But this time their smear had failed, and in fact had backfired. Because shortly afterwards, the really vigorous anti-Communist phase of the General's life had begun. Since it seemed that the General, despite his occasional extramarital kicks, did actually love his wife, it didn't take a brain to understand at least part of the General's motivation. I rather liked him for that part of it, too.
Now, nine years later, the General was the outstanding enemy of Communist subversion in Mexico. And that would have put me on guard even without Amador's mention of Jaime Guerara's front record. Filthy pix for blackmail—or any kind of gimmick for blackmail—is an old Communist trick. As a matter of fact, every depraved and vicious trick I can think of is an old Communist trick. Of course, it's also a trick of many other unsavory characters.
Amador hung up the phone and started to dial another number. “How you doing?” I asked him. He'd phoned about a dozen people.
“Better,” he said. “I know there's a session for sure, and one other guy that'll be there—another General. Still don't know where, or who else, or when. But it's a real orgy. There's some movies first, then a show with a guy I know, Party Boy, and with two vegetables."
“Tomatoes. Wait a minute. Movies first?"
“Sure."
“You didn't miss that, did you?"
“Hell no, I didn't. Why you think I'm calling everybody except the President? It's movies, then the Party Boy—"
“Party Boy? You mean what I think you mean? Like New Orleans?"
“I don't know New Orleans. But that's what I mean. The boy is Alberto Sanchez—and I got to get hold of him.” He started dialing again.
While he worried the phone I took another look at the eight-by-ten enlargements and the film strip which the Countess had turned over to Amador for what help they might give me. There was a clear shot of the man's mug. Heavy-jowled, big-nosed, mustached—practically all the people down here except women are mustached—and with a huge pile of black hair, much disarranged. That was all, except, of course, a certainty that if General Lopez ever ogled these items he would go tearing off into space like a comet. They were the usual. Naturally they were interesting. One of the enlargements showed the Countess, facing away from the camera, black hair high on top of her head with a wide, sparkling comb stuck in the back of it, her hands just pulling a white blouse down from her shoulders. The guy, in a dark robe, was only partially visible at the left of the picture. The rest, and the film strip, were what you might expect.
“I got it!” Amador said suddenly. He had his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. “You know El Golpe?"
“The nightclub? With boxing and wrestling?"
“That's it. Sanchez is there—coming to the phone. Hold your hat."
In a moment he took his hand from the mouthpiece and started firing Spanish into it. Finally he hung up.
“Well? What's the score?” I asked.
“You'll have to go there. He's cautious—can't blame him, the work he's in.” Amador grinned. “I described you and he'll see you. Don't know for sure if he'll tell you anything; I don't know him good.” He paused. “Uh, probably it cost you some pesos, plenty."
“That's O.K. El Golpe, huh? What's he look like?"
Amador told me all I needed to know and I got ready to leave. Before I took off I phoned the Prado and got Buff. “Buff, Shell here. Anything?"
“No. You haven't—I mean—"
“No, Buff. I thought Doc would be back by this time.” It was almost nine o'clock, nearly three hours since I'd seen Doctor Buffington. There wasn't any doubt in my mind now; something was sure as hell wrong. The Doc would at least have phoned Buff if he were delayed—if he could.
“Honey, listen. The minute I can, I'll be there with you. And I'll check around before I come up.” A little worry flickered in my mind. “Incidentally, just in case ... maybe you ought to get a different room there—"
“I have to stay here. What if he should call? Or come in? And, why, Shell? You ... you do think something's wrong, don't you? But why shouldn't I stay here?"
“No reason, I guess. But, uh, I'd lock the door anyway. Hell, it can't hurt."
Her voice softened a little. “I wish you were here, Shell."
“I will be, soon as I can."
“'Bye, Shell."
I hung up, thanked Amador, told him I'd see him later, and left to meet Party Boy Alberto Sanchez.
To get to El Golpe, you turn onto Rosales at the Caballito, the huge statue of Charles IV on his horse, and drive to Camelia, then take a right. As soon as you turn onto Camelia you can see the square ring of white lights around the face of the club, and cars are usually parked for a block on both sides of the street. Ordinarily El Golpe doesn't begin jumping until after midnight, but this Saturday night the crowd had started gathering earlier than usual.
I got out of my cab and walked past a poster depicting two female wrestlers in action, then went through the club's entrance, stopped inside and looked around. A few couples were dancing in the roped-off ring in the center of the club, where later the boxers and wrestlers would put on one of the three ‘shows,’ and half a dozen couples were scattered around at the tables. Two young hostesses in strapless dresses sat in one of the big wall booths on my right, looking bored. And a man sat alone in a booth beyond them, his back to me. I walked to the booth. He fit Amador's description: dark, in his middle twenties, heavy-set, brown hair, brown suit. He got up as I reached him.
“Sanchez?” I asked.
He nodded. “You're Scott?"
I told him I was and sat down where I could face the club's front. He slid back into the booth, and we verbally fenced for a couple of minutes while I made it clear that it was important I learn when and where and who and all the rest of it. Amador had already explained to Sanchez everything I wanted to know, and he knew I knew it, but I didn't strike pay dirt until I said, “And it's worth money to me."
“How much?” His dark, sullen face didn't change expression.
“A hundred pesos?"
He looked disgusted. “I get a thousand from them."
“You still get your thousand. O.K. Plus five hundred—from me—for information that costs you nothing."
“What you want to know for?"
“For five hundred pesos."
He thought about it for a minute. “O.K. The place is on ... the money?” I fished five hundreds out of my wallet and slid them across the table. They disappeared in his fist and he continued, “On Calle Edison. Just a couple of blocks down from the Frontón Palace. You know?"
“I know. When?"
“Me and the gals at eleven tonight.” He frowned. “Listen, Amador told me you're O.K., wouldn't cause me no trouble. Either of you lying, you both get a knife."
“Relax. I'm not interested in your racket. I'm trying to find a guy."
“It better be that. O.K. Ten o'clock the place closes because of this party you're so interested in. Nobody in after that—you know it's a whorehouse, don't you?"
“I didn't. Go on."
“At ten, the last customer has to be out, and nobody else can come in after that except the guys throwing this brawl. That's so they'll have the place to themselves. They'll have the movies and drinks and that stuff first, see. Then my part. After that I don't know because I leave."
“The rest,” I said. “Who's going to be there?"
As I finished the question I saw four big guys come through the club's draped entrance and stop inside it. I might not have paid much attention, but they were doing a hell of a lot of eyeballing around the place. Some hostesses walked toward them, but they waved the girls away. They weren't interested in hostesses.
I slid over to my left, hidden by the wall of the booth and said, “Sanchez, take a look, huh?” I jerked my thumb and he craned his neck, looking toward the front of the club.
“The four guys. You know them?” I asked.
“No."
“You in here much?"
“Most of the time. Never s
aw them before, though."
I thought back. I'd been careful going from the Prado to Amador's, and I was positive I hadn't been tailed then. So maybe I was imagining things. Or ... it was possible I'd been followed from Amador's, though why anybody would have a stakeout on his place I couldn't figure. There was even a chance Sanchez had tipped somebody I was coming here. There was a chance I was nuts, too, and they just wanted a drink.
I rubbed the Band-Aid on my neck. That wasn't imagination.
I asked Sanchez, “They still there?"
“Three of them. One's walking down the far side, looking around. What about them?"
I swore. It didn't sound good. I glanced down the passageway leading to the back of the club. “Can we get through in back there? Empty room or something?"
“Yeah."
“Let's go. I don't want those guys to see me."
He frowned.
“Dammit,” I said, “for money."
At least he didn't ask me how much. He got up and jerked his head. I followed him, scooting out of the booth while I watched the front. There were dancers wiggling around between the three men and me now, but I spotted the fourth guy peering at the tables on the far side.
Sanchez took me into a small room at the back of the club. It smelled of sweat and liniment. I bolted the door. “Boxeadores use this before the fights,” Sanchez said. “You got some kind of trouble?"
“Yeah. Who's going to be at this party?"
“I ain't telepathic,” he said. “I know the General's gonna be there, Lopez, like I told Amador. And General Fernandez. A couple of big políticos. Six altogether, but I don't know their names."
That was enough for me. I stood up and heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Somebody knocked on the door.
I looked at Sanchez. He shrugged.
The knock came again. Good and loud.
I whispered to Sanchez, “Get over there. If that's anybody looking for me, you never heard of me."
He pinched his chin. The doorknob started to turn. I tapped my coat, over my wallet.
That did it. "Momentito," he yelled, then walked to the door and slid back the lock. There wasn't any place to hide, so I moved up against the wall where I'd be hidden when the door swung open. I slipped the .38 from its holster and cocked it as Sanchez opened the door.
A bunch of Spanish followed and I heard the other man say something about hombre and rubio. Rubio means blond. I'm as blond as you can get. Sanchez said something about a boxeador. There was more, then Sanchez shut the door and the footsteps went down the hall. I heard the faint sound of knocking when the footsteps stopped.
Sanchez was open-mouthed, staring at the revolver in my fist. No wonder; it was aimed at his belly. I pointed it toward the floor, eased the hammer down and stuck the gun back in its holster.
"Madre de Dios!” Sanchez said. “What the hell is that for?"
“Relax. What happened?” I remembered tapping my wallet and took it out. While I fished inside it, he gave me the translation.
“Looking for you, all right. White-haired guy, he said, husky like you. Little bit rough-looking. I told them I saw you. You came in, then left. I'm a boxer, getting ready for the show. What the hell is happening? I don't like that gun."
I grinned at him. “I don't like knives."
He swallowed strenuously. “Hey, well,” he said. “I was kidding, fellow."
“Sure.” I took a five-hundred-peso note out of my wallet and gave it to him. “Thanks, I didn't want to see that guy. Still don't, so how do I get out of here?"
He took the money, went to the door and looked into the hall, then waved for me to follow. I walked after him down the dim corridor to the door. He opened it. I went past him, out the side of the club, and put some distance between me and El Golpe.
Four blocks away I caught a libre and told the driver where I wanted to go. We passed me big brightly lighted jai-alai building, the Frontón Mexico, lined with parked cars that had brought fans to the games going on inside. I had my driver slow down on Edison while I checked the street numbers till we reached the one I wanted, then paid him and got out in front of one of those big mansions that look as if they'd been shipped over from Spain a hundred years ago. The house was two stories of cement and stone and marble, elaborate scrolls and grillework covering its front. Little balconies, or terrazas, projected from two of the wide windows open on the second floor. The place was set back twenty feet from the sidewalk, and green lawn filled the space from house to walk. I patted my gun, went to the huge, carved-wood door, and looked for a bell or buzzer. There wasn't any, so I lifted the heavy brass knocker shaped like a lion's head, and whacked the door with it a few times.
I was nervous. Maybe this was all in the line of duty, but I couldn't help feeling a little odd. I hadn't been in a whorehouse for years.
Chapter Six
I didn't hear footsteps or any other noise, but soon the door swung halfway open and a little man with white hair and a dark wrinkled face peered out at me. He didn't look particularly intelligent. His mouth was open and his lower lip hung down half an inch from stained teeth.
“Hello,” I said. “Friend sent me. Ha. You speak English? Habla inglés?"
He shook his head. He didn't invite me in, either. I glanced at my watch. It was a little past nine-thirty, and Sanchez had said they'd close the doors at ten p.m. Surely they had time for another customer. Customer? I groaned. But, hell, I had to get inside, didn't I?
I grinned evilly at the little man. He looked like a eunuch. Maybe he was. “Girlies,” I said. “I mean, muchachas. Muchachitas. Weemen."
He sucked his lower lip up and let it droop down again. Outside of that, nothing. I pulled out my wallet. Ah, now he was watching my every movement. I grabbed a ten-peso note, gave it to him, then pointed into the house behind him, nodding my head eagerly. And then I was inside.
The Spanish influence was even more pronounced here. Thick carpet covered every inch of floor space, and bright tapestries were on two of the walls. A curving stairway led up to the second floor; ornate, twisting grillework forming the guard at the outer edge of the marble steps. The little man held his thumb and index finger close together as he looked at me—it meant something about “a little moment"—then he went away through a door at my right. I looked around, letting the layout sink into my memory.
For a moment I thought about Doc and Buff, then a tall, gray-haired woman came to the door through which the eunuch had gone, and waved a hand at me to come inside. There was a little Spanish chatter between us. She said many things, including "cien pesos"—so I gave her a hundred—and something about "a las diez," or what I assumed was ten o'clock, and I said, "Sí."
She smiled at me and went out. In less than thirty seconds a cute little gal came in: mine. She was at most a couple of inches over five feet tall, which is a foot shorter than I am, but she had as many dangerous curves as the road to Acapulco. The curves were distributed on a foundation which couldn't quite be called plump, but would never get her a job in the States as a high-fashion model. Which was fine with me. She was dressed in a snug-fitting green satin housecoat, and high-heeled pumps. I guessed her age at maybe twenty, and like many Mexican women she had, in addition to those other dandy things, a healthy mass of black hair and hot dark eyes.
She walked to me, smiling sweetly, and took both my hands in hers, speaking in a low voice, and pulled me after her through a side door, into a long narrow hall, and off it into a small room containing a dresser, overstuffed chair, green carpet and green drapes on the window. Ah, yes, and a bed.
Naturally I hadn't understood a word this little doll had said. She was standing in front of me, way down below me there, and smiling very prettily as she carried on this interesting conversation. Her face was animated, full of life, and once she put both hands out at her sides, opened her dark eyes wide and wiggled her head back and forth rolling her eyes and looking cute as the dickens.
I said “This is all most enjoyable, lit
tle lovely, but I haven't got the foggiest idea what you're talking about. And I hate to say it, but I'm here under false pretenses. Just want to stay in here a couple of minutes. You understand me?"
She opened her mouth wide and blinked her eyes rapidly. "Es un norteamericano turisto, no?"
That much I could understand. I was an American tourist. "Sí."
She clapped her hands and winked at me. While I searched my mind for the few words of Spanish I might be able to remember, she walked over to the bed. I hunted around in my head for words meaning movies, or pictures, and came up with what I thought would do. Then I turned toward the bed.
She had the green housecoat off, and was facing me in her high heels, white pants and brassière, her hands behind her back.
“Ah, ah,” I said. “Whoops, no, no. Momentito, just a minute.” I held my thumb and index finger close together as the eunuch had.
She paused, dropped her arms to her side and walked toward me.
I shook my head, still holding my fingers close together. She turned her head sideways, looking at me and gurgling in her throat. She shook her head and held her hands wide apart, still gurgling.
“Oh, no!” I said. “You don't understand. Look.” She giggled, and that didn't help either. I spoke very slowly. “I do not wish to—I mean, yo no deseo—" I stopped. I couldn't think of the next word. I said, "Por favor, yo deseo—"
She nodded, winked, and took off her brassière.
“Oh, hell,” I said. “You don't get it, no comprende!” I shook my head back and forth and held both hands up in front of me. “Stop!” I said.
Pattern for Panic Page 5
