time the car came to a stop muddy water had flown up over the hood and windshield.

“Whoa doggie,” said Hank stomping on the brake and trying to get the wipers to work, being pneumatic they came on when the car wasn’t doing anything else, which in this case meant it didn’t start to smear the watery mud on the windshield until we were at a full stop.

“Great,” I said. “I have a bad feel about this place.”

We were parked parallel to the road about two car lengths from the corner of the bar. We could survey the front and the side nearest us. Nothing moved. A red neon sign behind a dirt encrusted small window shown with the word “OPEN” that was the only sign of life.

“You’ve seen too many spaghetti westerns. It will be fine,” said Hank.

There’s one thing I know in life to be true, when Hank says, “It will be fine,” it won’t.

I got out of the car and attempted to clean off the wind shield by flinging the remains of water from the bottle I was drinking against the semi-circles of smeared mud on the windshield. We walked into “La Hacienda.”

This didn’t look like a bar from the old west more more like one that Quentin Tarentino might use in a sequel to Kill Bill. One door opening to a partitioned entryway with double doors opening onto a dingy low slung drop ceiling whose original white had become a dark tannish brown. People, men, hunched at the bar. A few groups sat at tables. If anyone had been talking it had stopped when we entered.

I had that immediate sense that we didn’t belong here. I was ready to smile and back out, while we still could. Hank walked to the end of the bar nearest us and the only open spot. The men at the bar looked up with feigned disinterest. The bartender looked like he had been recruited from an L.A. biker bar: bald bullet-shaped head, tight dirty black tee-shirt, big biceps. He was drying a glass with a towel and I’d say that was the only thing moving in the place except Hank.

“Excuse me,” Hank said.

At that moment the doors to the kitchen swung open and a woman came out holding a tray balanced on her hand and her shoulder. She approached a table where two men sat and “served from the shoulder” expertly placing a plate of food in front of each of them. She wore a typical pleated Mexican blouse with embroidered images in the ruffles and an ankle length dark skirt. I’d guess her age to be late 30s or early 40s, but I’m notoriously bad and such estimates. Her hair was black and hung down in rivulets and waves to her collarbone, where her blouse was unbuttoned down to her décolletage, which was ample. There was a direct sexuality about this woman. Every man in the place seemed to watch her.

The bartender had looked briefly at Hank then looked at the waitress as she served the two men. He continued to dry the glass.

“I was wondering if you served food at the table, but I guess that answers my question. Thank you for your time,” Hank said, and he moved to an open table near the door where we both sat. 

I was seated with my back to the door, where I could watch the action, such as it was, in the room. A skinny young man was seated two tables away. He was nearly facing me, except the table was turned slightly. The other man at the table was seated to his right and seemed ten years older and he had a nasty look about him; they both did. I’m not sure I can describe it as much as I felt it. It’s the kind of smiling look that made me feel like they’d lure you into a corner and then do you in. 

The waitress came over and bent down, giving Hank a really good look at what a man looks at when a woman with an open blouse bends over. He was tongue-tied and she knew it. She spoke in slow soft Spanish. I could tell Hank had no idea what she was saying, because he wasn’t listening. She knew it. She was teasing him unmercifully.

I managed to order in Spanish two beers and some food. She closed her eyes as she nodded and then turned and headed toward the kitchen and made a “V” sign to the bartender.

Moments later we were sipping on two beers, ice cold. Hank mentioned the name of the man we were to see to our waitress. A quick flicker of recognition came across her face, she nodded, turned and left for the kitchen.

Hank had spoken loud enough that the young man facing me heard him. He looked up and closed his eyes ever so slightly. I noticed he had a holster under his armpit. Was he an assassin?  One of those fellows who rides on the back of a motorcycle and pulls the trigger? I thought as much.