Part 7
The oldsters had put in a heavy day on the garden the day before. Betty thought, (If I don't cuddle him, he can sleep. I bet he hurts.)
Bill, in particular, was paying the price for stubbornly finishing the job of turning over the soil and hurt all over. He lay half awake, aware that Betty had stirred and was probably sitting up on her side of the bed. As he came fully awake, he felt her eyes on him. "Argh." he groaned and turned to face her, "I love you."
"You love Argh or Argh, you love me? How do you feel this morning? Stiff and sore?"
"Yeah. You probably hurt some yourself."
"I feel great and it's a beautiful day — just felt sorry for you."
"Nobody feels sorry for Bill Franklin." he lunged at her and missed on purpose.
Betty already had her day planned, "Going to plant today. Have to work off some of this." she pinched an inch of a waistline that would have yielded two.
"Don't take off too much. I like fat girls. That reminds me of La Mujer Gorda — lord, she was something."
. . .
(La Mujer Gorda) The Dodge Omni shifted down and up again before any benefit was realized. "Lock it in second and be done with it." Bill advised the driver.
"The thing is getting worse since that boondocks trip up by Guerréro. When it's hot, it slips pretty bad too."
Two months had passed since the tourists last thought of visiting the west coast of Mexico. They continued to find themselves further from that destination until, now, they only wished to go home. Neither was fond of Mexico City, electing instead to meander northward along the gulf coast.
The engine revolutions increased suddenly for no reason. Betty feathered the throttle and it returned to normal. The Dodge crept by adobe homes and small 10-hectare farms. The speed was down to 45, not because of the narrow, deteriorated asphalt, but the grade. Nearing the top, Betty urged the vehicle on by rocking back and forth, throwing her own momentum forward. "Come on little friend." she coaxed the car.
"That doesn't do any good."
"Seriously, we ought to look for a garage in Veracruz. Look out, here comes a crazy Mexican." She guided the Omni as far to the right as she dared, and a delivery van careened by at 65 mph.
"Catch the nose art . . ." he corrected himself, "tail art. Does 'La Mujer Gorda de la Muerte' ring a bell? The Fat Lady of Death." The closed loading doors of the truck were emblazoned with an ornate scroll surrounding the Spanish slogan.
"The men in Alvarado, bragging about kidnapping a noble lady."
Bill opened their notebook where he had recently jotted, Sta. Leon — Ruben Conceptión (Indian) y de Leon. "Daughter of a local businessman." he recalled.
"Those are the kidnappers !"
"Follow that truck. Don't let it out of your sight."
The white car picked up speed as it reached the crest and started downhill. The ride became wild as worn shock absorbers failed to function on the rough surface. "We can't keep up. The criminals are escaping."
"No they aren't, they're pulling into a side road. Yow ! We've got them now. This is silly, Betty, what's the chance they will lead us to a kidnap ring?"
"And what could we do about it if they did? Shoot, we are just tourists, after all. I guess it won't hurt anything to follow them and claim we got lost." She slowed and turned into the dirt trail.
Bouncing along, they passed farm homes, spaced two hundred yards apart. The land was in total cultivation except for small pastures for a cow or a few goats. There was always a pen for swine near the house, and chickens were evident everywhere. Bill hailed a cow, "Moo, cow, moo." The van was long out of sight, leaving no dust cloud to follow.
She asked, "What is Spanish for cow?"
"Bety?" he chuckled, "I don't know." He commented on a change in the scenery, "The fields are fallow here, as if no one lives here."
"There are some large buildings." Betty stopped the car to study the ranch complex in a shallow valley ahead. "Un rancho."
"There are no animals or implements. The place is empty, except there's the van parked beside the house."
"Here's what we will do. I'll park out of sight in that grove over there," she began to maneuver the car, "and we'll have a picnic lunch in that growth of saplings, overlooking the ranch."
As the Americans ate, they observed a man carrying a tray to the barn and guessed that must be where the prisoner was kept. A different Mexican left the structure and walked to the house for his own lunch.
"Let's mosey down and come in the back to see what's in there."
"If we're caught, we can claim we're lost, the car is lame, and we are idiots."
"How true." Down the gentle slope, in knee-high savanna grass, the couple approached the rear of the barn. A door was easily opened, revealing a large room stacked to the ceiling with hay.
"This is not a working farm." Bill whispered, "This hay is several years old."
They crept inside and peeked around a corner into the front of the structure. The large stable had a sturdy supporting post in the center. Stalls made of rails ringed the space, and double barn doors stood open, admitting light. A thirty year-old woman sat on a bunk against a wall, picking at the meal that had just been brought to her.
"Señorita Leon." hissed Betty.
Another vehicle arrived. A large black automobile could be seen, passing by the barn door.
A guard, dressed in peasant garb of loose pajamas and straw cowboy hat, sat at a small table near the central post. His back was turned to the intruders. He took notice of the arriving car, took a swig from a liter beer bottle, and began to deal himself a hand of cards.
The only other feature was a reclining daybed, situated half way between the Gringos and the Señorita's bunk. The dirt floor was soft and even, and all the stalls were open. Bill suggested in a cautious, low voice, "We could walk right over to the stall beyond the daybed."
Betty agreed, "There's clean straw on the floor. We could get right in there and attract Miss Leon's attention. Then if we're caught, it will be impossible to explain that we are simply lost."
"You want to live forever?"
She shuddered. "Come on while the guard is busy."
The couple crouched side by side, peeking through the railing. They were 15 feet from the lady, eight feet from the couch, and 25 feet from the guard, who still faced slightly away from them. They were deciding how to alert Miss Leon, without alarming the man, when La Gorda and her cowboy chauffeur entered.
This woman was large. Not so tall, but she weighed 200 pounds. She had no waist, but her rotund stomach failed to dominate the rump of a hippopotamus and a marvelous bone structure that could support such girth. Her upper body was more normal with merely plump arms and shoulders. Her mammaries were huge, swaying uncontrollably as she walked.
Gorda interrupted the girl's meal to ask if she were comfortable and well fed. Had the men molested her? She was assured they had not.
The fat lady yelled at the guard, whose attention she already had, "Good man, José. The virgin will be yours if her father does not pay. But we must protect merchandise that will be paid for."
The Señorita asked, "Can my father pay? What will happen if he can not?"
"Don't worry, skinny one, you will not be murdered. But we are professionals — you will become the plaything for my boys. José, do you like a skinny girl like this?"
"She can not compare to the Señora Gorda." He held Miss Leon's breast as if he were testing an avocado. The girl recoiled but had nowhere to retreat.
"You prefer a woman with more substance?" Gorda smiled flirtatiously. She nudged José and offered, "Are you man enough for me?" The wide-eyed tourists were close enough to hear Gorda's whispered invitation, "Come to the couch, my man, and make love to me." Both began to loosen and remove her many yards of clothing. She was not the slightest bothered by her uncommon figure, presenting herself nude with porcine pride.
That explained the presence of the daybed. The scene, about to be revealed, appeared to be a regular occurrence at the farm. The Leon girl turned her face to the wall but decided to finish her lunch instead. She had lived through this before. Gorda's bodyguard took a seat and began to clean his fingernails. He asked his mistress if she wanted him to bring the men from the house.
"Thank you, Rafael, yes . . . No, wait. I would like you next before the others arrive." If you ever wondered, obese people have no trouble whatsoever having sex.
At the intermission, Bill breathed into Betty's ear, "Notice, only three minutes." The Gringa was taken back and felt embarrassed by her total fixation. When Rafael had done his duty, Bill whispered, "Five minutes."
"Enough already, you have a better woman . . . Don't you?"
Gringo Bill shook his head as if to say he didn't know, wasn't sure, or that he supposed so.
As the room cleared and normalcy returned, Betty remembered the rescue mission, "Now's our chance before a guard comes back." She stood to reveal herself and spoke to Miss Leon, "¡ Psst ! Perdóneme, Señorita Leon, nosotros estamos amigos."
The pronunciation was so bad that Miss Leon recognized an English speaker. "I speak English. Who are you?"
"Friends. Come with us. Escape out the back."
Bill went to the front doors, expecting a guard to return and hoping there would be only one. He grabbed a shovel as a weapon and waved the women to evacuate, "Get going." As he saw the females disappear into the back room, he trotted to join them.
Betty instructed, "Bill will lead. Miss Leon, please follow Bill. I am the slowest — pray for me."
The man paused at the picnic site to wait for the ladies. He pressed an ice chest and a sarape upon the younger woman, "Throw these into the car." He waited for his lady who labored up the hill. Her face was full of pain as she continued past him and on towards the automobile.
Shouts were heard from the ranch house — the gangsters were alerted. An engine started and raced, probably the van. Bill tumbled headlong into the back seat, awkwardly tangled with camping junk.
Betty was at the wheel. "Oh my, we have to get to the road before they do."
The Dodge car, its engine nice and cool, accelerated through the deep grass and broadslid onto the road in a cloud of dust. Bill was thrown to one side. When he recovered, he peered past Miss Leon's shoulder to see they were safely on their way. "I didn't know you could powerslide like that."
From the driver, "Neither did I. Where are they? I can't see for the dust."
"Lordy, they are coming." The Dodge swayed from side to side. "Way to go — make as much dust for them as you can."
"Dust, phooey, I'm dodging chickens."
The van gained on them but lost the distance when it went momentarily into the weeds at a bend in the road. Betty hit the brakes hard to slow for the sharp turn onto the pavement. "I can't do this. The car won't do this." In response to her comment, the Dodge's engine raced and lost torque. She took the middle of the narrow road to keep the van at bay and was bumped vigorously from the rear. "We will wreck if they keep doing that. I can't control the car."
The plaster Virgin bounced off the windshield and took a posture to stare, with contemptuous pity, into Bill's eyes. "Why does that statue always look at me? Make it stop. I repent."
The other passenger straightened Mary and crossed herself. She didn't seem the slightest disturbed by events, "I am Lilia de Leon. You must already know. Please call me Lilia. You, sir, are . . .?"
"Guillermo Franker, Bil to you. I am honored, ma'am. This is my wife, Bety."
Lilia formally recognized Betty and told her, "You drive quite well. Where did you learn to drive like a Mexican?"
"In Mexico, I'm sorry to say."
Another disruptive bump from the rear, and the inadequately suspended Omni swerved violently. "Tea anyone?" Bill offered. The front view was suddenly dominated by a truck, coming over a hill, "My god, this is it, man! Cover yourself." He wrapped his arms around Lilia's face and neck and ducked his head in protection against the impending crash.
Betty swerved, barely missing the truckload of chickens. The van, a much larger vehicle, was not so lucky. It sideswiped the stake-bed truck and turned over, rolling twice through a field of squash vines. Returning to the pavement, Betty lost control, and the Dodge began to spin. She locked the brakes and spun a 180-degree turn, facing the direction from whence they came.
The engine was dead, and the car was still. Its passengers stared out the dusty windshield at a Mexican farm truck, receding in the distance as though nothing had happened. A brown van lay upside down in the pumpkin patch with a dust cloud slowly settling around it. All was quiet, except Bill whimpering in the back seat.
"You are really quite good Missus Franker. You could drive for my father if you wished."
(Truth be known, she'd be scared as Bill and me. No sense destroying her dream.) Betty's legs were trembling as she said, "Nothing to it — simple bootleg turn. I'm all turned around, which way is Veracruz?"