Millicent and Betty were walking out of a small art gallery in the Zocalo when they heard people shouting about the riots in Coyoacan. They hurried back to the hotel, but Millicent grabbed Betty’s arm as they approached it.
“That crossed out chalk mark,” she said, pointing at a odd looking glyph sketched on a wall. “That’s a sign from Mr. Wright. The hotel’s been burned.”
“I gotta place we can hide out for a while,” said Betty. “I made a list of them for an occasion like this.”
They hurried off into the teeming streets.
Ruby and Geronimo limped back into the commune, having seen Dr. Orange and Trotsky off; the Russian planned to lie low outside the city for a while.
“Lie down,” said Geronimo to Ruby, gently putting her on a kitchen table. “The bullet went through your arm, but I have to clean it up.”
There was a clatter from the courtyard. Geronimo furtively shot a glance out of the window. A crowd of wounded refugees from the riot was assembling there.
He stepped out of the house. “Why are you here?” he said quietly in Spanish.
“Please, senor…the people here have always tried to help us,” said an old man. “We have many people who need assistance.”
Geronimo sighed, and lit a cigarette. “Bring them inside,” he said. He glanced around. “Start with the woman who is in labor.”
[So, here’s an attempt by me to start creating some more interesting moral situations. It didn’t quite fly here, mostly because I didn’t create any stakes like “help these people but don’t have time to heal yourself”, but it was a start. GP and RP used this time to take their refuge (five minutes into the session!) but they were extremely banged up at this point. I ended up charging a point of Medicine to Geronimo. GP told me at this point that Geronimo’s Medicine comes from his caring for animals back on his farm in Aragon.]
Jimmy was brought to a local station of the Federal Police. Somewhat to his surprise, he was treated…professionally. Nobody beat him, and he was left to cool his heels in an interrogation room.
On one wall were several pictures of men in uniform that he guessed were of former officers at the station. He idly glanced at each of them until he saw a face that made his blood run cold—a handsome man in his twenties, wearing an older style uniform. Under it was a plaque with the name of the officer:
Coronel Ramon Echevarría
“Excuse me!” he shouted in English, hoping to get the attention of a guard.
[Me: Right, Spanish isn’t one of your languages.
JP: Jimmy speaks no languages!
Me: Wait, you literally went around the world, and you never learned any other languages?
JP: It’s part of his shtick!
Me: Dr. Mwimbe spoke four different languages in her house!]
Eventually a cop and a detective came in to speak with him. “Mr. Wright,” said the detective wearily, “why do you come down to my country and start riots and fights and kill people?”
“Technically I was trying to prevent riots and protect people.”
“You stink of cordite! You shot two men! We have witnesses!”
“They were shooting at me.”
“And why would that be, Mr. Wright? Because you were in the company of an arch-Communist? Because the Los Angeles police department has a file on you as thick as a phone book? You are currently wanted in Los Angeles for the assault of a man whose house was blown up!”
Jimmy was silent.
“How do you respond to these charges, Mr. Wright?”
“It was all a misunderstanding. Lost in translation. As it were.”
“Mr. Wright, I am a detective in the Policía Federal. I long ago lost my capacity for a sense of humor.”
“Everything I have been dragged into, it was all with good intents.”
“Tell us about the Communist Jonathon Brooks.”
“I came to Mexico to investigate him.”
“And of course you did the right thing and came to the police to inform us of this.”
“You know how it is.”
“No, I do not. Please inform me ‘how it is.’”
“Cops. Private Eyes. It happens a lot.”
“Yes, we have private investigators here in Mexico City as well. They are a low sort.”
“So you can see how you don’t always want to go to the police, because you try to help, and the next thing you know—you’re in jail. How is the woman, by the way?”
“Ah, the young lady whose blood is all over your clothes? She is resting comfortably. She probably will make a recovery. She was hit very hard in the back of the head. Probably with a gun. Much like the one we recovered from you, with blood and hair on the barrel.”
“I think I want to talk to my abogado now.”
[JP made a Law spend here to get sprung from the station, though I’m sure there was some money exchanged as well.]
A few hours later, Jimmy and a coterie of lawyers were signing papers at the front desk. “This will get you released on your own recognizance,” said one to him. “Fortunately the prosecutor owes me several favors. Which you now owe me.”
Jimmy nodded. “What about my passport?”
“I’m afraid they’ve confiscated it. I can see—”
“Don’t bother. I have it covered.” He put on his hat, turned to go, and then paused. “Excuse me,” he said to the desk clerk. “There was a picture of a man in my interrogation room that I think I knew once. Echevarría, I think it was.”
“Yes, Colonel Echevarría,” said the clerk in a bored tone. “He was with the Policía during the Revolution. He was a very brave man. They say it was because he had nothing left to lose.”
“Did he retire?”
“I do not know what happened to him. After the Revolution, he left Mexico.”