Mack Reynolds: Rolltown

Bat Hardin was getting fully immersed in his book when Ferd Zogbaum’s knock came on the door. He gave a grunt of displeasure, marked his page and got up.

Ferd’s camper was on the slow and awkward side, comparatively, so Bat suggested that they take his electro-steamer. Linares proper was about a kilometer down the road and it took them only minutes to arrive.

On the way, Bat said, “What do you expect to find?”

“Darned if I know,” Ferd said grumpily. “It wasn’t my idea to go into town. It was yours.”

Bat said, “I thought we’d just scout around a little. Do you speak Spanish?”

“No. A little German.”

“That’ll do us a hell of a lot of good,” Bat said. “A great couple of snoopers we’ll be. About all I can say in Spanish is una mas cerveza, por favor .”

“What does that mean?”

“Another beer, please.”

“Great,” Ferd grinned sourly. “We’d better make a beeline for a bar, then.”

The town of Linares boasted a population of approximately 14,000 and had little call to fame. The area was not particularly suited to farming, mining nor, certainly, industry, and since its scenic attractions were only fair, tourism was also a matter of little gain. Thus it was that the community had hardly participated in the growth of Mexico proper such as the progressive cities of Monterrey, Guadalajara, Vera Cruz and above all Mexico City itself. In fact, Linares remained a town of yesteryear, a sleepy, dull and, at this time of the year, at least, dusty backwash to the days of Pancho Villa.

The main highway leading west and, further on, south, compounded insult to injury by avoiding Linares proper. Bat and Ferd had to take a side street to the village zocco or plaza, the center about which every Mexican hamlet, village or city revolves.

It differed not at all, except possibly being amongst the least picturesque in all the Republic, from the norm. There was a park, a bandstand in its center, iron benches about the perimeter, patches of sad flowers spotted here and there. A score of trees provided perching for multitudes of birds which evidently had no respect for weary townsmen slumped below on the benches.

There were few cars parked about the square, and those that were there were more often old-fashioned internal combustion engines, rather than steamers or the more recent electro-steamers. Evidently, pollution laws had never been enforced in Mexico. In fact, of wheeled vehicles there were more beaten up trucks and buses than private cars.

“A cantina it is,” Bat muttered. “I wonder if anybody else from New Woodstock has come in.”

“I doubt it,” Ferd said. “Everybody’s tired. Maybe tomorrow, somebody’ll get up the gumption. Most of the community’s never been in Mexico before. There’s one over there. Dig that. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen swinging doors on a bar outside a historic TV show before.”

Bat Hardin parked the electro-steamer in front of the bar in question and got out, Ferd doing the same on the other side.

Three or four indolent villagers, leaning up against adobe wall or lamppost, seemed to take displeasure when Bat locked the car doors. He wondered idly if it was because they were thwarted in going through the vehicle, or if they were objecting to his suggesting that it might be done if he failed to lock up. Come to think of it, Bat recalled that in these small towns, at least, the crime rate was said to be infinitesimal, though it could be different in the larger, more sophisticated cities. What crime there was usually consisted of violence between family members or between different families, usually involving passion or feud, rather than pilferage or robbery committed against foreigners. However, he still locked the car.

Ferd led the way through the swinging doors. If the town as a whole had reminded them of a movie set based on the Mexican revolution of 1910, there was little in the interior that would indicate the bar wasn’t a continuation of the set. The room was long, the walls decorated with bullfight posters and illustrations of bountifully bosomed Playmates, probably long deceased, along with the magazine which had once built its reputation with them. There was a brass rail along the bottom of the bar and a tile trough with running water for those who must needs expectorate. At the far end of the bar, along the whole wall which faced the door was a tile urinal which could easily have accommodated half a dozen beer-drinking customers at a time. There was a stench of stale urine in the air, along with that of unwashed bodies. Obviously this was a resort that did not cater to women, not to speak of catering to ladies.

There were perhaps twenty imbibers present, leaning on a prehistoric bar that would have accommodated double the number. Behind it were three bartenders; one, a fifty-year-old pushing three hundred pounds in weight, was obviously the proprietor, the others, two youngsters in their teens. The liquor selection was limited; tequila, mescal, rum and gin. A battered refrigerator indicated that at least the beer and coke would be cold.

Ferd muttered from the side of his mouth, even as they found a place, “Montezuma drank here.”

“Or at least, Cortes,” Bat muttered back. “I’ve recently become an authority on the subject. According to the books, the Aztecs didn’t drink anything but pulque.”

A silence had fallen upon their entry. The two Americans ignored it.

The proprietor, who puffed slightly upon movement, hesitated for a long moment but finally came down to them, ignoring some of the cold stares of his regular customers.

He stood before them, both obscenely fat hands on the bar and said, expressionlessly, “Senors?”

Bat said to Ferd, “First day in Mexico. Nothing would do except tequila.”

“Right as rain.”

“Tequila, por favor,” Bat said to the bartender.

The other nodded, turned and secured a bottle of the white liquid nuclear bomb, a saucer of limes cut into quarters and a shaker of salt.

He muttered, barely audibly, “Salud,” and turned away.

“Jesus,” Ferd said. “The hospitality around here is boundless.”

Both Bat and Ferd had been in the country before and knew the routine. They poured themselves drinks that would have been called triples in the States into the shot glasses, took up the salt in turn and sprinkled a touch of it on the back of their left hands. They touched their tongues to the salt, tossed the tequila back in one fell swoop, then grabbed up a quarter of the lime and bit into it.

“Wow!” Ferd said, half in appreciation, half in objection to the strength of the fiery product of the maguey plant.

The Mexican, standing nearest to them at Bat’s left, sneered and said in passable English, “Ah, not enough macho for tequila, eh, gringo?”

Ferd hesitated for a moment. Finally, he said to Bat, “Well, we came here to learn. What does macho mean?”

Bat said quietly, “Manliness, more or less. The quality of being a real man.” He was nibbling unhappily at his lower lip.

“And gringo?”

“It’s a derogatory word for an American. Why it should be derogatory, I wouldn’t know. Evidently, it comes down from the Mexican War days. When the American troops invaded from Texas and Vera Cruz one of the popular songs of the day was Robert Burns’ “Green Grow the Rushes, Oh” and the Americans sang it as a marching tune. The Mexicans of the time took the first two words and called the unwelcome invaders ‘green grows’, or ‘gringos’. It bears a sneering connotation.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” Ferd said politely. He turned to the Mexican. “And you’re a greaser.”

“Holy Smokes… ” Bat began in protest, and much too late.