She liked that. She looked at my clutching hands and walked right into them. “Honey,” I said, "querida. Please, por favor, I can't, I don't, oh, man, pictures—pictures—"
She laughed, giggled, wiggled, and took off her pants.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” I said. “No, no, no. Pictures, películas? I want to see the películas!” I was getting a little hoarse.
"Películas?" She appeared surprised. "Películas? Películas!"
“Sí. Los cines. Moving pictures. Moving. Mooooving pictures.” I put an imaginary camera to my eye and made clicking noises while I aimed all over taking pictures with my camera.
She clapped her hands some more and yelped a little, happily, and started dancing around the room.
Finally I grabbed her, pushed her over to the bed and shoved her down on top of it. I simply bad to make her understand.
I looked at my watch. It was fifteen minutes to ten. What was it I'd come here for? I sat down beside her and shook my finger at her. She sort of snarled back and shook her finger at me.
I said slowly, shakily, “Películas, cines. In this house. En esta casa. In what room are the pictures? En cuál cuatro? In which cuatro?"
"Cuatro?" She blinked rapidly. She held up four fingers and repeated, "Cuatro?"
“Hell no, not cuatro, not four. I mean cuarto. Room.
Cuarto. Listen, goddammit,” I shouted. “Where the hell are the goddam movies?"
I was losing my grip. I shut my eyes, counted to ten in English, and started all over. I must have said it in several old and new languages, but at last I got my point across. She finally understood me and pouted a little.
"Sí," she said. "Cines."
“That's what I said."
She got up and went slowly to the door. I felt like a heel. But I followed her outside into the hall and back to the room where we'd met. She began to climb the marble stairs, paused and waited for me. Then we started up together, strolling along hand in hand. I kept up a running fire of inconsequential chatter, just to break the silence. “Isn't that marble cold on your bare feet?” and things like that. She didn't say anything.
At the top of the steps we turned toward the front of the house and walked to a closed door at the end of another hall. She pointed to the door. "Los cines. Allá. A las diez y quince."
Movies at ten-fifteen. I tried the door. Naturally the damn thing was locked. I took the little doll by the shoulders, turned her around, then bent down and peeked through the keyhole. I turned her around because I didn't want her to see me. I didn't want anybody to see me. Peeking through keyholes in a cathouse is a good way to get yourself pointed at by giggling people.
I couldn't see much: black carpet, part of an extremely low couch, and the wide windows I'd seen from the street below, standing open. At least I didn't see anybody moving around inside. I stood up and had another of those dear conversations with my naked woman. It was mostly in sign language, opening the door with an imaginary key, but she nodded and said something about a key in her cuarto. I assumed that her room key worked this door, too.
When I thought she understood, I gave her a hundred pesos. She looked at it, then wadded it in her hand. She didn't have any other place to put it. I hoped. I put my finger to my lips and said, “Shhhhh."
She said “Shhhhh,” back at me, grinned, nodded her head and things, then tiptoed down the marble stairs. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded conspiratorially, laughed softly, and went out of sight. I just stood there trying to look like a customer. It was easy. Then she was back with a key and unlocked the door.
I gave her some more of the “Shhhh” routine, hoping she'd understand that she wasn't to tell anybody about the silly man, and she laughed and “Shhhh'd” me.
Then I said, "Gracias. Mil gracias."
"Por nada."
For nothing. Almost invariably that is the polite phrase Mexicans use when you thank them for something; this time, it was true. She looked up at me, seeming incredibly small in her bare feet, and said, "Es todo? Nada mas?" She kept looking at me, expectantly.
I shook my head. “Nothing else, honey."
She gazed solemnly at me for another moment, then turned and started to leave. She looked a little hurt.
"Momentito," I said. "Momentito, querida." She stopped and turned. “You won't understand this,” I said, “but I'm sorry I had to sort of use you. I did have to, though. And you're really a very lovely little gal.” I tapped my head, wiggled my fingers in circles and added, “Loco. I'm just plain loco."
She smiled then, nodded, turned and walked back down the marble stairs. I watched her go, wishing I were on vacation, then stepped inside the room.
As soon as I shut the door behind me I spotted the projector, near a mirrored wall on my right—the entire wall was a huge mirror. The front wall, next to the street, was covered with heavy black draperies, hanging loosely six inches or so from the wall on a projecting iron bar; they were pulled almost closed before the wide windows. The couch I'd seen through the keyhole was on my left, slanted into the room so customers could sit there and watch the pictures projected onto the silvered screen placed against the wall.
A similar couch was on this side of the room, and the whole wall above it, on either side of the door, was painted with two brilliant murals. One was of four women and three men with no clothes on, doing what might be expected of four women and three men with no clothes on, and the other was just as much fun. It was a bold, red and black painting of a semi-nude, black-skinned woman and a dark red satyr, the lascivious demigod of mythology, both under the gaze of a laughing, sharp-horned, scarlet devil. More huge silk-and-satin-covered pillows, plus two round black hassocks, were scattered on the carpet.
In another minute it would be ten o'clock. I walked to the projector, a new Bell and Howell sixteen-millimeter job, the Filmosound Model 385 with all the gadgets. Switches to start, stop, or reverse the film, a switch for showing single frames, the works. A rubber-covered cord ran from the base of the projector down along the carpet to the front wall and disappeared under the black drapery. One reel of film was already in place above the lens and threaded into the bottom reel, ready to go. Three tin cans of film rested on the table at the side of the projector. I picked up the top can, opened it—and heard noises, voices, outside.
As voices boomed practically in the room and a key rattled in the door's already open lock I shoved the top on the can and put it back with the others, then looked around for a place to hide. My eye caught the black drapes hanging a little way out from the wall and I jumped to the end nearest me, on my right close to the projector, pulled the drape out and slid behind it, turning around with my back to the wall as I heard the door open and somebody come in.
I could hear two men's voices, then a chuckle. I looked down to make sure my shoes didn't stick out beyond the drape. They didn't, but my body made a perceptible bulge in the heavy cloth. The cord from the projector touched my shoes, and my left shoulder was only six inches from the wall mirror. I pressed my face against the glass and pulled the drapes an inch away from it. I could see the projector but not into the room, and I wasn't about to expose myself further.
Footsteps slithered over the rug nearby and I held my breath. As I looked at the projector, a man's arm came into my limited area of vision. In his hand was another shiny round tin. A film case. I saw the arm move; the hand placed the can on top of the three others. In the moment before it disappeared from my sight I noticed a wide, red scar on the back of the hand, extending up out of sight under the dark sleeve of his coat. Then the hand was gone.
I took a chance and pulled the drape farther from my face; I wanted a look at that guy. But other men were just coming in through the open door, and I pulled my head back, held still for several seconds as the conversation and laughter grew louder inside the room. Then I slowly moved my feet, inching farther back from the mirror until, by holding the drape three or four inches away from the glass and looking at the reflection in it, I could
see clearly into the room.
I stood motionless like that for several minutes. There were six men present now, four of them in dark suits and two in light-colored ones. I couldn't see if any of the men in dark suits had a scar on his hand, but I managed to get a pretty good look at all the faces. Amador had described General Lopez to me as a husky man, six-three, clean-shaven and with gray hair. He was easy to pick out because there were only two men without mustaches, and one of them was under six feet. So I was finally seeing General Lopez, who had sprung me from the clink. He looked like a pretty hard-boiled character, with thick brows low over dark eyes, a firm straight mouth, a wide square chin. It was a strong, I'm-in-command face, rugged and hard. It would probably, I thought, get even harder if he knew the guy he'd sprung from the can was behind this drape.
But nobody was paying any attention to drapes, understandably. Two girls had come in, both wearing only black, frilly step-ins and bras, and high-heeled pumps. So far nothing was going on except conversation and I checked the men's faces again. None was the heavy-jowled guy of the enlargements. It hadn't seemed likely he'd be here. The other clean-shaven man was a slim, pleasant-faced guy an inch under six feet, with a wide, full-lipped mouth and long sideburns; he was talking to the General. Now he grabbed one of the girls by the arm and jerked her to him. A rough guy. He talked to her, patted her fanny, then pinched her. She squealed and jumped and the men laughed loudly as the girl walked away, rubbing her cheek. He was a little too rough for her taste—and mine.
Then through the open door came a tiny gal with a whole mess of curves, and still no clothes on. Maybe she'd been too lazy to put them back on, or possibly she just didn't like clothes. That had been my impression when I'd been with her in the room downstairs, anyway. My little dark-haired cutie was carrying a tray with a number of highballs on it, and she went around giving out drinks and getting several feels in return.
After she'd handed out a couple of drinks she looked around, a little frown on her pretty face. She looked at all the men and the frown deepened. I started getting an awful sinking sensation in my stomach; undoubtedly she was looking for me.
She carried the drinks around and I heard her say something about "rubio." There was that damned word for white-haired again—me. The men laughed halfheartedly, apparently not thinking her question very funny. I didn't either. She took the last two drinks to the General and the other smooth-shaven character, who took a drink, then reached out and fondled the plump bare breast in front of him.
She wiggled her head back and forth as I'd seen her do once before; then that bastard pinched her, pinched her good. She yelled and dropped the tray, spilling the last drink onto the floor, then stood with both hands pressed to her breast, biting her lip. She backed away from the sonofabitch while he laughed louder than ever. He seemed to enjoy hurting people, and I felt like walking out there and kicking him between his thighs.
The General apparently hadn't liked it either; he tugged the guy's arm and spoke sharply in rapid Spanish. The long-sideburned sadistic sonofabitch just shrugged. My cutie finally picked up the tray and empty glass, cringing away from the guy with the General, then went out and came back with a full drink. The General took it, thanked her, keeping part of his body between her and his chum. Maybe the General was a horny old cat, but so far he was all right otherwise in my book.
And, if I was right, and the General was, with no previous preparation for the blow, going to see the film I was after, this was a lousy setup. I understood from Amador and Sanchez that all these men were big, powerful—and friends of General Lopez. I couldn't think of anything much more horrible for the General than to be sitting here with his friends and suddenly see, in place of the usual movie he expected, one of his wife with another man.
And right then my little cutie walked to the window and pulled the drapes closed, then went to the projector and said something in Spanish. Already she had a darkening bruise showing on her flesh. A couple more girls entered the room and they and the men sprawled on the couches and cushions. The little nudist turned on the projector, went to a wall switch and flicked off the overhead lamps, and the room was in darkness except for the beam of light from the projector to the screen on the far wall. The projector whirred, the film unwound past the lens, and pictures formed and moved on the screen.
I knew that nobody would be looking toward me now, so I pulled the drape away from my face, turned, and watched the screen. I put my right foot next to the wall beneath the projector cord plugged in there, and stepped on the cord with my left foot. If I saw anything in the movie that looked like the Countess, or like any of those stills I'd seen, that cord was coming out, if possible before the General or anybody else could recognize either of the stars. I'd started out thinking mainly about the effect of this on the General's wife; now I was also considering what it would do to the General. I slid my .38 from its holster and held it loosely in my right hand while I watched.
This film though, was obviously not the one I was after. I kept thinking about the tin case I'd seen in the scarred hand. It seemed likely that it was the one to worry about. The movie we were all watching was a bit more professionally done than I had expected, apparently made recently, and with a bit of a story to it. The story, as such, was about over now, though, and the men were seeing what they had come to see. The flickering light from the projector and the soft whir of the machine were almost hypnotic. I could hear faint whispering movements from the couches and cushions, occasional soft Spanish words, once the ring of ice on glass. The film ended, and I noticed motion on my left.
The little black-haired doll was moving from the wall to the projector, her nude body gleaming palely in the dim illumination. She busied herself momentarily beside the machine, and the film was quickly reversed onto its own spool. She took the filled spool off, then picked up the top can from the four on the table—the one that had been put there after I entered this room. She removed the film from the can, placed it on the projector, then nipped the switch and walked away.
I gripped my revolver a little tighter as I felt my throat get dryer. I turned toward the screen as movement danced upon it.
Chapter Seven
It started so suddenly I was caught off guard. The first scene flashed upon the screen was identical with one of the stills I had seen at Amador's. Standing here, I had told myself a dozen times that I had to be sure, couldn't take a chance on getting the wrong reel and messing up my one try, and I was so intent on the idea that I didn't act immediately.
I saw the scene I had studied in the enlargement, the tall, black-haired woman with her back to the camera, hair high-piled and with a sparkling comb in it, the man in a dark robe stepping toward her. As in the print, the Countess was just sliding the blouse from her shoulders, but then she dropped it to the floor, placed her fingers at the side of her dark skirt and moved her hand downward. She placed both hands at the top of her skirt, began to slide it from her hips, turning slightly to the side—and finally I moved. There had been only four or five seconds of the film in all, but in another second her profile would be visible. I kicked hard with my right foot, slamming it into the cord and jerking the plug from the wall.
The room was immediately pitch black, absolutely silent for a moment as I moved toward the projector. Somebody rattled Spanish and another said "Aí Chihuahua!" I shoved my gun back in its holster as I reached the projector; I'd need both hands for this. I had forgotten that with the plug out I couldn't reverse the machine, and I jerked the film from behind the lens and out of the feeding mechanism, grabbed the top reel, spun it backward by hand as I heard more voices and movement from the far end of the room.
Somebody spoke rapidly from almost beside me—a woman's voice. I spun that damn reel around, jerked it from the machine, pulled at the film remaining in the bottom reel as I stepped toward the windows; I had to get it all. It came free of the machine as somebody bumped into me and let out a startled stream of Spanish; a cigarette lighter sparked, then flared
at the far side of the room. The man near me shouted and grabbed for me.
I held on to the reel with one hand, drove my other fist into the guy's belly and swung it in an uppercut as he bent over. He fell to the floor, then yelled aloud, trying to get up. I jumped toward the windows and pawed at the drapes, searching for the opening, grabbed the heavy cloth and yanked. Light showed through the open windows and I reached them, climbed through as I heard the guy on the floor crawling toward me, felt his hand on my leg. I kicked backward, felt a jar as my foot hit him, then I jumped out onto the terraza and threw one leg over the rail as lights blazed in the room behind me.
I went over the side, hung for a moment by one hand, and dropped to the grass, stumbled, kept on my feet and started to run. From the window above me a gun cracked and I heard the slug thud into the grass. I ran like hell, a drizzle of rain peppering my face.
As I ran down the street I clutched the reel, trying to wind the loose film around it. After nearly two blocks I stopped at the rear wall of the Frontón Palace, and listened. Feet splatted on the sidewalk. I looked back and saw headlights flare on a car in front of the house, then the car pulled out into the street, slewed around on the wet pavement and roared down Edison toward me. I could see the running man angling across the street, getting closer.
The Frontón entrance was around the corner to my right, up another short block. I ran around the wall of the building and headed toward the entrance, sprinting with all my strength. Tires squealed shrilly on the road as the car turned the corner behind me; its lights fell on me as I reached the entrance and ran up the steps. I dug for my wallet, jerked out ten pesos and shoved it at the girl in the reserved-ticket booth.
“Quick. Any seat, anything,” I said, as I heard a car door slam outside. She pushed a pale blue ticket at me and I grabbed it, jumped to the ticket taker and gave him the paper slip, not waiting for him to tear it in half. I pushed past him as he frowned and said something to me.
Pattern for Panic Page 6
