by Nick Carter
“Damned if I know.”
Consuela looked askance at me, but made no further comment. She concentrated on speeding along the Costera Miguel Aleman, past the Acapulco Hilton to Diana Circle, where Paseo del Farallon intersects the Costera. She took Highway 95 that goes north to Mexico City.
About a mile further up the road, Consuela turned onto a dirt road that led into the foothills. Finally, she pulled up in a gravel parking lot half filled with cars.
“El Cortijo,” she announced. “The farmhouse.”
I saw a wooden structure, painted bright red and white, actually nothing more than a large, circular platform built about six feet above the ground, surrounding a small, sand-covered ring. A shingled roof had been erected over the platform area, its center open to the sky and to the bright sun. The platform itself was a little more than ten feet wide, just wide enough for small tables to be set two-deep around its perimeter.
We sat down at a table against the railing, opposite the gate through which the bulls were to come. From that position, our view of the ring below us was completely unobstructed.
The band struck up a brassy tune. Four men walked out across the packed sand of the ring, swaggering to the beat of the music. The crowd applauded them.
I’d expected them to be dressed in the traditional trajas de luces, the tightly tailored, brilliantly embroidered “suit of lights” worn by matadors I’d watched in the bullrings at Pamplona, Barcelona, Madrid, and Mexico City. Instead, these four wore short, dark jackets, white shirts with ruffles and gray trousers tucked into black, ankle-high boots. They stopped at the far side of the ring and bowed.
There was some scattered applause. The matadors turned and walked back, disappearing under the platform beneath us.
Next to us, the table filled up. There were six in the party. Two of the three girls sat down with their backs to the ring. One of them was blonde, the other redheaded. The third girl was small and dark, with a delicate, cameo featured face.
At the head of the table, a husky, gray-haired man with a large paunch began joking with the girls. A tall thin man sat between the redhead and a stocky, bronze-featured Mexican.
I leaned toward Consuela. “Are these your people?”
“Two of them.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She didn’t turn her head away from the ring.
“Which two?”
“They’ll let you know.”
Now the picador rode out into the ring on a horse with heavy padding on its right side and a long blinder at the side of its right eye to keep it from seeing the bull.
The bull lowered its horns and charged the horse. In a vicious thrust, the picador leaned over and planted the point of his pic deep into the bull’s left shoulder, leaning his full weight into the long haft of the pic. He pushed hard against the drive of the bull, keeping the horns away from his mount. The bull tore loose from the agonizing pain and ran around the ring, a bright gush of blood coming from the wound in its shoulder, streaking it like a gay, red ribbon against the dusty black of its hide.
The first banderillero came out into the ring. In each hand, he held a long-shafted barb, and with his arms outstretched in a vee, he made a curving run at the bull. The bull lowered his head to charge.
Leaning in, the banderillero planted the sharply honed barbs in each shoulder of the bull. The pointed iron slid into the tough hide of the animal as if it were made of tissue paper.
I looked at the people at the next table. None of them paid any attention to me. They were watching the action in the ring.
The matador came out again, carrying the small muleta. He moved up to the bull in short sidesteps, trying to get the bull to charge. The bull was very bad. But the matador was even worse.
The blonde girl at the next table turned away from the ring. “Hey, Garrett, when do they kill the bull?”
“In a minute or two,” the heavy-set man answered. “You won’t see it it unless you turn around.”
“I don’t want to see it. I don’t like the sight of blood.”
The bull was tired. The matador was ready for the kill The bull’s flanks were heaving with exhaustion, its head dropping close to the sand. The matador moved up to the lowered head, leaned in and thrust his sword into the bull, up to the hilt. He missed the vertebrae..
If you cut the spinal column, the bull will collapse instantly. It’s a fast, clean death, almost instantaneous. This bull didn’t fall. It stood there, with the sword in its neck, blood coming from the fresh wound and streaming from the two barbs in its shoulders and from the gaping pic wound. And now, blood began to spout from its mouth in a thick, ropy stream.
“Oh, shit,” said the blonde, who had turned back to the ring in spite of herself. “This is such a goddamned bloody country! Who needs all this killing.”
The Mexican was amused by her revulsion. “We’re still a primitive people,” he said to her. “The sword, the knife—steel and bloodletting heighten our sense of machismo. You norteamericanos are too soft.”
“Screw you, Carlos,” she snapped and turned her back on the ring.
The matador came back to the bull with a stabbing sword in his hand. One of the banderilleros had pulled put the other sword. The matador leaned over the bull and made a chopping motion. The blade severed the spinal cord and the bull collapsed on the sand.
Garrett turned his head and caught my eye. He got to his feet. “I’ve got a couple of bottles of Scotch in the car,” he said, loudly. “Let’s go get them, Carlos.”
I saw them walk around the perimeter of the bullring and cross the wooden platform that led to the parking lot.
Consuela touched me on the arm. “You can join them now.”
I followed them out of the enclosure. Garrett threaded his way through the parked cars until he came to the far side of the lot. He stopped to turn and wait for me.
As I approached, he eyed me coldly. I stopped in front of him.
I don’t know what he expected me to say, but I didn’t waste words or time.
“Lay off Stocelli,” I said abruptly, staring into Garrett’s heavy, belligerent face. Then my eyes moved to Carlos, who met my stare with an impassively bland expression.
Carlos was dressed in lime-green slacks, a raw silk shirt, and wore white, tasseled loafers on his small feet. He looked like a fop, but I sensed a deep core of toughness in him that Garrett didn’t possess. Garrett was bluff and bluster. Carlos was the more dangerous of the two.
Carlos reached out and touched me on the arm. His voice was importurbably calm and polite.
“Senor, I think Acapulco has just become very un-healthy for you.”
“I don’t frighten.”
Carlos made a small shrug of his plump shoulders.
“That is too bad,” he remarked. “A little fear can sometimes save a man’s life.”
I turned away from them, hiding my anger. I made my way back to the ring, through the tables to Consuela. I touched her on the arm.
“There’s going to be trouble. Can you get a ride back to town with your friends?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Give me the keys to your car. “I’ll leave them at my hotel.”
Consuela shook her head. “I brought you here. I’ll drive you back.”
“Let’s go then.”
I gathered up my camera and the large equipment bag. With Consuela a step behind me, I walked out of the enclosure.
We were crossing the small wooden bridge, Consuela at my side, when I suddenly caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. In pure, instinctive reflex, I flung Consuela away from me toward the railing and threw myself against the wooden wall that formed one side of the passageway.
I caroomed off the wall at an angle, spinning around and dropping to one knee. The back of my neck burned like someone had scorched it with a white-hot branding iron. I felt the trickle of blood begin to run down my collar.
“What is it?” cried Consuela, and then her eyes went to the long handled banderilla that was st
ill quivering in the wall between us, its honed, steel barb sunk deeply into the wood. The long handle, with its bright ribbons, swayed back and forth like a deadly metronome.
I remembered how easily the barbed steel had sunk into the leathery hide of the bull. It wasn’t too hard to imagine the bander ilia piercing my throat if I hadn’t acted, so fast.
I got to my feet and dusted off the knee of my trousers.
“Your friends don’t waste any time,” I said, savagely. “Now let’s get out of here.”
Jean-Paul was waiting for me in the lobby. He came to his feet as I walked in. I headed across the lobby toward the elevators, and he fell into step beside me.
“Well?”
“I was told to get the hell out of Acapulco.”
“And?”
“They also tried to kill me.”
We got into the elevator. Jean-Paul said, “I think you are in a bad spot, my friend.”
I made no answer. The elevator stopped at my floor. We got out and walked down the corridor. As we came up to my room, I took out my key.
“Wait,” said Jean-Paul sharply. He held out his left hand for the key, “Give it to me.”
I looked down. Jean-Paul held a gun in his right hand. I don’t argue with guns that close. I gave him the key.
“Now move to one side.”
I moved away. Jean-Paul inserted the key in the lock and turned it slowly. With a sudden movement, he flung the door open, dropping to one knee, the gun in his hand aimed into the room, ready to blast anyone inside.
“There’s no one there,” I told him.
Jean-Paul rose to his feet.
“I’m never ashamed of being cautious,” he said. We went into the room. I shut the door behind us and walked over to the terrace window and looked out. Behind me, Jean-Paul busied himself mixing drinks for us. I dropped my equipment bag on a chair and put my camera on top of it.
Staring across the bay, I could see the motor boats towing the waterskiers. At the Yacht Club, there were a number of motor-sailers at anchor. The tuna boat that I’d seen the afternoon before was still tied up at the malecon. I wondered about it.
Jean-Paul asked, “Aren’t you afraid to turn your back on me?”
“No.”
He stirred the drinks. “We had some excitement here while you were gone. The local police paid a visit to the hotel. They searched Stocelli’s penthouse suites.”
“So?”
“They also searched your room.” Jean-Paul was staring intently at my face, trying to catch even the smallest expression of surprise. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“I expected it.”
I turned back to stare out the window again. Td known from the moment I’d seen the fake laundry package on my bed that the police would call on me.
They’d probably been tipped off to search both Stocelli’s suites and my room for narcotics. Someone was trying to lay a heavy frame on Stocelli.
But that wasn’t what was bugging me.
“Why would the police want to search Stocelli’s penthouse?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Because five kilos of heroin wrapped like a package of laundry was delivered to him earlier today,” I said.
Jean-Paul whistled in surprise.
“Apparently, then, he got rid of it. Eh bien?”
“I got rid of it for him.”
“Oh?” Another long pause. “Is that why they searched your room?”
“No. Another package like it was delivered to my room, too,” I said, calmly, my back still toward Jean-Paul. “Five more kilos, wrapped exactly the same way.”
Jean-Paul digested the information thoughtfully. Then he said, “Since the police found nothing, may I ask what you did with the heroin?”
“I took it with me.”
“And you got rid of it this afternoon? How clever of you, mon amil.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s still in my equipment bag over there. All ten kilos of it. I’ve been carrying it around with me all afternoon.”
Jean-Paul turned to look at the bulky equipment bag that I’d placed on the chair near the window. He began to laugh.
“You have quite a sense of humor, my friend. You’re aware of what would have happened if the police had found it on you?”
“Yes. Thirty years at hard labor. So I’ve been told.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Not as much as something else.”
Jean-Paul brought me a drink. He took his own and sat down in one of the chairs.
He raised his glass. “A voire sante!” He took a sip. “What bothers you?”
“You.” I turned around. “You’re not from Michaud’s organization.”
Jean-Paul sipped at his rum. There was a challenge in his gray eyes. “Why do you think that?”
“For one thing, you’re too friendly with me. You act more like my bodyguard. Second, you’re really not pushing to get Stocelli wiped out. Finally, you’ve known all afternoon that someone’s trying to frame Stocelli, just like Michaud was framed. It should have proved to you that Stocelli didn’t set up Michaud, and therefore you’re after the wrong guy. But you’ve done nothing about it.”
Jean-Paul said nothing.
I went on. “Not only that, but you’ve hung around the hotel all afternoon in spite of the fact that four cops were searching the joint for narcotics. If you really were from the Marseille organization, you’d have run like hell at the first sight of them.”
“So?”
“So who the hell are you?”
“Who do you think I am?”
“Police.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The way you came in the door a few minutes ago. That’s strictly a police technique. You were trained that way.”
“You are perceptive, mon vieux! Yes, I’m a policeman.”
“Narcotics?”
Jean-Paul nodded. “L’Office Central Pour la Suppression du Trafic des Stupifiants. We’ve been working with your Federal Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, the BNDD.”
“And the Mexican police?”
“For this operation, yes. The Federates. They know I am working undercover.”
“Did Michaud’s organization really send someone over here to get the Acapulco mob to eliminate Stocelli? Or was it a cover story?”
“Oh, they sent a man, all right. That’s how we found out about it. We asked the Mexican police to detain him when he got off the plane in Mexico City.”
“And he told you all about their plans for Stocelli? I thought Corsicans didn’t talk. They’re supposed to be even more close-mouthed than Sicilians.”
Jean-Paul smiled at me. “The Mexican police are not as restrained as we are. Especially with foreign criminals. They attached electrodes to his testicles and turned on the current. He screamed for five minutes and then broke down. He’ll never be the same again, but he told us everything.”
I changed the subject. “How do you know about me?”
Jean-Paul shrugged. “I know you’re from AXE,” he said.” I know you are N3—a Killmaster in the organization. That’s why I would like you to cooperate With us.”
“Who’s ‘us’? And how?”
“The Americans want Stocelli. The Mexican police want the Acapulco organization broken up. And we French would like to break the connection between Michaud’s gang and Stocelli and the Acapulco crowd.”
“My orders come from Washington,” I told him. “I’ll have to check with them.”
Jean-Paul smiled at me. “You mean you’ll have to check with Hawk.”
I didn’t say anything. Jean-Paul had no business knowing about Hawk—or about me being N3, or my designation as a Killmaster. He knew far too much.
“HI let you know,” I said.
Jean-Paul got to his feet and put down his drink. He went to the door and opened it He started out and then turned in the doorway.
“I’d like your answer no later than this evening,” he said. “We intend to—”
Like a phonograph needle suddenly lifted from a record, his voice broke off in mid-sentence, the word ending in an unintelligible grunt of surprise. He took a stumbling, lurching, half step forward into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Then he sank back against it and slid to the floor.
I leaped across the room. Jean-Paul’s eyelids were closed. A frothy bubble of crimson suddenly welled from his lungs. Blood spewed out of his mouth. His legs twitched heavily against the floor in protest against death.
I reached for the doorknob, but his body had collapsed against the lower panel and prevented me from opening it.
Outside, the thick carpeting of the hall muffled whatever footsteps there might have been. I let go of the knob and knelt beside the Frenchman’s slender body. I felt for a pulse. There was none. I turned his body halfway around and saw the bone handled haft of a switchblade knife standing out from Jean-Paul’s back like a strange, malignant growth.
CHAPTER TEN
The killer had chosen his time well. I heard no doors opening or closing. No one came out into the corridor. There was nothing but quiet in the hallway outside my room. I stood for a long time over Jean-Paul’s body before J reached down and grasped the entry hall rug, pulling the corpse further into the room, sliding it away from the door. Cautiously, I opened the door and looked out. The corridor was empty. I shut and bolted the door and knelt down beside the slim body of the Frenchman sprawled on the bloodied rug and looked at his face for a long time, all the while feeling an angry churning inside me because I had made a mistake.
I should have realized earlier at El Cortijo that Carlos had already put into motion whatever plans he had to get rid of me even before he and Brian Garrett met with me. I should have known that he never had any intention of letting me leave Acapulco alive, not while I knew what I did about his organization. I’d thought I had more time, at least until tomorrow morning, but I’d been wrong in that assumption. Time had run out and now Jean-Paul was dead because of it. I knew, too, that I could never get the Mexican police, especially Lieutenant Fuentes, to believe that I’d had no part in Jean-Paul’s death.
It was long past time for me to act. I looked down at Jean-Paul’s open, staring eyes and reached out with a finger to close the lids. I opened his jacket. A walnut handled, .38 calibre Smith & Wesson Airweight Model 42 revolver was tucked into a short holster in the waistband of his slacks. I transferred the gun to my own hip pocket. I checked my watch—too early in the evening for me to make any attempt to dispose of the body. Even though there weren’t many guests in the hotel, it would be taking too much of a chance to assume the hallways would be empty now.
