Love Me and Die

by Louis Trimble

  I did the only thing left to do. I went through the windows and down into a bed of some sharp-leafed desert plant. I stumbled forward onto a narrow strip of grass. Farley’s partner was fumbling for his gun when I reached him.

  I heard the motor of the Mercedes coming closer. I swung my arm. I said, “Sorry,” and brought the edge of my open hand slanting down across the man’s nose.

  He grunted and put both hands to his face. I caught his shoulders and swung him to face the house. I pushed him into the sharp-leafed shrubbery. I turned and ran for the Mercedes.

  The redhead had the right-hand door open. I jumped into the bucket seat. She went into reverse and shot backward. I slammed the door and looked toward the house. Farley was running for the black sedan. His partner was pulling himself out of the weeds.

  And Bonita Jessup stood on her front steps waving good-bye to me!

  I didn’t get a chance to see any more. The redhead backed into the street, swung the nose of the Mercedes upslope, and tromped on the throttle.

  We went over the crest and out of sight of the house. The redhead said, “Where does this damn road go?”

  I didn’t have to answer because there was no more road. The pavement ended just past the top of the hill. Nothing but twin tracks winding down a barren rocky slope lay ahead of us. The redhead swore in lusty Spanish, shifted down, and hit the tracks.

  I grabbed for the edges of the seat and hung on. She drove with her teeth clamped together. Sweat beaded on her forehead. One braid began to jounce loose. Dust squirted from under the wheels and sifted through the open windows and rained a fine film onto the windshield. The redhead took it all like a champion.

  Once we stopped bumping enough for me to look back. Farley’s black sedan was just edging off the pavement above us. I said, “Find some place where you can open this up. If he makes radio contact with the local gendarmes, we’re done.”

  The redhead said, “There!” and swung the Mercedes sharply down a thirty-degree slope. We lifted twice on head-sized rocks. Then we were back on pavement with a great stretch of irrigated valley spreading north before us.

  I took my hands off the edge of the seat. The redhead shifted up two gears and began to make the Mercedes move. I watched the speedometer needle start its climb. I didn’t say anything. I was too busy praying we hadn’t damaged the tires back on those rocks.

  When we hit a hundred and five, the redhead stopped accelerating. The Mercedes was supposed to have a top of a hundred and sixty and a cruising speed of close to one-forty. I was glad she had enough sense not to try to find out how true those figures were.

  Wind whipped in and finished the job on the redhead’s braid. It flopped against the side of her neck. She took a hand casually off the wheel and pinned the braid loosely back into place. The car didn’t even waver.

  I looked back. As far as I could see, we were all alone.

  I said, “Slow down and start talking.”

  She didn’t slow down, but she said, “I finally got the address where letters addressed to Box 8 were forwarded.”

  She paused and added, “Numero 13, Avenida Rio Seco, Lozano, Mexico.”

  I said, “That’s where Art is supposed to meet Bonita tonight!”

  “I know,” she said. “What does it mean, Jojo?”

  I didn’t answer that. I said, “It’s also Healy’s favorite hangout. Carlotta, the landlady, is a particular friend of his.”

  She said, “Oh, and was silent.

  I gave her a quick rundown on what I had picked up since our last conversation. She listened intently. Then she said, “I’m worried about the meeting. It could be a trap.”

  “For Bonita?”

  “She could have set it—she and Healy.”

  I said, “It’s a possibility.” I was silent, thinking about it.

  We began to pass trucks loading produce and men working in the green, irrigated fields. A narrower road took off to the south. I pointed. The redhead swung into the side road with a scream of tires.

  She dropped the speed to ninety. “Now we can relax,” she said cheerfully.

  I said, “Why did you come to Bonita’s?”

  “Where else was I supposed to go?” she demanded. “The City Center Motel comes complete with a stake-out these days. A better question is, what do we do now?”

  I said, “Find a telephone.”

  “To call Bonita?” I nodded. The redhead said, “Is she attractive? Her voice sounds as if she is.”

  I said, “She can’t complain. Now shut up and slow down. That looks like a gas station up ahead.”

  It was, at a triangular junction with the border highway running east. The redhead eased up behind a battered old wooden garage building. I went into the ancient, tired station and found the telephone. From where I stood, I could look over a quarter of mile of hill to the green line of trees marking the river, and to Mexico on the other side.

  I found Bonita’s home phone in the book. I dialed. She answered after three rings. I said, “Can you talk?”

  She said, “Yes. I had some boring guests, but they left in a hurry. Where are you?” she added abruptly.

  I described the station. Then I said, “I called to find out how I get into Mexico without getting picked up at the border.”

  She said promptly, “Come back about fifteen miles toward Ramiera.” I listened while she gave me a detailed description of what was obviously a wetback crossing. I wasn’t surprised; there’s at least one near almost all border towns.

  She said, “Are we meeting at Carlotta’s at ten?”

  I said, “That’s right. But first I want you to do something for me at your office and then phone me.”

  I outlined what I wanted her to do. She said when I finished, “How do you know you can trust me, Joe?”

  I said, “If I can’t, I’m dead. But there’s no other way to get answers to my questions. Call me at nine sharp.” I gave her the number of Unit 7 at the Frontera Motel.

  She repeated the number.

  I said, “And after that, Carlotta’s at ten?”

  Bonita was silent a moment. Then she said, “There’s an alley behind Carlotta’s. The fourth gate down from the corner leads into her garden.”

  I said, “All right. We’ll meet there. If Farley doesn’t pick you up for harboring a criminal.”

  She said, “Good heavens, how was I supposed to know you were hiding in my house?”

  I laughed and told her thanks again. I heard a kissing sound from her end of the line. She murmured, “Take care of yourself,” and hung up.

  I went back to tell the redhead what she could look forward to until ten o’clock.

  An old man had been asleep when we drove into the gas station. We woke him up to fill the tank. He was asleep again before we left the pumps. I hoped he stayed that way if the police came to see him.

  I said, “Go back fifteen miles, and watch out for cops.”

  The redhead peeled off her gears and floated up to eighty. It felt as if we were crawling after that other ride. I leaned forward the last few miles, my eyes out for a sign Bonita had told me about.

  I saw it on our left. I said, “Turn there where it says Picnic Ground.”

  The redhead turned. We went along a cinder road toward the line of trees marking the river. We reached a fork. I said, “Left, and slow down.”

  She turned left and slowed down as the road became twin ruts carved in the dry earth. We followed it to the river. I said, “Just keep going. It’s supposed to be only a foot deep or so here.”

  “You hope,” the redhead said. She kept going. We eased into the water. It came up to the hubs as we reached the middle of the stream. Then it began to recede. We bounced up onto the flat Mexican desert.

  “Can you think of any laws I haven’t broken lately?” the redhead demanded.

  I pointed to a large overhang of willows to the left. “Put the car under those and we’ll break another law.”

  “Jojo, darling!”

  I s
aid, “The law I refer to concerns our taking a swim in public without proper attire. It’s too hot to just sit and pant.”

  The redhead said, “Oh.” She put the car under the trees. I got out and walked away from them. I looked hard but I couldn’t see any sign of the Mercedes. Satisfied, I went back to the redhead.

  She had taken me at my word. Her clothes were on the seat of the car. She was sitting in water that reached her waist. In one hand she held a fresh bottle of rum. What with one thing and another, it looked as if it might be an interesting afternoon.

  14

  THE BIG Mercedes rolled across the dark sweep of desert toward the harsh, barren mountains hiding Lozano. We had already crossed a range of low hills and then the irrigated flat where the redhead had hauled Turk’s body. Now only the mountains lay between us and the possibility of the Mexican police waiting patiently in the hot darkness.

  The redhead was in a scratchy mood. I had taken the rum bottle away after she had drunk a pint by five o’clock. After that she just sat in the river and sulked. Now she was working off nervous energy by yakking at me.

  She said, “I don’t like this crazy idea of going to the motel.”

  I said, “I needed some place to get a telephone call. And it just might be that Art is holed up there waiting to make the meeting.”

  “I don’t think Art’s holed up anywhere,” the redhead said savagely. She took the first of the flat, hard mountain curves without braking. The Mercedes didn’t even quiver. “I don’t even think he’s alive.”

  I said, “We’ll know soon enough. It’s almost nine now.”

  She managed to pick up speed on the straight stretches between the curves. She had to brake as we hit a wild hairpin curve near the crest of the grade. The moon picked that minute to come out. It was almost full and it turned the river three hundred feet down on my right into a shimmering strip of silver.

  We went over the hump. I looked down at the lights of Lozano in the distance. I wondered which of them burned in Carlotta’s casa de asignación. I wondered if Art Ditmer was somewhere hiding from them. And I wondered if a murderer was waiting patiently for him to move out into them and become a target.

  I said, “Hurry it up, can’t you?”

  “Bonita won’t call until nine, so keep your pants on,” the redhead snarled.

  I said, “What are you making jealous noises about? It was too hot out there to do anything but sit in the river.”

  “Jealous, hell!” she exploded. “I don’t trust a woman with a voice like hers. I’m just afraid she’s made a sucker out of you—and maybe out of Art too.”

  I said, “I can answer that one better after she phones.”

  The redhead gunned the Mercedes viciously down the gravel road. She slowed down as we reached the dark edge of the town limits. In a few blocks we came into the street that ran in front of the motel.

  I said, “Find a dark hole to hide this crate in. We’ve been lucky so far. But once Farley figures we crossed the border, the whole area will be swarming with Mexican cops.”

  A block and a half from the motel the redhead made a sudden right turn and then a sharp left. She slid the Mercedes into a narrow slot between a crumbling adobe wall and the side of a low concrete building. Thick, hot darkness swallowed us. It would take more than a cop’s eyes to spot the magenta monster in here.

  The redhead relented enough to slip her hand in mine as we hiked toward the motel. I couldn’t see a sign of anyone about. Nothing that looked like a police car was parked on the street.

  I paused by the cactus with the two bullet gouges in it. Only a few of the motel windows showed light. Number 7 was totally dark. Its carport was empty.

  I stopped. “Give me the door key,” I whispered.

  Her hand jittered as she dug in her purse. She put the key in my hand. I pushed her behind me and started forward again. I tried the doorknob first. It wouldn’t turn. I slipped the key in the lock and snapped the tumblers back. The knob turned now. I pushed the door open softly.

  Cool air gushed out at us. The redhead stopped in the doorway and sniffed sharply. “Smoke,” she said worriedly. “Expensive cigar smoke.”

  Art Ditmer smoked cigars, but not expensive ones. I whispered into the blackness, “Art?”

  My voice echoed tightly back. I drew the redhead into the room and kicked the door shut. My hand scraped along the wall, found the light switch.

  The overheads came on blindingly. The redhead had a hand on my arm. Her nails dug convulsively into my skin. Her voice choked in her throat. “Jojo!”

  I saw him too—Rod Gorman, lying on the couch, sprawled on his back. He was bare to the waist. The ornate handle of a carving knife stuck out of his stomach just above his belt-line.

  I moved to the couch and stared down at the body. The redhead clung to me and came reluctantly along. “Love me and die,” she whispered. “That makes two of Bonita’s lovers to die a violent death, Jojo. Or three if you can count her husband.”

  I didn’t say anything. Her fingers convulsed her nails into my arm again. “Jojo, this afternoon—did you and she—”

  “I wouldn’t answer that question even if you had a right to ask it,” I interrupted angrily.

  She walked quietly away. I stared down at Gorman’s face. He knew he was going to die, I thought. He couldn’t have lived long after the knife went into him, but he had lived long enough to feel the pain.

  The redhead said suddenly, “Cover him, Jojo, please. I can’t stand to stay here and look at another corpse.”

  I pulled the spread off the bed and started to drape it over Gorman’s body. My eyes lingered on the handle of the knife. A circuit in my memory bank made connections. Rich cigar smoke and the ornately carved knife handle came together meaningfully.

  I pulled the spread over Gorman’s face. I said, “Healy smokes cigars that smell like this smoke.”

  The redhead was sitting on the bed, looking at her shoetips. She lifted her head as I walked toward her. She said in a low, miserable tone, “I’m sorry, Jojo. I’m not jealous. I’m just jittery. And maybe a little superstitious,” she said with a feeble attempt to smile.

  I sat beside her and stroked her back. Nothing moved for a long time but my fingertips.

  By nine-thirty I began to think Bonita wasn’t going to call. Then the telephone rang shrilly, making us both start. I leaned over and picked up the receiver. Bonita said, “Is it all right? Can you talk?”

  I said, “Did something go wrong? It’s nine-thirty.”

  She said bitterly, “Chester and Rod and Toby had their dinners sent in so they could work late. They didn’t leave until eight o’clock. I had to go with them to make it look good. I didn’t get back until nearly nine. I’ve been searching ever since.

  I said, “You found what I expected?”

  Her voice sounded as if someone had slapped her. “I found the bug, just as you said. The mike was behind a watercolor on my wall. But the receiver wasn’t where you said it would be. It wasn’t in Rod’s office at all. It was in Chester’s. It was bolted up under the top of his desk inside the center drawer.”

  I said, “Your office had to be bugged. There was no other way to explain other people knowing your plans for the original meeting with Art Ditmer. Or knowing you sent Turk to Tucson to check for Art’s report.” I added bitterly, “Or hearing Turk identify Art Ditmer to you as a detective.”

  I moved my head a little. The redhead was leaning against me so she could hear too. Her braid tickled my cheek. I was reminded of something.

  I said, “One more question. When Turk called you from Tucson, did he mention having checked Miss Lucas’ office?”

  “He couldn’t have,” she said. “I remember when he called from Tucson that I told him to check her office. I had been thinking about an insurance investigation—guilty conscience, I suppose.”

  I said, “Has Farley bothered you?”

  She said, “He tried, but I played innocent. He went away mad.”

&n
bsp; I said, “Just make sure he doesn’t tail you to Carlotta’s.”

  She said huskily, “Gate four at ten. Good-bye, Joe.”

  The phone clicked down. The redhead said with mock throatiness, “Good-bye, Joe. My God, I never heard so much bedroom in so few words.”

  I ignored that. I had something else on my mind. I said, “Why hasn’t the murderer tipped off the cops that we’re here? Or that it’s Art’s cabin? It would be a perfect way to really frame us.”

  The redhead just looked at me. I said, “I think he is going to tip the cops. But he’s going to wait until just before ten. That way, everything will be over at Carlotta’s before we could talk the law into going there.”

  The redhead looked at her watch. “It’s eighteen to ten now,” she said.

  I said, “And time to leave before the cops walk in and find us sitting up with a corpse.”

  15

  I DROVE the Mercedes through dark side streets. The redhead took a map of Lozano from the glove compartment. She studied it under the dashlight and located Número 13, Avenida Río Seco. She told me which direction to go.

  I said, “I’ve got some ideas jelling. See if you can tear them apart.”

  I turned a corner and drifted down a narrow, rough street. I said, “Bonita laid herself open by getting into financial hot water. A close examination of Healy’s other set of books will probably show that he decided at that time that he was going to take over.”

  I took the ledger sheets I had lifted from Healy’s drawer and handed them to her. She bent forward, holding them under the dashlight.

  I said, “When Bonita dropped Gorman and took up with Thorne, Healy saw his chance to take control and blame it on someone else. He checked out Bonita’s financial shenanigans and then hired that Box 8 address in Tucson so he could mail threats to her. And he set up Carlotta’s as a place to receive forwarded mail. Don’t forget that she’s a close friend of his. So who would be suspicious?”

  The redhead said without looking up, “How does that fit in with Art’s disappearing and then calling Bonita?”

  I said, “I think Healy heard Thorne identify Art to Bonita. So he set his trap and sprung it. He wanted Art so he could find out just how much Art had learned. You know what kind of a fight Art would put up. My guess is he’s been too badly hurt to get loose until today.”