Mexico - 13. Chapter 13 of 16

As we entered the courthouse -- The Municipal Building we kind of translated from the darkened bronze plaque -- we were greeted, or rather ignored, yet stared at and giggled about, by a group of maybe eight to ten young women. Secretarias, maybe all getting morning coffee from a communal pot.
Mark smiled at them. That set off more giggles, which kind of made sense. He was a good-looking guy, even unshaved, in dirty shorts, and wearing a dumb-looking T-shirt. His advertised beer. Mine tequila. Some of the girls were hot.
“Excuse,” he asked. “¿Donde está la policía?”
That set off more giggles. Then the girls turned away from us.
“What did I do wrong?” Mark asked.
“Nothing. I’ll bet they don’t speak English.”
I smiled at the women as nicely as Mark had. “Excuse, por favor,” I began. “¿Donde está el estación de la policía?” “I really wanted to say, “Could you please tell me where the police department is?” But that was way beyond my vocabulary.
The secretaries giggled and chattered girlishly among themselves. Then, seemingly all at once, they pointed down the hall.
“Gracias, señoritas,” I said, grinning.
“Muchos gracias,” Mark added.
And we went down the hall.
“Lets see how well you charm the officers,” Mark cracked to me.
The door to the police station was clearly stenciled Policía on the frosted glass. We knocked, waited, got no response, knocked again, then tried the worn brass handle. The door was unlocked, so we went in.
It was a single, fairly large room. But it was a mess. Littered with paper. The oak furniture and counters stained. The bookcases overpacked. The walls were streaked stucco with heavy dark moldings. Every wall seemed covered with posters and announcements, not always on bulletin boards. There were four officers of different ages, going from maybe late teens to seemingly beyond retirement. Each wore a slightly different uniform. One of the guys was watching a small, out-of-focus black-and-white TV that was perched on a stack of books. Two other guys were playing cards together -- it looked like Poker -- on the barely-cleared corner of a desk. The last guy, the youngest, was curled on a countertop, sleeping.
Mark approached the nearest officer, the losing cardplayer judging by his small stack of broken toothpicks.
“¿Habla Inglés?” he asked. Then he smiled, hopefully.
“No, señor,” the answer came. The cop hadn’t even looked up.
I took over, speaking slowly. ¿Está... aquí -- anyone -- alguien... que habla Inglés?”
“Sí, señor.”
I waited. But there was no further answer.
“¿Donde?” I asked.
Mark and I looked at the other officers hopefully. But the one who’d spoken merely pointed at a wall clock I hadn’t noticed before. It read just past eight-thirty.
“A la nueve,” he went on, still not looking at us.
“Nine?” Mark asked.
The guy nodded and continued his game.
“I don’t suppose there’s a coffee shop,” Mark said.
“You could ask las secretarias.”
Instead, he tried asking the cops.
“¿Está café?”
“I think you just asked, Is there a restaurant?”
“That would work, too. But how do you say coffee?”
I had to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. It might also be café.”
“That’s confusing.” He turned to the cops, who’d been ignoring our conversation. “Está café?" he asked.
One of them slowly pointed towards the door.
So we went out.
“Let me go and find the guy about the window,” I told Mark. “And at least cash some Traveler’s Cheques. So you’re not the only one with money.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“It shouldn’t take long.”
He thought for a moment. “I really wish you’d stay,” he went on. “I’m kind of lost without words.”
Again, he asked so nicely, I couldn’t refuse. So we went looking for coffee.
The secretaries were gone, but their pot was there. As well as a stack of styrofoam cups.
“Would that be rude?” I asked Mark.
He shrugged. “Let’s see if there’s a pushcart outside. They seem to sell everything.”
We went into the square. The kids were still scrubbing my car, which was reassuring. But they were trying to make it shine, and I wanted to tell them that, after too many Midwestern winters, that was impossible. Instead, I asked the oldest kid for directions, for café, and he seemed to understand. But he answered using too many words I didn’t understand, most of them probably slang. Finally, we went in the direction he pointed.
We passed a bank. It wasn’t open, of course. Too early. But the sign said nine, which I guessed was when everything started. Except the pushcarts, which were already selling things. We bought coffee from one, and I asked about the mechanic, for back-up directions. But it was hard asking for specifics. It involved words I didn’t know.
Mark tried sunglasses on, from another cart. He bought a pair for himself and one for me, which made the morning a little less bright. The woman at the cart seemed very happy to see us. She cheerfully held up a mirror for us to model the glasses, then she carefully polished their lenses.
We also looked at some T-shirts we liked better than the ones we were wearing. But we didn’t want to go into the police station carrying junk, and there seemed no point in leaving it in the car, to tempt the kids.
As the tower clock tolled nine, we headed back to the station. The office was pretty much as we left it. Though one of the officers looked at us then at the wall clock.
“Quince minutos,” he said, smiling.
“Nine-fifteen?” I translated.
“Sí, señor.”
“Why? ¿Por qué?”
“El Capitán es tarde.”
Evidently, their boss was running late.
“I should try that bank,” I told Mark. “You want to come with me?”
“Nah, I think I’ll stay here. Remind them we exist.”
He got one of the card-players’ attention, then pointed to what they were doing. Then he pointed to himself. As he did, he lay a five dollar bill on the table. The older officer quickly found Mark a chair.
I went out, checked the car, went back to the bank, found it open, waited in a short line, handed the teller my Iowa driver’s license, which she studied as if it were gold, and waited some more. She stared at my picture, then scrutinized at me. She compared the signatures I’d just written on three cheques to the signatures on my driver’s license and the credit card she’d also asked for. She even had me sign my name another few times on a piece of paper. Then she disappeared. After a few minutes, she reappeared, with a man I supposed was her supervisor. He glanced wordlessly at me, then at the accumulated paperwork. Then he scribbled his initials on each cheque, and the teller, somewhat possessively, counted out and then surrendered my money.
The town clock said almost nine-thirty-five. My car was clean and dry, with only two of the smallest kids remaining -- hardly the Marines. I gave each them another ten pesos.
“No va,” I instructed.
“No va!” they squealed. The oldest couldn’t have been eight.
I gave them another five pesos to be sure they stayed.
Did I feel like an Ugly American? You bet. But the car was my biggest possession in Mexico. And I couldn’t imagine trying to buy another one in Spanish.
In the police station, I expected to find Mark explaining. But he was happily playing Poker. The five dollar bill had been changed into Mexican coins, and most of them were piled in front of other players. The kid who’d been sleeping on the counter was also awake and in the game. I had a feeling Mark was losing purposely.
“What happened at nine-fifteen?” I asked him.
He grinned. “I was told nine-thirty.”
“And at nine-thirty?”
“Nine-forty-five.” He didn’t seem upset.
“The guy’s very late.”
“I think they said something about court. Or a meeting.”
“¿El Capitán... lega... aquí... pronto?” I said, looking expectantly at the oldest officer.
He smiled, then shrugged, adding a new gesture to his repertoire.
“You want to play, señor?” he asked a moment later.
I begged off. “I’ll be back,” I told Mark. “I’m gonna find that glass guy.”
“I’ll be here.” Since he was playing cards, he seemed more comfortable about not knowing the language.
“Don’t lose your shirt,” I joked, leaving.
“I don’t like this one anyhow.”
I retrieved my car from the kids and gave them each a couple more pesos. It might have been cheaper to put them through college. Then I looked for the repair shop. I had simple instructions, but, of course, got lost. I tried asking questions, but though my Spanish seemed to be improving, I had no real proof of that. In any case, my questions were useless. People still talked faster than I could understand, and I wondered how Mexicans ever got a reputation for being laid back.
Though by prowling the streets around the square, I began to make sense of the signs. Once I looked in places where there ought to be repair shops, I found what I was hunting for. The man I wanted to speak with was on the phone, so I waited , smiling at his assistant, a maybe fifteen-year-old boy. I’d tried to explain, but the kid spoke no Inglés.
“Cuando el señor -- I didn’t know how to say boss -- termina el teléfono?”
The boy shrugged.
I gave him a buck. I’d gotten some American money at the bank, too, after Mark showed me how useful it was. The boy just shrugged again.
I waited. I looked around the shop, which resembled a small, indoor junkyard. There were pieces of everything, but nothing whole. Eventually, the man finished on the phone.
“Hola,” I began.
“Hola,” he said, as he scribbled something on a piece of paper.
“¿Hablo Inglés?” I went on.
“Mas o menos.”
So far, this was high school conversation.
“Me, también. Hablo poco Español.”
He seemed to understand, but I figured I’d let my car do the work.
“Mi automóvil. Mi ventana,” I said, pointing toward the street. Then I lead him out there. The car was okay. It was a quiet street, and I’d been watching through the open doorway all the time I’d been in the shop.
As before, the mechanic looked at the window carefully, shaking his head. But he didn’t seem defeated. He was simply exploring. Next, he smiled, as if saying, This will be easy.
He took out a measuring tape. Its case was battered, but the tape uncoiled. He measured, then measured again. Then he went to the passenger’s side, had me start the engine and roll the matching window partway down. Then he measured that.
“Ninety dollars, señor.” he soon announced. “Americano.”
That seemed fair. “In advance?” I asked. “¿Ahora?”
“Sí, por favor.”
I gave it to him. He offered nothing in return.
“Llaves?” he asked.
“Un receipt?” I questioned.
He shrugged and went over to the counter that could have been his desk. It was as cluttered as the entire police station. He searched a lot of places, maybe for my benefit. Then he grinned, ripped a scrap off a larger piece of paper, dated it, signed what I guessed was his name, and handed the scrap to me.
“Gracias,” I said, and we shook hands.
I could have just paid the man to steal my car. But I had to be trusting. As I was leaving, the guy flipped my keys to his assistant, and the kid followed me out the door. I could still hear him revving my engine as I walked down the block.
Soon after ten, I was back with Mark. Who was still playing cards.
“You missed the excitement,” he said. “For five hands, I couldn’t lose.”
“What happened?”
He laughed. “I was out-bluffed.”
He pointed to toward the formerly sleeping boy, who laughed, too.
“Any idea why it’s taking so long?” I asked Mark.
“Nope, we’re just waiting for their boss. El jefe.”
The chief. So that’s how you said boss.
“Any clue when he’ll be here?”
Mark was watching the deal. “When he gets here. There’s no rush. It seems they’re not very busy, anyhow.”
But they do play cards and collect paper, I thought. I looked around the room. There was a bench in a kind of waiting area. I sat down.
“Sure you don’t want to join us?” Mark asked. “It passes the time.”
“No,” I said, and I passed the time thinking about Chris. Wondering what he’d do. He sometimes had more patience than I did, but this time I thought he’d have less.
I wanted to ask Mark if we really needed to go through with this. We’d gone to the police. We’d tried to file a report. We had driving to do.
Only we didn’t, really. We weren’t going any place in particular. Not in a hurry. This was just another part of the adventure.
So I watched Mark comfortably playing cards with three guys he’d never met before. Chris would never do that. He would have been sitting on the bench with me, getting pissed off. Only I had something more interesting to distracted me.
And maybe you don’t need to know someone’s language to play cards. Maybe the rules are so clear you can just play. The four guys seemed to be having a great time. Even though only three of them could talk to each other.
Or maybe Mark was just friendly. Maybe that’s all that hug meant. The first one, after we’d gotten untied. The spontaneous, long one.
Though there seemed something so definitely sexual in it. So personal. Or maybe it was just me. I’m sometimes not very good about figuring out when people are gay. But in the moment of that hug, I was sure Mark was.
Which might explain why he was so uncomfortable about marrying Anne. It wasn’t the only explanation. He liked her. He loved her. But faced with having children and making that kind of long-term commitment, he could have panicked. Wondering how far he could go.
And then he saw this guy, driving down the road. And he sensed immediately that this guy was his way out. At least, out of Guaymas. He didn’t even have to know I was gay. Possibly, he didn’t care. He wasn’t attracted. But he wanted to leave.
I wondered if Mark had ever had sex with a guy. He seemed to have a lot of fun with Tiana in that bar. But I was having fun with Adelina. And we were both very drunk. We were all very drunk.
It was too much to think about, and I was probably guessing wrong. But just as the young cop bluffed another hand, and this time lost to the middle cop, el jefe arrived.
“Excuse,”I asked, standing and offering my hand. “¿Es el Capitán? ¿Es verdad habla Inglés?”
“Sí, señor.”
He was a better-dressed version of his officers, and maybe in his early forties. He smiled, firmly shaking my hand, and I was ready to explain. Then he went to what was probably his desk and pulled out a paperback English-Spanish dictionary.
Damn.
Mark just laughed. The card game had instantly stopped, and Mark came over to help with the report.
Slowly, we explained, in as much detail as we could remember, as much as we thought the Captain could understand. Patiently, he listened, often without interrupting with questions. Finally, he said, handling our language with the same authority we were probably abusing his, “Help. I... necesito... to get para you... ayuda... help. ¿Comprendo?”
“Sí,” Mark said.
The Captain instantly turned to the youngest cop, saying something muy rápidanmente. The cop was immediately out the door.
While we waited for something to happen -- I wasn’t quite sure what -- the Captain slowly asked us. “Quatro ninos... robbed... su automóvil, no? Usted es hombres... Big men.” He gestured to how tall Mark and I were, easily several inches taller than he was. “Why...” he went on, “ usted no... stop... el niños?”
Behind him, the two remaining officers nodded. Though I don’t know why, if they couldn’t completely understand.
I looked at Mark. Did he understand? I repeated, “How did we manage to get mugged by four kids armed only with flashlights?”
“It happened very fast,” Mark explained.
“Muy rápido,” I told the Captain.
“We were sleeping,” Mark explained.
“Estamos dormir.” I couldn’t conjugate that.
“We were surprised.”
I had no idea how to say surprised. Astonished? Ambushed? Hi-jacko? I’d be better off in pig latin. Fortunately, at that moment, the young cop returned, accompanied by a woman about his age who turned out to be a travel agent. She’d gone to grade school in the United States.
“Good morning,” she told us.
“You speak English?”
“Pretty good.” And she took the dictionary from the Captain’s desk.
But she understood us if we went slowly. And this slight handicap in no way lessened the pleasure of speaking in full sentences again. One of the things the Captain first made clear was, if he’d been in the car with us, things would have ended differently.
He mimed punches to the chin and belly. The young cop was his dummy.
“Why did you come here?” he had the travel agent ask. “Why did you not tell la policía in the town?”
“There were no police in town,” Mark insisted. “At least, we couldn’t find them. We were told to come here.”
I stood there nodding, as the travel agent translated. Then the Captain nodded, though obviously disagreeing. Then, he listened some more. When the travel agent translated our whole story, which took maybe twenty-five minutes, the Captain grinned and said, “Now... you start... report.” And he took out a huge stack of forms.
Mark started to write. I started to write. We probably wrote far longer than it takes to do the average doctoral comps, or, in Mark’s case, his bar exam. Everything we wrote had carbons. Every carbon had to be checked by the Captain and slowly translated by the travel agent. Every page and every carbon had to be signed. Four full sets. By Mark. By me. By the Captain. By the travel agent. By two of the three other cops, as witnesses. And we all had to use only the official black-ink-filled fountain pen. Then the copies had to be collated. And hole-punched. And semi-bound. Finally, a notary -- or the Mexican equivalent of one -- was sent for, and Mark, and I, and the Captain, and the witnesses and the travel agent, all had to sign another set of forms swearing we hadn’t lied when we’d signed the first ones. When all that was finished, if the universe wasn’t at peace, and if Mark and I hadn’t bought at least a small island, I wasn’t sure why not.
I had no idea what I’d really sworn to, of course. By the time we were done, I just wanted to leave. And I was starting to do exactly that, when the Captain stopped me.
“Now you must see the police,” the travel agent translated for him.
“What?” I looked at them, stunned. I didn’t even have a chance to glance at Mark. “I thought you were the police.”
“Oh, sí, señor,” the travel agent said. “They are the police for the report. But not for the investigation.”
Investigation?
Mark?
When I turned to him, he was grinning. “You have a much better sense of humor than I do,” I said.
The travel agent started translating.
“No,” I told her. Then to Mark: “Can we get out of this?”
“Unfortunately, no,” the travel agent interrupted. “Once you’ve started...”
And, with that, the Captain led us to another part of the building.
Now if the office we’d spent the morning in resembled my freshman college dorm room, this other police department looked like a high school janitor’s closet. Not even fake wood grain. Battered metal desks. And no bulletin boards. Layers of police notices were taped, one on top of another and ultimately to the concrete walls. And the guys working there could easily have been plumbers
“At least, we won’t have to go through the whole explanation again,” I told Mark. “They can read the other report.”
The Captain was carrying one copy of that with him.
Of course, I was wrong. Each branch of the department had separate forms. So Mark and I had to repeat the story, slowly, and the travel agent -- who’d trailed behind the Captain -- had to translate it all again. She was very sympathetic, and I had a feeling she was filling in gaps where Mark’s and my memories failed -- she’d already memorized the story. The new officers were also sympathetic, especially when they saw our scraped wrists. Mine, especially, which were in worse shape than Mark’s. But the officers didn’t seem really interested in what had happened until they learned that we weren’t just another pair of unshaved, badly dressed punks slumming our way through their country. I was a college teacher, and Mark was a lawyer.
“¿Un profesor? ¿Un abogado! Is true?” they asked.
“Well, I teach college,” I began. “But I’m hardly a professor...”
“Just say yes,” Mark advised. “They don’t know the difference,”
And they didn’t seem to care. They were too busy patting our backs and shaking our hands, celebrating our good fortune. That barely happened at graduation.
“Un abogado!” they repeated. “Un profesor!”
“How old?” one of them asked.
“Twenty-five,” I said. “Viente y cinco.”
Mark nodded in confirmation, and I wondered if we’d seem better being older or younger.
“Viente y cinco!” another officer exclaimed. “Son-of-a-bitchion!” He seemed to be around the Captain’s age, near forty.
The travel agent stood and watched all the fuss, and when a moment’s calm allowed, she excused herself.
“I have to go back to work.”
“We’d have to be going, too,” I told everyone. The wall clock read past noon
“Oh, you not leave, Profesor.”
“Sí. Thank you very much for all you’ve done. Gracias.”
“No,” the Captain repeated, shaking his head to make that clear.
“More forms?” Mark gambled.
“No, pero usted... must show us... donde it happen.”
There was a big map of Mexico taped to the wall of the room. Even bigger than the one I’d had. I found where we were, traced the highway north until I’d gone about as far as I thought we’d driven that morning, pointed to the area, and said, “Somewhere near here.”
The Captain and the officers laughed.
“No en la mapa, Profesor. Come... usted take us aquí.”
“Oh, no!” I sighed.
“Oh, sí,” he said.
“It’s over an hour’s drive,” I insisted. Too quickly forgetting that we no longer had a translator.
“What? ¿Qué?”
“Un hora. Posible dos.”
“No,” they insisted.
“It’s a long trip,” I went on, stretching my hands wide to show them.
They laughed again. They were a happy crew.
“You go,” the Captain told us. “Vamos!”
“I would love to vamos,” I told Mark. But we didn’t seem to have that choice.
Soon, the Captain left us. It seemed that someone had to stay and run the station. He put in charge the other officer, a man who resembled Alan Arkin, the actor, in his late 30s. Two of the younger detectives also came with us. A small round one, and fierce one who resembled an Aztec warrior, ready to rip out someone’s heart.
As we started, Arkin parceled rifles to his men. I’d been reassured that guns were carefully regulated in Mexico. Only the state police had them. So that must have been who we were with. Arkin handed one rifle to each of the guys and took one for himself. In addition, each of the cops shouldered one of those woven Mexican purses I’d seen on sale that morning in the pushcarts but mostly associated with photos of 60s hippie girls. Only now, each purse was filled with loose ammunition.
“¿Donde está su automóvil?” was the next thing Arkin asked. “Where su car?”
Mark and I led them outside, thinking they just wanted to inspect the car. They seemed surprised when it wasn’t parked in the plaza. But they cheerfully toted their arsenal the few streets to the mechanic’s shop.
The car was ready. It sat safely on the street in front of the garage. New window installed. All doors locked.
“Un momento,” I told Arkin, and I went into the office to get the keys. The mechanic and his young assistant came out, so we could inspect the work together. I did. I rolled the window up and down. I tapped it. The mechanic tapped it. I grinned. I was pleased. He grinned. He was pleased. I tipped him another ten bucks as Mark and the officers grinned, and I gave the assistant twenty extra pesos.
I’d still hoped that all the detectives wanted to do was examine the car. Instead, they got in. When the Captain had said, “You take us there,” that’s exactly what he meant.
As I was thanking the mechanic one more time, I noticed the round detective whispering something to Arkin. He turned quickly to me.
“What this?” he asked, handing me several pieces of twine.
“The rope we were tied up with,” I explained.
I knew not to say ropa, because that meant clothes. But I couldn’t think of the real word for rope. Or the one for tied.
“Help,” I said to Mark.
He quickly wrapped the rope around his wrists and showed that to Arkin.
“Oh, sí,” Arkin said. Then he turned to the round detective and translated the explanation into Spanish.
As Mark and I got into the car -- me driving, Mark in the back with the two younger detectives, Arkin in the passenger seat -- Arkin carefully coiled the twine around his hand. But as we pulled into traffic, he tossed casually tossed the twine out the window. So much for super sleuths.
Before we left town, Arkin decided to stop for gas. That was all right. I hadn’t gotten gas earlier, so we still had half a tank. But who knew how far we were going? He pointed to a particular station, so I pulled in, and the attendant came up and topped my tank. Then he reached his hand through my window for payment. As I went for my wallet, Arkin said, “No pay.”
“Why?” I asked. “Que?”
“Estamos la policía,” was all he said. Which I repeated to the attendant.
His hand didn’t go away.
“Pay the man,’ Mark advised. And I started for my pesos.
“No!” Arkin insisted. He shouted to the boy, “La policía!”
The attendant withdrew his hand and stuck his head through my window instead. He looked angry.
“He wants to be paid,” I told Arkin. Who I’m sure realized that. None of the detectives were really in uniform. But they all wore something that was quasi-military, including caps. And it didn’t seem like that large a town. Arkin had waved to the friendly officer directing traffic as we’d passed, and the guy had grinned back. Plus, this gas station wasn’t that far from the municipal building.
Arkin got out of the car, taking his rifle with him. It had been stored between him and the door. “Come!” he told me.
I did. I didn’t questions guns.
Neither did the attendant. Seeing the rifle, he scrambled into the gas station, hollering something in rapid Spanish. In a moment, another man -- the owner or manager -- came racing out of the building, hissing stock curses and carrying a shotgun.
He stared at Arkin. Who stared right back.
Neither spoke.
I felt like the most naked target.
Before I knew it, the round detective had leaped from the back seat, a rifle cradled in each of his arms, both barrels pointed at the manager. I wondered if the attendant would suddenly appear in a tank.
Arkin said something in tense Spanish.
The manager replied.
Arkin snarled.
The manager showed his teeth.
Arkin grabbed my wallet from my hand. He pulled out a handful of pesos, and tossed them on the ground.
The manager squinted at them.
Arkin growled something else.
The manager grumbled in return.
Then Arkin looked at me for what seemed a very long moment, and I thought I might have a permanent job working at a Mexican gas station.
The manager spat, narrowly missing my foot. And he called his assistant.
The boy dashed from the station, groveling, and retrieved the money from the dirt.
He offered it to the manager.
The boss made him count it.
The manager yanked one bill from the stack and flipped it back on the ground.
“Take it,” ordered Arkin.
“Sí.”
El profesor groveled.
“Get in car,” Arkin went on.
I did.
Arkin said something else, sharply, and the round detective got into the car, backing all the way. But even inside, he kept his rifles pointed at the manager.
Finally, Arkin got into the passenger seat, slamming his door.
“Go!” he told me, and I started the engine. I drove off, sweating in relief.
As we hit the road, Arkin and the round detective broke into hysterical laughter. Later, Mark told me that the big Aztec hid through the whole thing.