Hazardous Duty (Presidential Agent 8)

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Bitter said very respectfully, “but neither you nor this lady seem to be very concerned with this threat to Colonel Castillo.”

“You’ve heard of Pancho Villa, Commander?” Doña Alicia asked. “The famous Mexican bandito?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Villa announced to the world that after he cut the throat of Carlos’s great-grandfather Marcos Castillo—who was, of course, also Fernando’s great-grand-uncle Marcos—he intended to drag his corpse through the streets of Tampico behind his horse until there was nothing left but the rope.”

“Why did he want to do that, ma’am?” Bitter asked.

“In those days, this was a cattle ranch. Now we grow grapefruit, but in those days we raised cattle. Well, Señor Villa decided he needed some of our cattle, and helped himself. Great-grandfather Marcos did the only thing he could—he applied Texas law.”

“Which was?”

“He hung twenty-seven of Señor Villa’s banditos,” she said. “So, Señor Villa—he was something of a blowhard, truth to tell—announced he was going to drag Great-grandfather Marcos behind his horse. That didn’t happen. But it was necessary for Great-grandfather Marcos to hang another thirty-four banditos before Señor Villa understood that those sorts of threats were unacceptable.

“And when, in 1923, Señor Villa met his untimely death, in a manner similar to the deaths of those drug people near here—that is to say, he was shot multiple times while riding in his automobile—the same sort of scurrilous allegations were made that Great-grandfather Marcos was responsible. Until his death, at ninety-two, he refused to comment publicly on them.”

“My Carlito’s beloved ancestor, Commander,” Sweaty said, “was—as my Carlito is—what they call a Texican. That means an American of Mexican blood. There’s a phrase, ‘Don’t mess with a Texican.’ You might want to write that down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Commander Bitter said. “And may I take the liberty of saying, ma’am, that I think I understand why you and Colonel Castillo were attracted to one another?”

“Yes, you may,” Sweaty said. “Actually, it was love at

first sight.”

“Oh, really? Where did you meet?”

“In the charming ancient university town of Marburg an der Lahn in Germany. Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin had sent my brother and me there—we were at the time SVR officers—to whack him. Circumstances didn’t permit that to happen. And the next day, we met for the first time. One glance and—well, here we are.”

[TWO]

The Dignitary’s Exhibition Area

The Pots of Gold Grand Theater and Slots Arena

The Streets of San Francisco Hotel, Resort and Casino

Las Vegas, Nevada

2159:55 19 June 2007

The producer held up his hand with four fingers extended and began to count downward, “Five, four, three…”

Where he would have said “two” he balled his fist, extended his index finger upward, and, where he would have said “one,” pointed it toward Pastor Jones, who was wearing a wing-collared boiled shirt and a tuxedo.

“Good evening, it’s twelve o’clock in Montpelier and nine o’clock here in Sin City, and this is Pastor Jones.”

He stopped suddenly and put his finger on what looked like a hearing aid. His face showed either chagrin or annoyance and then he went on. “Excuse me, I’ve just been informed it’s ten o’clock here in Sin City, where we have Wolf News World Wide cameras set up at the fabled Streets of San Francisco Hotel, Resort and Casino, where Miss Red Ravisher just moments ago won the distinguished actress award in the fifteenth annual Climax Awards of the Adult Motion Picture Industry Association.

“And that means, Mommies and Daddies across the world, that it’s time to send the wee ones off to bed, as we expect Miss Ravisher to be with us momentarily, and if we’re lucky, we hope to have a clip from her epic film Catherine and the Household Cavalry.

“And here she is,” Pastor Jones said, as Red Ravisher walked up to him. She was wearing a gold lamé frock that clung closely to her body and carrying against her bosom the gold—probably gold-plated—sculpture the AMPIA had just awarded her.

“Thank you for finding time for us,” Pastor Jones said.

“My pleasure, Reverend.”

“I’m not a reverend. Pastor is my first name.”