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standing on the running board on the other side. Whatever they saw in his eyes, plus the yelping of their friend, sent them dashing down the street.
    The old American came around so he could yell at the captive's face. 'Ladron! Ladron! '
    'What the hell does that mean?' Dillinger asked.
    'Thief.'
    'Tell him I'm going to break his arm so he won't steal any more.'
    The old man translated it into rough Spanish. The kid looked frightened.
    Then, with one motion, Dillinger flung the kid to the ground, giving him a chance to scamper away.
    Dillinger laughed, and only then did he notice that the whole scene had been observed by Senor Rivera from the doorway.
    'Bravo, Senor Jordan,' Rivera said.
    'I apologize for the intermission,' Dillinger said, 'but I really like that car the way it is.'
    'Understandable.'
    The old man, his face a mask of disgrace, was holding out the five dollar bill Dillinger had given him. 'I guess you want this back. I didn't do too good watching your car for you.'
    'You did fine. If you hadn't yelled, I wouldn't have come out. Just what I wanted.' He reached under the front seat of the car and pulled out a big flannel rag. 'Here. Why don't you clean the dust off the car while I talk to this gentleman. If you're dusting it, I don't think anybody else will bother it.'
    'Absolutely, Mr Jordan,' the old man said, taking the rag and hastily pocketing the five-dollar bill again.
    Rivera said, 'Perhaps now we can talk in your room where it will be quieter, senor?'
    Dillinger hesitated and then shrugged. 'Why not?'
    He collected his suitcase from the front desk and led the way up the broad wooden stairs to the first floor and unlocked the door at the end of the corridor. The room was like an oven. The fan in the ceiling was not moving. Dillinger yanked the pull chain; nothing happened. He flicked both switches on the wall. One turned on the light. The other did nothing.
    'Mexico is not like the United States,' Rivera said.
    Dillinger moved to open the french windows and nodded towards a table on which stood a pitcher of iced water and several glasses.
    'Help yourself. If you don't mind, I'll have a wash.'
    When Dillinger took his jacket off, Rivera noticed the underarm holster and gun with interest. No wonder the man could act with such authority. So much the better!
    Dillinger put the holster down within easy reach. This Rivera looked rich. Dillinger trusted rich people less than poor people.
    He stripped to the waist, poured lukewarm water from a pitcher into the basin on the washstand in one corner and sluiced his head and shoulders.
    Rivera said, 'If you have not been to Mexico before, I recommend you order bottled water, Senor. American stomachs do not like our water.'
    Dillinger nodded his thanks. Rivera sat down in a wicker chair by the table and Dillinger walked to the window, towelling his damp hair. A steam whistle blasted once, the sound echoing back from the mountains across the flat roofs, and a wisp of smoke drifted lazily into the sky from the station.
    Rivera put down his glass and said, 'I'd like to offer you a job, Senor Jordan.'
    'What kind of a job?' Dillinger was amused. This guy certainly didn't know who he was.
    'I've re-opened an old gold mine near my hacienda at Hermosa. That's a small town in the northern foothills of the Sierra Madre, towards the American border. Hermosa and the area around it is rough country. The peasants are animals and the Indians who work the mines ...' He shrugged. 'But you will find this out for yourself. What I need is a man of authority, who will work with me for six months or a year. Keep discipline. You know what I mean?'
    This guy was fascinating, Dillinger thought. 'Who keeps discipline for you now, Mr Rivera?'
    'Ah,' Rivera said. 'I had a good man, also an American, very tall, very strong. He didn't want to go back to the States, the police bothered him there, and so he had an accident and now I have to replace him. I hope with you.'
    'In one sentence,'