(3 of 7)
A Hot Tamale. Tacho says he dislikes rough stuff: when a man is sure of his position, he thinks, it isn't necessary—as the case of General Carlos Pasos shows. Pasos, once a good Somoza man and like him a Liberal, fell out with the dictator in 1944. Nicaragua, Pasos felt, could do with a little more democracy; after a time the Liberals called a convention to talk about it. Some of the cautious ones went to Tacho to get his views. They got them. "Tell Carlos Pasos that I know that twice last night at the home of Castro Wassmer he read the speech he has prepared, and if he insists on reading it at the convention, let him not forget to come armed. I am not the man to let myself be overthrown by speeches. There'll certainly be some gunplay there."
There was no gunplay. Pasos did not make his speech; instead, he went to jail for three weeks. But neither then nor later did Tacho touch the textile mill and other businesses that made Pasos wealthy. General Pasos still hangs around Managua, in halfhearted opposition to Somoza—but Tacho is in wholehearted control.
Once a Nicaraguan Conservative, who had been under house arrest for two months on Tacho's order, charged up to the general at a party and roared: "I want to know why you ordered my house arrest!" Said Somoza, grinning: "I did it to please your wife. She told me she couldn't keep you home nights."
"I want to treat everybody good," says Tacho, wide-eyed. "I once told F.D.R. about democracy in Central America. Democracy down here is like a baby—and nobody gives a baby everything to eat right away. I'm giving 'em liberty—but in my style. If you give a baby a hot tamale, you'll kill him."
"I Never Miss." Though Tacho runs Nicaragua, he has a stooge President, 76-year-old Dr. Victor Román y Reyes, who happens to be his uncle. Tacho does not live in the presidential palace, but in a grey fortresslike place known as La Curva on the volcanic rim above Managua.
Each morning he is up around 6, breakfasts on steak and cornflakes while aides read him Guardia telegrams and reports on the country. After that, he goes to a desk stacked high with Guardia business and with his own business affairs, mainly coffee and cattle.
For hours Tacho talks with pleaders, politicians, hangers-on. If he agrees to a proposal and gives an order then & there, the proposal will be carried out. If he says he'll think it over, he'll forget about it. If he asks for a memo he'll never read it. When his office work is done, he goes to look at the cattle on his Mercedes ranch down the lake shore from Managua. "I'm no politico," says Tacho, without batting an eyelash. "I'm a farmer."
In profile, the middle-aged dictator looks undertrained and overstuffed. But his boasts about his physical strength, his horsemanship, his swimming, his farming, his pool shooting, his poker playing, his business ability are not altogether idle. When he plays cards, he never loses. "It's fantastic the luck I have. It's that way with anything I want to try—I'm the champ. I'm the champ shot of the Guardia National, didja know that? Pistol or rifle. Jeez, I never miss, it seems."