—Voltaire An hour later, Crocker stood as he watched a young Mexican doctor pass through swinging double doors and remove the white surgical mask from his face. He squinted, expecting the worst. “The American consul and governor of the state of Jalisco are in the waiting room and want to talk to you,” the tall doctor said, looking at the scratches that had bled through the short-sleeved medical shirt a nurse had given Crocker. “Maybe we should clean you up first.” “Not necessary,” Crocker answered, peering into the man’s small brown eyes. He stood at least an inch taller than Crocker, who was six two. The sterling-silver plate on the front pocket of his white coat read RUBÉN WERNER. Crocker’s first wife, who was a German teacher, had told him that Werner meant “uncertain” in German. “How are my men?” he asked. “The blond gentleman…” “Davis.”
