Most tigers in the Americas lived in zoos, and Hector the Tiger was no exception. Zoo was the best term to describe the dissolute den of bandits, mercenaries, drunks, women of negotiable virtue and other lowlifes that surrounded el Tigre's alleged fortress. It didn't look like the sort of place that could hold a genius like Dr. Loveless prisoner for very long. But Hector's hideout was like a candy bon bon in reverse – soft on the outside and hard in the center.
By mutual agreement, Arte would go in first to get the lay of the land while Jim remained behind – also a reverse of sorts. Arte was by far the better actor and disguise artist, and could hide the gadgets and do the groundwork for his partner. It would have to be a hard, fast snatch and grab – emphasis on fast. Loveless' obsessive hatred of James West meant that he could hardly be expected to be the most cooperative rescuee once he saw Jim's face. With any luck, the malevolent midget would remain as blind as ever to Artemus Gordon's talents.
While Arte worked on that, Jim – far from being idle – had already decided to make contact with Enrique's friend on the outside and learn as much about Hector el Tigre as possible beyond what the very thin dossier that Colonel Richmond had been able to provide. The covert meeting had already been arranged by telegraph. The two Secret Service agents would need all the allies they could find. It was clear that el Tigre, rather than the government of Mexico, ruled this territory and was keeping it firmly in the grip of his claws. If el Tigre really was able to capture Loveless, and moreover keep him captive, he had to be considered a formidable threat, at least as formidable as the not-so-good doctor himself. And as for Jim – well, he was a no-good bum.
Being a slob didn't come naturally to James West – it was something that required Arte's considerable help. Jim had learned to be passably rude and obnoxious where circumstances required, devious, dishonest and criminal as well. Arte had given him all the acting lessons he could during their partnership, just as he had taught Arte more than a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat. But no one – no one – must recognize West before they had achieved their target objective and were already safely on their way back to the United States. That meant that as soon as the two agents had finished their simple meal on board the Wanderer, Arte had gotten out the makeup kit and costumes again and gone to work on his partner. Jim was glad Arte had let him finish eating first, because now he didn't just look like a homeless lowlife, he smelled like one too. Reeked. So did the greasy rags he was dressed in. Even he couldn't recognize himself in his own reflection, unkempt, dirt-caked and filthy as he was. Whether anyone else could or not, he, James West, wouldn't want to associate with himself in this guise. Now he could make his way to the back of the piñata factory where he'd meet with Enrique Leon's trustworthy friend without the slightest possibility of anyone identifying him. If only he didn't make his own skin crawl – and Arte had gotten a great deal of amusement out of disguising Jim this time, more than usual.
Jim had no trouble at all finding his way to his new contact's location. In fact, he met with so little obstacle, he was actually a bit early. He'd done his best to get into character, snarling, cursing, muttering under his breath and occasionally sticking out a gritty, muddy hand to beg for coins. Almost every person he'd seen on the street had given him a wide berth, sometimes pinching their noses first. Now he had but to wait in the alleyway for Enrique's friend Ruiseñor, and hope that Ruiseñor showed soon and also that no dogs came along mistaking Jim for something to roll in.
As he stood in the shadows at the appointed time, Jim inhaled sharply (something he'd been desperately trying not to do) when a gorgeous woman with coffee skin, long, wavy hair as black as midnight and perfect white teeth that outshone her jewelry tiptoed into the alleyway. He cursed his carelessness as the heavy whiff of himself made him start coughing, giving away his location. She spotted him immediately, and started to approach before drawing back and frowning sharply, clearly put off by his disgusting appearance and smell. That was all he needed – for a lovely, curvaceous vision in a tight blouse and long, printed skirt to show up here of all places just as he and Ruiseñor were about to make contact! Much as he wanted to admire and converse with this delectable damsel, he had to get rid of her and fast. Since he had blown his hiding spot by coughing, he decided to keep it up, hacking as if he were dying of some dreadful disease, spitting up the biggest gobbets of saliva he could for good measure. That should be enough to make any woman of practical sense flee and look at a different alleyway for a possible assignation than this one.
The tactic should have worked. It didn't. Instead of abandoning this patch of turf, the senorita angrily gestured for the bum to take himself off elsewhere. She even raised a fist with which to threaten him. But she also seemed to be looking around as if also expecting someone. Had she too been planning to meet with someone else in this location at this hour? She appeared to be on the verge of drawing a dagger from the sheath that she kept at her skirtwaist in order to drive him off when another explanation for her presence occurred to Jim – one which made him want to mutter curses again.
"Ruiseñor?" he called out softly.
Startled, she drew up straighter and shuddered, as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down the back of her blouse. Her hand did not move from the dagger's hilt, but her flashing dark eyes told Jim everything he needed to know. This was his contact all right.
"Ruiseñor?" he repeated. Because the name had 'señor' in it and just from standard practice, he had been expecting to meet with a man, not a woman, and yet no one would ever mistake this beautiful female as anything other than what she was. She had considerably more doubts about his identity, however.
"Señor West?" she asked at last, with a mixture of horror and disappointment on her face.
"Si," he nodded, wondering if he was blushing underneath his caked-on dirt. He didn't think he'd blushed in years, but the look she was giving him now made him want to. Thanks, Arte! Thanks a lot . . . . "This is just a disguise I'm wearing," he whispered.
"If you really are Señor West . . . ." she whispered back, "it is . . . a very effective one." At least she had the grace not to pinch her nose shut in his presence. "But we cannot be seen here," she scolded, then gestured for him to follow her after she had made sure the direction she was leading him in was free of observers. "I have a place where we can speak in private, and where you can wash a bit, si?" Her tone implied he had damn well better be willing to wash himself if he expected to be allowed into her hideout for more than a few seconds.
"I'd appreciate that," he said with sincerity. "And call me Jim."
"Jim," she said, as if rolling his name around in her mouth to see how it tasted before responding. "You may call me Tequila. Tequila Ruiseñor."
They proceeded quickly and quietly to the rear entrance of a taberna that must have dispensed Tequila's namesake beverage during its open hours, but for some reason, even though it was early in the evening, the taberna was closed. Jim had noticed that was true of several other businesses they passed in the short walk. There was plenty of commercial activity going on around el Tigre's hive of scum and villainy, but other parts of the town clearly weren't prospering. Jim would have to ask her about that, but first he wanted to know the answer to one question that was burning in his mind.
"Tequila," he turned to her as she was pointing him the way to a washroom, "by any chance could our mutual friend Enrique Leon have given my partner a description of you before he arranged for our meeting?"
"I gave him my permission to do so, si," she answered. "Porque?"
"Oh, just wondering."
