by John Benteen
“Just a little unfinished business,” Fargo said. “Something to wind up before Don Caesar gets here with the black bulls.”
“Will you be long?”
“Not very.”
Buenos Aires was seething with the night life of a Latin American city in which the tradition of siesta postponed most of the action until after dark. Fargo caught a horse cab, and, as it clip-clopped toward the street called Corrientes, he leaned back against the seat and smoked a cigar, thinking not of what lay ahead, but of what had just passed.
Theo Braga had almost cried when they had parted at Dos Caminos. “Neal, my friend. Come back; come back soon.”
“Maybe I will, Theo.” Fargo’s eyes swept the endless plains. “This is big country; not much left of it these days. I might be back sooner than either of us guesses.” Then he had turned away, gone to the corral, with Braga behind him. When he put out his hand, Cimarron had whinnied and trotted toward him.
Fargo rubbed the velvety muzzle, scratched the stallion between its ears. The big horse nuzzled his arm. Then Fargo turned away; a man did not run across a horse like this every day; but Cimarron, wild as he was, could not possibly survive the sea journey to Mexico. Either he would kill somebody or die himself. Anyhow, he was a creature of the pampa.
Fargo spat into the dust, as the horse nickered behind him. “Take good care of him, Theo.”
“Neal, surely—”
“Hell, no, you caught him; he’s really yours, anyhow.” But it was, he thought, easier to leave a woman than such a horse.
Braga made a sound in his throat, but said nothing more. Down the line, a train whistle sounded. There was no point in any more goodbyes. Braga remained at the corral; Fargo strode to the station.
Then the hack pulled up. “The Red Cockerel, Señor,” the driver said.
Fargo got out, paid and tipped the man. He went into the bar. It was crowded. The same band tootled near the stage; three girls were dancing there, doing the can-can.
Fargo went to the bar. “Señorita Danfield,” he said. “Where will I find her?”
The man glanced instinctively toward a door behind the bar. When Fargo stepped around the counter, though, he put out a hand.
Fargo struck it down. Opened the door, went in.
The room was large. It served, obviously, as both office and boudoir. Pamela Danfield was changing clothes; as Fargo entered, she was clad in black corset and black silk stockings, about to step into a red dress.
When the door closed behind him, she turned, stared. Her eyes widened. Then a look of pleasure washed the dismay out of her face. “Fargo!” she cried. “You’ve come back!” She let the dress drop, and, in corset and stockings, ran toward him. Threw her arms around his neck, pushed the creamy bosom overflowing its black confinement hard against his chest. Her mouth was open, eager, carnal, beneath his.
He held her for a long time. Then he released her and she backed away. The slopes of her breasts rose and fell with excitement. “Von Stahl,” she whispered. “What about him?”
“Von Stahl’s dead,” Fargo said. Her eyes flickered. Then she let out a long breath.
“Thank God.” Her gaze narrowed. “Did you kill him?”
Fargo nodded.
She laughed softly. “Good. That calls for a drink.” She turned away, went to a cabinet in the corner of the room, bent and opened it, took out a bottle. That was in her left hand; the little automatic was in her right. But Fargo was already across the room, and he laughed as he seized her wrist and squeezed. She screamed and the gun dropped.
Then he had her, and she was struggling in his grip, eyes blazing. “Damn you!” she spat; “Wilhelm was the only man I ever really loved.”
“I figured that,” Fargo said coldly; and he slapped her with measured force.
Her eyes glazed and her body went limp. Fargo caught her before she hit the floor, picked her up, carried her to the sofa. He stood there for a moment, looking down at her. Half-naked as she was, she was very beautiful, a sight to make a man’s mouth water. For a moment, Fargo felt a tinge of regret, but not a very deep one.
He dropped the automatic in his pocket. The bottle had fallen to the carpet, but it was unbroken. He picked it up, saw that it was excellent American bourbon. He hefted it in his hand, sat down in an easy chair, pulled the cork with his teeth, took a long drink.
He was still sitting like that, nursing the bottle, when the Government police whom he had summoned just before leaving the hotel arrived.
She had revived and was cursing Fargo, when they took her out, still in stockings, corset, and a silken robe. He watched her go, his face stony. Even on Caesar Hierro’s complaint, he did not think she would go to jail. More likely, she would be shipped to Germany. He hoped the ship did not meet any submarines en route.
Then it was truly over. He left the Red Cockerel, caught another cab that took him back to his hotel.
He smoked his cigar leisurely. He would have a week with Carla before the black bulls arrived. Buenos Aires was a hell of a town and Carla was a hell of a woman, and it should be a hell of a week.
He chuckled softly. A lot of German soldiers would be going hungry in months to come ... He still had the bourbon bottle with him and took another swig.
Yes, by God. For a man too old and beat-up to fight, he had done right well.
“Pretty damn fair,” he said aloud, and took one more drink and watched the streetlights of Buenos Aires reel past.
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