Toros & Torsos (The Hector Lassiter Series)

by Craig McDonald

  Hector shrugged. “So everybody wins.”

  ***

  Hector couldn’t tell if Hem was truly drunk or faking it.

  Either way, Hem’s boorishness had proven too much for Martha. She said something about cramps and excused herself shortly after the main course of cochinillo asado. That was okay with Hector — he was tired of Martha’s incessant and portentous staring at him. He kept thinking of the tall, strawberry-blond woman who had supposedly denounced him. But he couldn’t venture that supposition to Hem...not cunt-struck as Hem had become.

  For his part, Hector was forcing himself to drink more than his body could stand. It wasn’t really affecting him in terms of impaired judgment or a loose tongue. His kidney pain gave him a point of focus that cut through the dulling effects of the Rioja Alta. Hector helped himself to one of the roasted potatoes arrayed around the suckling pig and took some more bread. He tore off a chunk of bread and stirred it around on a small saucer covered with olive oil.

  He sipped some more wine, watching Alva chat up Joris Ivens, the director of The Spanish Earth. Hector didn’t trust Ivens; he thought if anyone was a spy or a communist tool, it was the Dutchman. Ivens had thick black hair, good looks and dimples. Hector hated him.

  Hem checked his watch and said, “Soon you and me have to make that run, Lasso.”

  Hector looked cagily around and said, “Sure. Yeah. Just let me finish this drink.”

  Joris said, “Something I should come along for? We could bring some lights if it is somewhere that might not draw fire.”

  “No, this isn’t like that, Ivy,” Hem said. “This is some unfinished business Hector and me are eager to tie off. And it is going to require a trip near to the front. Need to get up by the lines so a Nationalist can slip across to give us the information.”

  Joris said, “So the rumors are true — Hector is a spy!”

  Hector almost came out of his chair.

  Hem held up a hand. “No, Hec is most goddamn certainly not a bloody fucking spy, Jor.” Hem drank some more wine and said, “There were some killings in Key West a few years ago. Alva’s sister was one of the victims. The killer seems to be here in Spain, working again. So we owe the cocksucker. Tonight we get some information that may let us repay the debt. We mean to take this bastard down and stop him from killing anymore women.” Hem narrowed his eyes. He said, “Wind, you were there, in Key West, I mean. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Crazy as it sounds,” Quentin said, “Hem is telling the truth, Joris.”

  “As a man, you must want a piece of this, too,” Hem said to Quentin. “I was thoughtless not to have asked you along. You knew Rachel just as well as I did. You seemed to like her very much. You’ll come along, of course. I’m sure Alva will be grateful. You and Hector will just have to play nice. This is about honor after all, about avenging a friend.”

  “It’s okay, Hem,” Quentin said, shifting in his chair. “Hector’s stake is much larger than mine. I don’t want to intrude. Wouldn’t want to spoil it for him.”

  “It’s no intrusion, and in fact I insist,” Hem said. “We could use the extra hand and muscle, if needed. We’ll leave now. Have to drive without the headlights the last part of the way, so it’ll take a bit of time. I’ll drive of course.”

  Quentin tried a last time. “I really don’t want to get in the way of anything. And, as you point out, this is Hector’s show, and me and Hector—”

  “No hard feelings, Q,” Hector said, putting out a hand. “You come on along. As men, we know what we have to do...can’t let personal bitterness or drunken spats get in the way of getting Alva’s sister here justice. Come on, old pal.”

  ***

  It had taken fifteen more minutes of needling to get Quentin in the truck. Eventually, Alva implored him to go. That seemed to tip him over — at least in front of the filmmakers. The Dutch director and his crew actually cheered Quentin when he agreed to go along.

  Hector sat up front with Hem, nervous this time to be at the mercy of his driving talents. Pauline Hemingway had rightly claimed Hem had no reliable night vision — and that was two years ago...Hector figured Hem’s vision could only have weakened since.

  It was the bumpiest ride of Hector’s life — there was so much debris that Hem’s weak night vision insured they hit every chunk of concrete and every shell crater on the road down from Madrid toward the decimated outskirts and the front. Hector thought it a strong possibility Quentin might be killed as a result of bouncing out of the truck on the drive out of town.

  The last quarter mile Hem drove without headlights. He pulled over alongside a row house of apartments reduced to rubble. “Here we are,” Hem said.

  Nervous, Quentin jumped down out of the back of the truck and looked around. He was about to pull his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket and Hector took his arm. “No, Q, you’d be a target for snipers, buddy.”

  “Thanks, Hector,” Quentin said nervously. Hector pulled a bag from under a front seat. Hector took something from the bag in the low light. Quentin said, “Who are we meeting? Where is he?”

  “We’re not meeting anybody,” Hem said. “This is about you, and what you did to Rachel and the others.”

  Quentin’s eyes widened. “Are you fucking mad? You’re certainly fucking drunk, but are you mad, too?”

  “Miami,” Hector said, pointing a Mauser at Quentin. “You were there, and a woman was murdered and her torso left on a park bench. Matecumbe Key. You were there, and there at the same time as a woman named Beverly, Rachel’s friend, was gutted and turned into a work of ‘art’ with another woman in a shack on that godforsaken island.”

  “Then Key West,” Hem said. “We all know what you did there.”

  “And then on into Mexico,” Hector said. “You said in Key West you were going to go to Mexico to start your study of the bullfight. While you were in Mexico, the surrealist murders moved down there. Now, they’re underway in Spain. And here you are. You saw me leaving Bishop Blair’s the other day. Did Blair know something? Is that why you had Bishop killed? Why you had his murder disguised as a robbery?”

  “Coincidence,” Quentin said. “That’s what it is, pure accident. And Matecumbe, when I was there, that other was there, too. That cock-tease—”

  Hem lashed out with a right hook. Quentin fell...spit out a tooth. Blood was running down his chin. “You two hear me out goddammit! I said—”

  “This isn’t a trial,” Hem said. “This is an execution. I remember in Pamplona, in the old days, you ran pretty fast. Start running now, Quentin. You’re running with the bulls again, tonight. So move your ass. Run to the sound of the cannons.”

  “You fucking cowards,” Quentin spat, “you’d shoot me in the fucking back?”

  Grim-faced, Hector held up the grenades.

  “The trick is to outrun Hector’s arm,” Hem said. “Lasso’s a righty. His right kidney took a shot the other day, so I figure his throwing arm is impaired. That’s your sporting chance,” Hem said.

  “You don’t understand,” Quentin said. “Rachel was—”

  Hem said, “Shooting him now would at least end this blather.”

  Quentin scrambled to his feet and began running down the darkened street, screaming for help...glass crunching under his feet. He slipped once on the glass and fell. He held up bloodied hands, and then began running again, looking back over his shoulder.

  Hector triggered the fuse of the “potato smasher,” counted three and then lobbed the grenade at Quentin’s running silhouette, remembering the old line about horseshoes and hand grenades.

  He heard the grenade smack the pavement and more broken glass tinkle.

  There was a flash. Hector saw Quentin’s body lifted from the ground and sent cartwheeling into a stack of metal drums. Hector felt a spasm of guilt and nausea. Pitching a grenade at the back of a running man just didn’t square with whatever was left of his conscience. Then Hector flinched as there was a second explosion — a massive fireball.
Hector figured there must have been some kind of fuel oil in the metal canisters that the critic’s body had been blasted into.

  Hem coaxed a second grenade from Hector’s hand, twisted the handle and lobbed the grenade at the flaming metal drums. There was another small, primary explosion from the grenade, followed by a larger, secondary blast.

  Hector shook his head. Hem’s pitch had been meanly gratuitous — killing a corpse, really.

  But Hem was grinning — euphoric.

  Hector sensed that by the time they returned to Botín’s, Hem would have himself convinced that he had thrown the first grenade. He hoped Hem got his high spirits under control soon — they would have to return to Botín’s looking shocked and grief-stricken in order to sell their lie agreed-upon...that Quentin had fallen prey to a fascist shelling.

  As they walked back to the truck, Hem slapped Hector’s back and said, “That’s how you deal with a fucking critic!”

  “There is no logic... The acts of life have no beginning and no end. Everything happens in a completely idiotic way.”— Tristan Tzara

  PARTINGS

  27

  Hem had told Hector, riding back from Quentin’s execution, that he planned to leave Spain in a couple of weeks. He needed to get to Key West, he said, “to square accounts with Pfife. Get things rolling.” Hem spoke of taking a last fishing trip — a couple of days at sea with Hector. Sullen, strangely empty-feeling, Hector had said, “Sure, sounds swell, Hem.”

  Driving back to her loft, Alva was also quiet...not pushing Hector for details. She just sat quietly by him in the backseat of the truck, shivering, despite having Hector’s big leather coat with its sheepskin lining pulled close around her.

  Hector saw her shaking and pulled her closer to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll be better in a bit,” he said. “It was just like shooting fish in a barrel, that’s all. Not that you want such a thing to be ‘sporting,’ either.”

  “Don’t say anymore,” Alva said. “We won’t talk about this, not ever again. We’ll end it this way: thank you so much for what you did to avenge our Rachel.”

  ***

  Hector got the fire going then checked his watch. “Only six hours until the train. It’s not enough time.”

  Alva kissed him. “Can’t you stay? Can’t you work it out with the captain?”

  Hector traced her jawline with his thumb. “There’s been another accusation against me. So no, I can’t stay. And I want to go home. Want to enjoy life the way it is there in the time that is left before all this here reaches there. Are you still coming, Alva?”

  She dipped her head. “I’m sorry for what I did earlier today. Trying to shame you into staying and fighting.”

  “It’s not to be,” he said. “And my heart isn’t in the fight. Are you coming home with me?”

  She smiled up at him. “Yes. Yes, Hector. But it will take time to ready everything so I can leave.”

  He hugged her. “I’ll leave you the money — for the train and the boat. I have to close out my own business in Key West. Have to pack the things in my house that I want to take with me and have furniture shipped. When you get New York, wire me, and we’ll work out the logistics for getting you down to Florida. We’ll go on together from there to the Sound. Maybe see Yellowstone...I love parts of Idaho. We’ll travel along Route 66. Make an adventure of it.”

  “Sounds wonderful, Hector. Are you sure you really still want me there?”

  “Sure,” Hector said. “Sure I am.”

  He pulled her closer to the fire and began to undress her.

  ***

  Hector spent a week in Paris — catching up. Finding old friends. He stopped by Shakespeare and Company to gossip and flirt with Sylvia Beach. He filled her in about the rift between Dos and Hem. She caught Hector up on the latest about Jim Joyce...about Gertrude and Alice B. Toklas. Sitting by the fire with Sylvia, Hector said, “Are you and Adrienne still thinking about parenthood?”

  Hector had always been attracted to Sylvia, and liked her lover, Adrienne. In his unworthy youth, he had imagined wild couplings with the two women. He winked and said, “Because, if you are still thinking that, I could help...help you both with that. You know that we grow ’em tall in Texas.” Sylvia blushed and laughed and punched his arm. “Always the rogue, aren’t you, Hector? God I miss having you around. You and Hem coming in together, that was always the best.”

  On his last day in Paris, Hector was feeling sentimental and rang up the surrealists’ shared studio in Madrid. He asked to be given the address of the gallery in Paris that Bishop Blair had shipped Alva’s paintings to shortly before his murder.

  It was raining and he ducked under the canopy of the gallery, closed and shook out his umbrella, and stepped into the warmth of the art studio. The proprietor, a wan, thin woman with glasses, offered Hector a glass of Burgundy. His kidney was improving so he accepted the wine and began browsing around the studio.

  From across the room, Hector recognized Alva’s distinctive, photo-realistic style.

  He walked to her canvasses hanging there.

  The first painting was a nude self-portrait, but in the picture, Alva had painted herself with small drawers and compartments in her arms and legs and belly — she looked like a sexy sideboard. Between her breasts, one of the drawers was opened and her heart was on display inside the drawer.

  The next painting gave Hector pause. A man was stretched out naked on a bed. His arms were stretched above his head, in the pose of the Minotaure. His head was turned and his eyes closed. A nude woman was standing at the foot of the bed. She had been painted with her back to the viewer. Her hair was long and blond and she was hovering above the naked, sleeping man. She was clutching a long butcher knife behind her back. The painting was entitled, In Perfumed Night, Choice Come Courting on Pink Toes.

  The more Hector stared at the painting, the more he began to think that the sleeping man on the bed resembled himself. The man even had a scar above his right knee, very much like one on Hector’s leg. The room, too, reminded Hector more than a little of his bedroom in Key West. And the woman? Why, she could easily be Rachel.

  The third of Alva’s paintings deeply unsettled Hector. In that one, another man lay screaming on a bed. He was naked, and the bed was set on an angle. The walls of the room in which the bed rested were also crooked and curved and covered with crazed designs. The floor of the room was strewn with strange blocks of varying sizes. The painting was titled simply, Barcelona, 1937.

  Hector bought all three paintings, arranging to have them shipped to his new home in Puget Sound. He left the gallery shaken...trying to make sense of what he had seen.

  ***

  The passage back to New York was uneventful...calm weather, no one interesting on the ship. Hector spent most of his days in his room, typing. He had a new novel underway. It pitted his Key West private eye against a beautiful con artist. He was calling it Bait and Switch.

  He had completed half of the first draft by the time his ship reached harbor.

  ***

  A knock at Hector’s hotel room door. He opened it and a youngish, well-groomed man in an understated blue suit smiled and stepped in. “Hello, Mr. Lassiter, welcome to New York City.”

  “Hello, Agent Tilly. How’s J. Edgar? How’s that Clive? How are the dogs?”

  The FBI agent tossed his hat on the table and pulled out a notebook, smiling. “Time is short. Let’s talk about Spain, and what you learned there, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “Fine,” Hector said. “But you just remember the other part of our agreement. You bury any record of my participation in this — bury it even within your own fucking bureau.”

  ***

  Hector stood in the center of his living room and looked around. Some of the furniture he was leaving behind for use by the vacationers who’d be leasing his place. The rest had already been shipped west. Hector had even sent his bed ahead — he was planning on spending his last night on Key West in the Colonial Hotel.<
br />
  His phone rang. It was Andy Haden, at the telegraph office. “I have a wire for you, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “I’ll drop the tip by your office later today, just go ahead and read it to me, Andy.”

  “I’d rather not, Mr. Lassiter. I’d...I’ll send a boy by with it. He’ll be there in five minutes.”

  It was eighty-two degrees in Key West, and probably closer to ninety degrees inside Hector’s house. Yet Hector felt cold all over. He said, “At least tell me who sent the damned wire.”

  “A Mr. John Dos Passos, writing from Valencia, Spain.”

  ***

  Hector sat on his front step looking at the telegram:

  Hector, terrible news my friend stop I didn’t know how best to reach you and didn’t want Papa to be the one to break the news stop There was a denunciation stop Alva Taurino was arrested and charged with participation in a plot to torture combatants, some of them Soviet advisors, using some form of psychological torture based on surrealist imagery stop I know it sounds mad, but that is what I’ve heard stop They say she was shot, Hector stop Katy and me are so sorry stop If there is anything we can do, you know we will stop Stay strong, my brother stop I’ll send more by letter or phone you as I know more stop Again, I’m so sorry, Hector.

  — Dos

  Dazed, Hector crumpled up the telegram and began walking. He was on his third cigarette, wandering aimlessly around the Key when he heard someone calling his name:

  “Hector! I didn’t know you were back!”

  Hector glanced around and realized he was on Whitehead Street, across from the Hemingway house. Pauline was standing at the gate. “Come over here, Hector,” she said. “Talk to me.” He crossed the street, a bit shakily. She said, “My God, what’s happened?”

  ***

  Hector had talked out Alva...talked out the split between Dos and Hem. And he’d been frank but gentle in describing the status of Martha’s and Ernest’s love affair.

  “This one isn’t like Jane Mason, or some of the others,” Hector said. “He’s plunging ahead.”