The Case of the Vanishing Beauty
Page 18
"Ah, but Shell," she said, "you have just told me—how was it—that the case, it is not yet closed. That it will not be closed until the people who grow this drug and the bad ones who bring it over the border are caught and finished with. That one must catch the ones who grow, and the ones who smuggle, and the ones who sell it before it is over." The smile got wider.
I grinned at her. "Uh-huh. Right on all counts. But that's Sam's department now. He'll turn it over to the narcotics division. The government men will come in. It's just a matter of time. Besides, the stuff's grown in Mexico. There's nobody going to bother you now, Lina."
A full-grown smile was on her face. She ran the pointed tip of her tongue over her moist lower lip. "I do not know, Shell." She pressed her cheek against my knee and slanted a narrow-eyed look up at me. "I am afraid. I am afraid someone will hurt me. It is safer here for me. No?"
I grinned and mussed her thick hair with my hand.
She lifted her head and looked at me. Then she got up. "One moment," she whispered.
She went into the bedroom. I let more bourbon roll around on my tongue and down, down, down. I'd have to go out and see Mr. Martin tomorrow. Say hello to Tracy. Check in with Sam. See that writer guy, too, that Jordan Brent. Maybe there'd be something cooking at the office. The hell with it. I felt like sleeping all tomorrow. I stifled a yawn with my hand.
"Querido." Soft, whispery, deep in her throat.
I looked around, patting the yawn with my fist. I almost bit my thumb off.
It was Lina, still. But it was the Lina I'd seen for the first time at El Cuchillo. Remember? Snug black shorts that looked as if they'd been melted on; a scarlet bolero that didn't quite conceal the high, full breasts she was careless about but nobody else ever would be; dark hose over the long, golden, curving legs, and high-heeled black shoes. She'd even brushed her hair high up on top of her head the way it had been then.
She walked up beside me. "Querido, may I sit with you?"
I cleared my throat. "Uh-huh. Sure."
"And tomorrow then, I must go, I must leave?"
"Uh-huh."
"Pig."
"Uh-huh."
She sat down beside me and leaned her head against my shoulder. "Let us talk, Shell. Just talk for a while."
"Sure, Lina. Fine."
She whispered into my ear, her breath brushing gently against my cheek, and she stroked my temple with soft fingers. She said a lot of things to me, some in English, some in liquid Spanish, but all of it sounded good. Once in a while I answered her with a word, or in monosyllables, relaxed, drowsy, feeling contented and good. Even with the lovely, lovely Lina beside me, I was being almost lulled into sleep.
Tomorrow…hell with tomorrow. Need rest. See Sam next day, skip the office. See Cornell Martin and Tracy any time. She'd had a sort of tough time, too, that Tracy…
"You do like me, Shell? I am nice?"
"Sure. Sure, Tracy."
Silence. Awful, deadly silence.
"Tracy! Tracy! Marrano cochino!"
My ear was busted. It was all in shreds. I sat up straight, wide awake. "Huh? Hey, wait a minute, pepper pot. I—"
"You pig! Pig, pig, pig!" She was on her feet now, hands down at her sides, palms out, the fingers curling and uncurling. Her lips writhed in a kind of savage, beauty as she spat the words out at me.
"Degenarado! Mentiroso! Engañador! I will kill you! I will scratch out your eyes like big grapes! Perro mentiroso! Te rasguñaré la cara! La rasgarè! Perro engañoso! TRACYTRACYTRACY!"
"Wait a minute. Lina. Honey. All a mistake. Sleepy. Nothing. Didn't mean a thing. Didn't—"
"Tu eres el diablo mismo! Lo mato como—"
What the hell. There was only one thing to do. I did it.
Hell, no, I didn't slug her. How would you have stopped her, friend?
THE END
of an Original Gold Medal Novel by
RICHARD S. PRATHER
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1978 by Richard Prather
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4804-9917-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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