A Game of Authors Read Online Free PDF Page A

first to the hotel desk where an older, white-haired man with a face like wrinkled leather and eyes of veiled caution stood in Villazana’s place.
    The old man informed Garson that no one had called for him during the night.
    Medina, a thoughtful expression on his ugly face, sat at a table near the arcade, his back to the wall. Garson joined him.
    “Choco, how do I get out to the Hacienda Cual?”
    Medina put a finger to his long mustache, said, “Are you aching to get draped over a fence in a dead condition?”
    “Nuts! I’ve a story to do. The best way is to go right in the front door.”
    “And out the . . .”
    A hotel maid bent over the table, interrupting Medina. “ Dispense, Choco ,” she said. “ El llave? ”
    Garson recognized the word for “key,” saw a key pass from Medina to the maid. She crossed the lobby, opened a padlocked door with the key, exposed steps leading upward.
    Medina said, “I don’t like any part of . . .”
    “Just a minute, Choco!” Garson studied him a moment, looked in the door the maid had opened. She reappeared with a light pallet and a roll of blankets.
    “I thought so,” said Garson. “You stayed on the roof last night, Choco.”
    Medina shrugged. “So I made love to the maid.”
    “Hah!”
    “Maybe I was protecting some poor Mexican from an American citizen with a gun. How do you know?”
    “I appreciate it all the same,” said Garson.
    Medina coughed, cleared his throat.
    Garson felt deeply moved, a sense of warmth and kinship with this evil-visaged Mexican. He said, “Maybe I’ll get a chance to . . .”
    A horn blared in the street.
    Both men turned.
    The long black limousine of the railroad station stood in the street, the same queenly beauty in the rear seat. A string of pack burros loaded with sacked charcoal blocked the street.
    Again the horn blared. Garson’s attention went to the driver, noted that it was not Eduardo Gomez but the man who’d sat beside Gomez holding a rifle.
    Medina said, “Do you know who that is?”
    “Luac’s daughter. What’s her name, Choco?”
    “Anita Carmen Maria.”
    “How do you know her full name?”
    “It’s on her baptismal record.”
    And Garson thought: Anita Luac—Anita Peabody. Another link in the chain. He filed Medina’s familiarity with the woman’s name for future investigation, pushed himself away from the table.
    “Where’re you going?”
    “Out to meet the . . .”
    The limousine found an opening beside the burros, sped off down the avenue.
    “It would be safer to go out and tangle with the fence riders at the hacienda,” said Medina. “That was José Gomez driving. He’s known as El Grillo: the cricket. That’s because he can shoot crickets on the wing with his rifle.”
    “Gomez,” said Garson. “Is he related to a man named Eduardo Gomez?”
    “Eduardo is his nephew. Why?”
    “I’d like to find Eduardo Gomez and talk to him. Do you have any idea where the car may be going?”
    “ Quién sabe? Sometimes they go to the doctor, sometimes to a store, sometimes to the market.”
    “Choco, see if you can find out where they’re going now.”
    “Look, why don’t you stop asking for a casket! This is . . .”
    “Stop this menacing Mexico routine for five minutes,” said Garson. “This is a straightaway love story—romantic runaways, all the trimmings. That exquisite creature in the car is the love child to top it off!”
    Medina shook his head. “You may not respect your skin, but I have the greatest re . . .”
    “Then I’ll go find them myself!”
    “No!” Medina jerked to his feet. “If it must be, it must be! But you’re asking for big trouble!”
    “This is just a simple little story of . . .”
    “Nothing is really simple,” said Medina. “Wait here for me. I’ll do what I can.” He went out into the arcade, strode around the corner to the right.
    Garson ordered breakfast, ate in a mood of deep thoughtfulness.
    Something about Medina doesn’t fit , he thought. Is