Saint Anne Cameo

By Charles Roy Roberts

This manuscript is an edited journal Harold McDowell kept in Mexico. It contains the actions of the Marroquin family of Monterrey during the civil difficulties. It starts with Harold and a friend Jerry White pursuing macho activities on the South Texas border. Harold games with an experienced smuggler to engage in international trade as a sideline. When someone is murdered, Felix Quintanella, known as El Cucuy, is the culprit but Harold’s involvement is suspected. Shedding his problems, he slips into Mexico. In Monterrey he establishes a used jewelry operation of smelting and fencing. In one transaction he purchases a stolen wedding band of Don Alejandro Marroquin’s dead wife. He has to return it personally to the old reclusive and infirm power merchant. The Marroquin family are respected industrialists and landed gentry. Returning the ring results in conversations and chess with the old man. Harold meets the Don’s widowed daughter, Ruth Rodriguez. She resembles the Don’s mother. A portrait shows the matron wearing a distinctive cameo pendant of St. Anne. Harold is told that the cameo has been missing since the Don’s mother’s death. Harold has been researched and the Don plans his future use. Trying to ingratiate with the family and daughter, Harold starts a search for the cameo through his sources. He recovers the family heirloom and gains permission to court Ruth. Harold and Ruth have been seeking a place in life and find it in each other. She invites Harold on a family retreat. There he is approached to help find military equipment. After this task, he drinks too much and commits a faux pas. He is returned to Monterrey. There Jerry White is waiting to solicit Harold to spy on the Marroquin family. He is reinstated after informing the family of the solicitation. Harold and Ruth are reunited after a long silence. El Cucuy is Harold’s nemesis and one of the Don’s associates. In a political meeting in Matamoros, Harold is kidnapped and soon abandoned to make his way back to his apartment. After returning, he is informed that he is to marry Ruth. The family gathers and meets the Don’s son, Jorge Marroquin. The honeymoon is in Barcelona so they establish banking in Andorra to hide money. On their return from Spain, Harold requires Jerry to pay cash for spying. Through his old smuggling contacts, Harold is to assist El Cucuy in purchasing weapons for a political group. Harold skims money from the arms sales. The Don takes Harold on a recruiting trip to Chihuahua. On the flight the Don explains the family history and the reason for the planned political revolt. The Don details what is expected of Harold. Unexpectedly Harold’s children contact him looking for money. He meets his daughter and then breaks all connection. The revolution starts small and grows with Mexico split in two parts. XTLA, the Don’s political group, elects Jorge the new nations President. Harold takes advantage of the political unrest to make money on the distress. The Mexico City group moves an army north to reunite the country. The military confrontation takes place south of Saltillo and ends in an atrocity. Jorge restricts medical care to degrade his father’s health and attempts to change his will. Ruth leaves town to attend her son’s wedding. El Cucuy places Harold under house arrest. The Don dies and his will gives part of the estate to Ruth. She goes missing and her riddled, burned car is found. The new President is suspected in her death. Harold learns the President is a pederast and has killed one of his young lovers. Harold contrives to have Jorge assassinated. When Jorge is killed, El Cucuy banishes Harold to an isolated house awaiting his termination. Harold has no protectors in Mexico and without Ruth awaits his fate. He finishes his journal. The granddaughter tells the course of the family in her footnote to the journal: Alive, Ruth and Harold reunite and her grandchildren are sent to Spain each summer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Roy Roberts
• Release date: Aug 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780615651705

Charles Roy Roberts

Retired, Jeweler, Librarian, clockmaker. Harlingen, Rio Grande Valley, Texas

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Saint Anne Cameo

Charles Roy Roberts

Copyright © 2012 by Charles Roy Roberts

Smashwords Edition

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1 EYES OF THE

CHAPTER 2 THUNDER IN THE SKY

CHAPTER 3 PIFFLE AND PELF

CHAPTER 4 THE STORE

CHAPTER 5 FIELD TRIP

CHAPTER 6 MEANING OF NOTHINGNESS

CHAPTER 7 NECROPOLIS

CHAPTER 8 CENTILLA

CHAPTER 9 HEAVEN HELP ME

CHAPTER 10 BUTTERFLIES ARE THE BEARORS

CHAPTER 11 DEVIL IS NOT FORMATABLE

CHAPTER 12 IN THE BEGENNING

CHAPTER 13 BLACK ROCKS

CHAPTER 14 CABIN

CHAPTER 15 DINNING FAR OUT

CHAPTER 16 BARCELONA

CHAPTER 17 SPEAK OF THE DEVIL

CHAPTER 18 EL CUCUY ORDERING PARTS

CHAPTER 19 CHIHUAHUA

CHAPTER 20 A SERINDIPITY MAYOR

CHAPTER 21 THE STARS AT NIGHT

CHAPTER 22 MOVING ON THE TIDE OF FORTUNE

CHAPTER 23 BATTLE OF LOST GOAT

CHAPTER 24 AARON’S WEDDING

CHAPTER 25 NO RULE IS FIXED

CHAPTER 26 NOTHING WILL HAPPEN THAT WOULD WOULD NOT HAPPEN ANYWAY

CHAPTER 27 MASADA ON THE MESA

CHAPTER 28 SAGACIOUS EXIT

DAPHNE COMMENTS

PREFACE

Under the direction of Aaron Rodriguez Marroquin, I have been asked to correct and edit this manuscript for private publication. This request was an addition to my responsibilities as account manager for Carter and Waggener Ltd of Andorra.

This manuscript was found in a house once occupied by Ruth Alma Rodriguez and her consort Harold McDowell. Presumably, Harold McDowell wrote this document during his stay in Northern Mexico. His stay and his participation in activities during the difficulties involving The Mexican government and the XTLA confederacy gave an interesting insight into the confrontation of that time. Though this narrative is convoluted in some accounts, it also adds insight into the intimate working of several families and their devotion to the Mexican State.

After the death of Don Alejandro Marroquin and the mysterious disappearance of Ruth Alma Rodriguez, Harold McDowell is said to have occupied the country residence outside Saltillo belonging to Ruth Rodriguez through the unification of the Mexican State. Soon after that he left Saltillo and presumably returned to the United States under an assumed name. This account is the only evidence that the American interloper was present or even existed. Harold McDowell is not evident in any governmental records under that or other names he was known to use.

Aaron Marroquin and his wife Sonia accompanied by their daughter Daphne personally delivered this document to my hands to insure authenticity and provenience. Mr. Marroquin requested that I use this instrument to structure the contributions of several prominent families. This document reflected the progress and contributions the Marroquin family and others made over generations.

I have to thank my husband of many years for allowing me time to edit and transcribe the manuscript. As an amateur historian and horticulturist, he has postponed his excursions to stay and advise me on facts that do not conform to historical accountability.

––Senora Sara

CHAPTER 1

EYES OF THE COYOTE

That popping sound can’t happen on a tranquil night along the Rio Grande. It has to be the sound of a hammer banging larger lumber.

No! This is the sound of a gun. Jerry and I never expected this.

But nobody needs guns in wet-swimmer arrests. This isn’t hunting-lease gunfire. There were guns used to shoot human animals.

It must be the Border Patrol. The popping sound is small caliber and automatic. All police can make arrogant decisions and the U. S. border patrol is no different. These Mexicans were poor people. This is no place for shootings. The uniformed border protectors make poor choices constantly. The green bears cannot help it, as cops are overdressed actors in a continuous farce. Border security was not established to bring death.

The sad circumstance involved the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) boys that hung out at Norma’s taco palace. The political hacks in D.C. designed their policies many miles from this nowhere. The suit and knotted ties in Congress cut off the blood supply to rational heads. The oxygen depravation to the brain generated euphoria, almost a religious experience for legislators. Bureaucrats shifted their employees into dangerous situations with patriotic speeches. The uniform men use determination and heart to enforce the impossible obligations.

I pushed my spine into the Texas valley clods and opened my eyes wider, though all I saw was the charcoal clouds against black sky above me. The sight was far removed from my jewelry job.

Shouts vibrated through the air. The sounds collided in English, and then resounded in Spanish, with no clue to who was yelling. Representatives from both sides of the river spoke the languages and each voiced similar accents.

What am I doing lying in the dirt with gunfire shattering the hot border night? The plan was a silly diversion. I had jumped into Jerry’s truck; to me it was just taking a taxi ride. I then ended up at this Roman Coliseum experiencing a stylized melodrama.

Jerry was a narcissistic nincompoop and I had followed him to the Border Patrol river party. We were going only to watch an interdiction an hour ago. This pursuit was part of a routine entertainment. We were the adolescence hyenas trying to divert boredom. Though the scripts of wetback arrests were well known, there was always a chance for a surprise ending you didn’t see on the reruns. Tonight was live theatre rather than television repeats. What was not predicted was an interactive adventure with audience participation.

This night was more drama than I wanted. Jerry and I were overwhelmed by too much evolvement. Being a voyeur on police raids could be dangerous, too dangerous for an entertaining diversion.

Rattling bursts of automatic weapons continued too long. New sounds of emerging engines started up along with breaking glass. Bright lights came on and the spotlights went off. The night was bright and dark with loud and quiet happening in rapid succession. Then came the pounding of running feet headed toward our observation tumulus. I tensed against the dark confusion of sounds. The footfalls came closer breaking sticks and crushing brush.

I glanced up past my left shoulder to the berm’s top, not stupid enough to thrust up my head as a pop-up target. A male figure loomed against the murky horizon. A wet thud broke the quite. It was the sound of a boot going through a cantaloupe. The figure seemed to trip and fall forward. It was the falling of a large tree trunk and it seemed forever. In the night shadow it was a tilting tree in slow motion. The backlit figure dove head first into the bottom of our berm. Hair and head slid a few inches on its face. His only movement was a little shuddering. It stopped. I watched to see if it would move again.

My head jerked back to the dirt lip’s edge. Another male figure appeared at the top of the berm with a pistol shoved out in a two-handed grip. Sloop toed boots like twin prows on a boat jutted beyond the rim. The dark cowboy boots were polished and trimmed with decorated silver. The boot toe points were engraved tickets to heaven for any human that would confront the wearer. A faceless man in dark shadows like a Santiago Rusinol painting was there; then a turn, and was gone. There was no indication that he saw us or would even care.

The world went soundless in shock after an unexpected slap. The man at the bottom of the berm just lay prostrate, making a supplication to the dirt in his last humble religious act.

In a strained whisper, my cohort, Jerry, growled, I’m out of here, coaxing some sense back to my-reality.

Before I could think to reply, Jerry crossed himself and started back. The crushed Johnson grass was our return path to the truck. Sergeant Green had military training long ago, so I copied what he did. Our method of movement included crawling, hunching, and then running. Despite my inclination to continue to caress dirt near the dead man’s bed, I was motivated more to exit the area. Run away and avoided the dead tree fate. My exposed back prickled with dread of a crushed melon thud. I wasn’t so frightened that I didn’t notice how much noise Jerry made gasping epithets in a low rumble. He was blaming God and the devil or me for this mess.

A deep vibration of the passacaglia trudged in a low tonic harmonic accompanying the helicopter approach. The repeating bass sound of the blades covered our retreat as it folded its beaters through the humid air. Lights slashed the ground from the sky, drawing empty paths over rough rows and wild grass. More popping sounds punctuated the night and the lights went out. The moon returned as the only paintbrush of light not touching the tree shadow outlines.

The faster I ran, the greater the distance stretched through the cultivated fields to Jerry’s truck. Each step was the first step on the journey away from death. Scared, I stumbled over every other plowed furrow, knowing a loud report would sound each time I lifted my tortoise carapace back. The choice was speed or stealth. If my silhouette raised an inch from the ground, a surprise would lay this reptile out for the final count. Have you ever seen a turtle run?

Falling against the hardy metal of the International Harvester truck, I relaxed against the citrus grove barge. The prow hood truck was configured as a citrus box carter. I ducked behind the door as I yanked it open. That thick metal would save me from worldly harm. I slithered up onto the seat with head sunk into shoulders and still a frightened terrapin. What I really wanted to do was become a roly-poly on the filthy floorboard, unrecognizable, blending in as unthreatening.

Cursing in languages, Jerry killed the engine twice before we lurched off. The truck roared and jumped in and out of the ditches, lumbering down the road without lights. This truck was made before the seat belt law. To hold your place on the bench seat you raised your hands in glory grasping the roof. Reaching fingers augmented palms and wrist. Prayer kept the head from making repousse’ dents in the roof. The rust falling like rain on your lap bounced off the scalp.

In the time warp of an adrenaline rush, I had just left the berm. Recognition of time had disappeared. From the instant the man tree was felled, like a log off a bank into a river, a man slid into the dirt. At this very moment time was the same illusionary second that lingered. It was a movie with the sound out of sync. The past suspended in the progression of the clock hands moving forward. Reality was dazed with Jerry shouting instructions in musical sounds.

I still didn’t regret the loss of the moment memory. Sex and death is a surrealistic dream. The dead man was pornography, an instant transformation to the extreme.

Crouched on the slippery plastic straw truck seat, I now had time to intellectualize danger into bearable events. The unexpected addition with tonight was the El Cucuy group. Men wearing those trademark pointed-toe silver tipped cowboy boots were a local legend. People picked a uniform for style. Clothes made the group. The ‘Night Terror’ drug organization was not in the habit of colliding with the non-related wetback business. Sometimes accidents happen. Some coincidences relate to a good crossing location on the river.

To make it simple, the two groups need a location with just enough moon through the trees and a level topography. The checklists on the Mexican side encouraged 'go to this location.' The hunter and hare groups did not correlate or coordinate with each other. Overlaps could be expected. They did not communicate. An accidental collision of the two enterprises was destined.

Where the Border patrol expected a gaggle of men, women and children trying to sneak into the States, they encountered a bunch of annoyed, well-armed men protecting a high-value inventory. Rather than fearful wetbacks, the United States dripper-chasers encountered the paramilitary pharmaceutical people. To this unexpected encounter, the immigration people brought the superior arrogant attitude and little firepower. The expected herding of the desperate resulted in a double whammy. One group acted as a military unit protecting the American-bound soma holiday. The Border Patrol playing drover to families crossing the river was unprepared for hostility.

The river water was shallow and the banks were firm. This location was a natural egress. The Rio Grande River, the Texas southern border with Mexico, was a water path separating two countries. The river was an insignificant trickle at most times. A small stream was a liquid cleaver that sliced a chasm between two cultural and economic realities. Mexico believed governance should resemble beguine neglect as long as the kleptocrats were fed. The United States marched with accountability and purity banners declaring God’s need to separate the two people. It was a confrontation between the righteous and the entrenched indifferent. Mexicans lived without pretense and found humor in partitioning of the two people. The Americans were more delusional about their promised land and consequently were more miffed at their failure to keep the two apart.

The Gulf of Mexico marked the headwaters of an operation by the United States Border Patrol to apprehend illegal aliens crossing the river along its length. We were fifty miles up river from the South Padre beach. This operation became more complicated than the INS informer had described. Local spies told the American border protectors where to protect the river. The river was too long and serpentine to see around every corner.

Red, the man of leaky words lived off of paid-for-information. A redheaded Mexican, he trolled the pink-zone bars in Mexico border towns to find stories of potential smugglers. He sold these stories and testified in the United States at conspiracy trials. Yet he was still alive. Red was a commission salesman for the United Sates government. A snitch’s life was dangerous but accepted as legitimate work on the border frontier. The money from this occupation of ratting out his neighbors was converted to pesos and supported his family. Even the despised reproduce and go to church.

Where a coyote smuggles people to supply selected companies in the States, it seldom exported weed at the same time or place. The people product could be dumped or left without risking large sums of money. Drugs were retrieved to be exported another day.

A great demand existed in the most successful economy and culture on earth to blot out existence. Organic plant by-products in the form of drugs brought comfort that a paycheck lacked. The chemical using vegans sought marijuana, opium and cocaine. The great society was in need. A self-satisfied life depended on these products. The United States government was hell-bent for leather to keep its workers on task and not stoned. This created a large black market for chemicals that would bring happiness to the minions caught in the nihilistic capitalistic reality. Irrational government officials limited the lubricant in the wealth production machine. The gear cogs needed drugs for the hope and ease of pain. A secondary economy in chemicals became the border culture. Drug relieved poverty and was a bane to the ruling elite. The fertilizer required on the border to make things grow was money. The Rio Grande Valley provided places to clean the money.

We resorted to DDT and chlordane to kill bugs in the fields and help crops grow. Our South American neighbors sent us mindless delusion to treat our factory workers. Mind altering chemicals had replaced the traditional agriculture focus of arming corn. The oranges, cotton and grain fields that brought settlers to the Rio Grande Valley was now a secondary economy. The plants from the river now brought happiness, not health. The Rio Grande was a transition point. It did not grow plants, just trafficked in them.

At last we had traveled some distance. The hard reality of the night’s shocks was confronted without shaking. The evening had started as a needless joke. A morning rain had made the onset of the night sweatbox. We settled at a berm near a field next to a tree-lined riverbank. A few stars, partial moon and fast-moving cumulus clouds provided the cover of darkness. It was a usual south Texas summer night with no surprise expected. Cicadas sang. A breeze now and then relieved the oppressive heat. The last of the insecticide-resistant lighting bugs played Diogenes and flew around searching for an honest man. The bugs had no luck. The surrounding fields contained cotton, sorghum and cantaloupe. As with any Wagnerian opera, the curtain opened with a big overture and men at the back of the stage. Soon the orchestra turned to a heavy metal band with flash and bang.

This diversion into live theatre became a little too real. The El Cucuy group surprised a group of United States government men at a crossing point. Felix Quintanilla was well known to be El Cucuy. With his usual temperance, he engaged the Border Patrol rather than withdraw. This happened just south of the city of Alamo on a humid summer night. We had escaped on a lark avoiding buzzards and bullets.

In the run back to civilization, the white noise of the truck engine brought mental numbness and reduced the adrenalin shock. We reached the Old Military highway with a final bump. There, Jerry spun onto the road and turned on the headlights. We were heading south, away from home and security.

Feelings subsided with the sight of ordinary cornfield's stalks standing against blackness. The truck window was a small television screen. The night’s insanity was a fantasy science fiction rerun.

The truck turned left on one of the mile-numbered farm roads. We were headed north toward the freeway and home. On the freeway, we turned left again. Jerry nursed the old truck down the freeway. We were passed by a rusted minivan blowing blue smoke. These Chrysler products were often called blue flumers in local vernacular referring to the volcanic ocean vents.

There was an old folk song, What was your name in the states, At birth I was assigned an identification of Harold. I inherited the mark of McDowell from my father’s line of fathers. This was my identification in letters. The government gave me nine numbers. It took a long time to identify who I believed I was. For fifteen years I was Trisha’s husband. That was until two years ago. Now I was just another retail migrant worker with a specialty.

One night long ago circumstances started to move me to a new identity. At that point I began to discover my identity was neither letters nor numbers. A bizarre occurrence started an identity I could recognize apart from obscure symbols. It began with the death of a man I never knew.

Watching the cars pass us, I read the bumper stickers to avoid thinking. We had party-crashed close to death. The more irrational the beliefs posted on the car bumper, the bluer the exhaust smoke. A driver indicated by posting a sticky banner on the bumper; he would give his life for God, country and his daughter’s elementary school. The number of children, cats, and dogs in his family was imaged across a rear glass with monochrome stickers. Religious statements were dominant. The people were so busy feeding their religious soul that there was no time for car repair. When vehicles passed our lumbering truck, the driver’s human body size indicated his soul had stopped at too many all-you-can-eat cafés. The heart and diabetes would call the righteous soul and corpulent body to God soon. The weight of the spirit was enormous around the waist. Righteousness could be a burden.

Jerry pulled into a taco and menudo restaurant.

Between curse and mumbling words, instructions crept out, We’ll stop in here. This food stop might confuse the time and give us an alibi.

Maybe I did not get the thought. Crap, I didn’t shoot anybody. I don’t need an alibi. What was Jerry thinking?

Jerry raised his hand in an oath, Trust me. That should have set off an alarm. When people have to proclaim being a Christian, they are not. When they have to say, Trust me, they’re asking permission to deceive you. If you go along, it means you have granted the right to be led astray.

I looked at Jerry and nodded my life away.

The coffee did not taste good; neither did the food. I know it was not the food. The problem was my taster. Everything tasted like a nickel kept in a sweaty pocket too long.

Taco Town is where you pay in cash. You were there, but the ticket does not have a computer time printout generated in some central office a thousand miles away. Here no electronics triggered the reorder of a shipment of tortillas to arrive next Tuesday. Taco Town was low tech. The cash box was pilfered from an old cash register. Only family attended the cash box at the dirt spotted glass case by the door.

If tax people requested receipts from the restaurant owner, the ticket must have been lost. Most cash tickets at local restaurants are lost. Traceable paper is evidence relating to taxes that were not paid and may cost an owner the pickup truck in an audit. Memory became questionable. The newly arrived and deprived restaurant owner’s pocketed cash. When interviewed by tax authorities they could not speak the language. Owners had no idea what you were talking about. English words failed to have distinct meaning when translated. Maybe Jerry was right for once.

To be remembered, we would have to make sure the tip was something that stood out in the waiter’s memory. The two-dollar bill, the unusual coin if we had one with us. Money from a foreign country possibly, but God forbid, not Mexico. No one remembers Mexican coins and even the Mexicans do not want them.

Jerry asked three times for a clean fork. He would pick it up, hold it to the light, rub it down with a napkin and ask for another. The waiter’s attentions to the table begin to wane. He stood at the far side of the room, talked to other waiters and pointed to us. If your behavior was disgusting, you would be remembered as being in the restaurant a long time. That beautiful woman was in and out. The homeless man was there for hours. I paid as usual. I left a Sacagawea dollar that was brightly painted as a tip. Art can make a statement.

The flea market sold these dollar tokens. They were fifty cents above face value. Speaking of face, the pink skin of an Indian woman on the coin was an artistic liberty even more than the blond hair.

We left with a hoard of other customers. The television in the upper right corner had just gone to commercial.

It was late when I got back to the apartment. In my more frisky days it was called the Hunting Lodge. I liked referring to the dump as the back yard castle at Nymphenburg. I took three shots of my frozen Russian vodka as a sedative and went to bed.

Seven A.M. came early. The head felt fine; the rolling surf was in my stomach. A coffee and antacid tablet was breakfast defeating the Taco Town’s food. The early work hours only involved computer detail on inventory. The bookkeeping kept my head in the present.

Coffee and crackers relieved the screen in a three beat waltz. Punch a few buttons, have a sip of coffee and munch a cracker. Repeat often as needed. Last night had gone away.

The saying in Mexican folk tales is the eyes of the coyote can hypnotize both chickens and man. This morning I was less mesmerized than daggled. The trance from last night in the wilderness was replaced with nausea. The wild there and then animals were two legged and lacked the concentrated stare of a coyote. No one had looked me in the eye. Some stories have structure but no meaning.

CHAPTER 2

THUNDER IN THE SKY

Sometimes revelations come at strange places. Life changes with moves that seem like fun but are not responsible. Two years earlier, before the man’s murder on the river, I was visiting with a girlfriend. She was female company lacking the ex-wife, Trisha's, livid curdling of the kindness milk. While the wrench and twine of our arms distorted the pillows of the couch, I was bemoaning the crappie life with my wife. The whine I was spraying was vaporous drivel. My ears took a great quaff of the sound. I was making the country and western hapless song without an accordion or electric bass. If this song came on my radio, I would change the station to the discordant hum irritating my ears.

Shut up and do something about it, came from deep within my head. There is no reason to do the piacular penance for getting a woman pregnant. It was not her duty to punish me because she would not fulfill the predictions in her high school annual. Her high school friends had written charming notes claiming Trisha’s destiny was to be the first woman president. I am sure she could have made the leap if being President meant only having fashion and etiquette training.

The hypocrisy of my life came in my own words. How sanctimonious I had become to the sound of my pavane. The chant was not drowning out my lascivious behavior. To put it plane I had a boner and no convenient place. Trisha was not accepting or tolerating my male urges.

Illicit lover’s bed conversation recanted and concentrated on the miserable spouse or ex-spouse. This conversation was justification for the questionable behavior. Kinks in a woman’s desirability armor had to be reinforced and that was my solution. The stringer of recycled women in my encounters never realized that their personal behavior