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City network to a stranger。 He had resented being himself turned over to an arrogant desk
general named Groves； a man who had sent Finn to Okinawa to write reports on the American
invasion that any man with two eyes and a pen could have written。 But most of all； Finn resented
knowing less about what he guarded than the Russian spies knew。
Finn crossed the dusty street in midblock and bought a tamale from one of the pushcarts that
creaked along the streets of La Mariscal。 He ate the tamale without flinching from its peppery
heat。 As he ate； he watched his back trail。 No one ducked or turned away from his glance。 No
one reversed direction。 His caution was its own and only reward。
He crossed the street once more； heading toward a ramshackle building whose only decoration
was a sly parrot painted on a sign over the door。 The building had once been a series of small；
interconnected stores。 They had burned； leaving behind little more than a waist…high maze of
thick adobe walls。 Some of the walls had been razed； some had been left； and the whole had
been roofed over like a huge barn。 The result was the Green Parrot； centerpiece of Juarez’s
thriving underworld； an international circus of beggars and bankers； thieves and peons and spies。
Without looking into the smoky interior； Finn walked past the cantina’s front entrance； down a
piss…stained alley and through a small side door into the building。 Inside； the Green Parrot was
more like a battlefield than a business。 One skirmish line formed at the bar which took up a
block…long wall。 There； bar girls fought for the right to take drinks to favored patrons。 Both
ends of the huge room； as well as the wall opposite the bar； were chopped up into separate
adobe…fenced enclaves where pimps； pickpockets and whores engaged in single combat with
their chosen prey。 Smoke twisted above the charcoal fiefdoms of warlord…cooks whose food
was so spicy it would devastate an unprepared enemy。
In one area of the cantina； the battle was focused like light through a curved lens。 A crowd of
shouting； sweating； shoving men gathered around a shallow pit。 Two Yaqui Indians crouched
there； coarse hair bound back by scarlet bandanas。 Each man hissed and grunted ritually；
arousing the fighting cock he held in his scarred hands。
One man stood apart； overseeing the crowd； the cocks； and the collecting of bets。 If the chaotic
battles of the Green Parrot had a generalissimo； it was Refugio Reyes y Rincón。 He was big；
muscular； and had thick； oddly graceful eyebrows。 Beneath a veneer of smiling indulgence； his
power bulged as surely as muscle beneath fat。 At his signal； the handlers redoubled their efforts
over the birds。
The two cocks ignored the yelling crowd； the hisses and grip of their handlers。 The cocks were
fixed on one another； trading glares with obsidian eyes； flaring their gaudy feather ruffs。 Their
steel…tipped spurs promised death。
The handlers hoisted the cocks up high； further enraging the birds。 The crowd howled。 Bets were
made in many languages and laid in many currencies in the instants before the cocks were
released。 No one noticed as Finn moved through the fringes of the crowd。 No one but the cook
looked up when Finn sat at an empty table near a charcoal grill。
The square Indio woman bent over her grill； poked a sizzling chunk of meat； and settled back
again on her heels。 Her black eyes were hooded and blank。 She stared beyond Finn； where
bettors seethed around the deadly cocks。 After a time she turned back to her cooking。
Finn relaxed and tipped his chair until it leaned against the wall。 If he had been followed； the
cook would have signaled him。 He was free to concentrate on one of his many enemies； the
broad…shouldered Mexican who ran the cockfight as ruthlessly as he ran his network of whores；
thieves and smugglers。
It was not Rufugio’s ordinary criminal pursuits that interested Finn； however； it was the man’s
extensive connections with Mexico’s Oriental communities – particularly the Japanese。 In
peacetime； Refugio and Takagura Omi had run the most successful smuggling operation in
northern Mexico； using Takagura’s high Japanese connections to import legal and illegal goods；
and Rufugio’s low Mexican connections to distribute the goods from Culiacan to San Francisco。
War had changed the nature of the smuggling trade。 Information； not opium； brought the
highest prices。 If a secret could be bought； Refugio had it to sell。
The handlers lowered the birds； then raised them high again。 The sounds of the crowd
overwhelmed the cocks’ screeches。
“Begin！” shouted Refugio。
Scarred hands threw the birds high。 They slashed at each other with spurs of steel。
Partially screened by a low adobe wall that divided him from the mainstream of the cantina’s
activities； Finn searched the tables for a new face； a man called Masarek； who was an assassin
sent by the Russian NKVD。 Finn had been especially wary of the Russians since the night he had
followed a team of NKVD saboteurs from Juarez to a point just below Los Alamos。 When
there could be no doubt of their destination； Finn struck。 He hid their bodies beneath a thin
blanket of sand and left as quietly as he had come。 By dawn he was back in Juarez； waiting for the
replacements that the Russians were sure to send。
In time； Masarek had appeared。
Finn’s own network of whores； informants and spies had told him that Masarek had been seen
with Refugio； heading north of the American border。 Apparently their attempt on Los Alamos
had been fruitless； for they had returned very quickly。 The same informant had told Finn that this
evening； Refugio was to meet with a newly arrived； very important foreigner in the Green
Parrot。 As Masarek was the only important foreigner to arrive recently in Juarez； Finn assumed
that he was the one who would meet Refugio tonight。 He assumed； but he was not certain。 He
would not be certain until he saw Masarek here； tonight。
None of the people Finn saw matched his description of Masarek。 Mexicans； Europeans and
Orientals occupied the cantina’s rough tables。 Among them circulated Refugio’s whores；
including his favorite； Rubia。 She was limber； blond； and perhaps fourteen。 Despite her dyed
hair； Rubia was unusally pretty。 She moved from table to table； dispensing drinks and sexual
invitation with equal ease。
The crowd around the cockfight humped up suddenly and roared like a breaking wave。 Finn
knew without looking that one cock had been wounded。 The birds varied from fight to fight； but
the crowd’s bay at first blood was always the same。 The fight itself promised to be special；
though； one of the birds was Refugio’s favorite； a scarred survivor of many battles。
People screamed prayers and imprecations in most of the civilized languages of man。 Bets flew
among the feathers as the cocks ripped each other with bloody spurs。 Sweating； Refugio waved a
fistful of money； boasting and betting on the red cock’s prowess。 The crowd heaved and
re…formed； blocking Finn’s view of Refugio。
The Indio woman’s hiss slid between the shrill sounds of the cantina。 Without looking at her；
Finn glanced to his right。 Several American servicemen were wandering toward him； obviously
looking for a table。
“Mind if we sit with you？” asked one of the men。
“Yes；” said Finn。
“Friendly type； huh。”
“No。”
“Are you an American？” demanded the man。
“Sometimes；” said Finn； completing the recognition sequence。
With a sound of disgust； the man herded his friends back into the cantina’s mainstream。 They
wedged themselves along the bar and prepared to wait for a vacant table。
Finn did not look at them again。 His mind was ticking off seconds with the precision of a
stopwatch。 When the count reached three hundred； he finished his beer； tipped the cook
generously； and prepared to leave the Green Parrot as inconspicuously as he had arrived。
As he stood up； the crowd around the pit shrieked and moaned。 The cockfight was approaching
its climax。 The birds leaped and raked over each other； steel spurs ripping out feathers and
blood。 He watched； realizing that the red cock had finally met his equal。 The fighters were well
matched。 Too well matched。 Like the German army at Stalingrad and the U。S。 Marines on
Japanese…held islands； the only winner was death。
The screams changed in pitch。 One cock was down； disemboweled； its black…and…white feathers
sprayed with blood。 The red cock began to crow triumphantly； then reeled sideways as its blood
pumped out of a slashed artery。 Both cocks thrashed about in the dusty pit while Refugio yelled
for his favorite to stand up and be proven the winner。
Both cocks died； steel spurs raking the dust。 Vicious arguments started over which cock had
died first。
Refugio shouldered into the pit； swearing at the bettors and handlers alike。 At his command； the
Yaquis held the cocks aloft for his inspection。 Guts slid down dusty arms； trailing ribbons of
blood。 He prodded the big red bird while men shouted at him； shrill as roosters。 The crowded
fragmented into fist… and knife…fights。
As Finn watched； three men clubbed their way to Refugio’s side。 He did not need his
bodyguards to restore order； though。 His own fists and boots were eno