Devil May Care

by Wade Miller

  Biggo grinned. "I can see where we'll have a very average married life. Ready to go?"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Friday, September 15, 3:30 p.m.

  Biggo got tricky. He had a taxi take Jinny and him out near the airport, then dismissed it. Then they walked the couple of blocks to the airport and took a taxi to the hotel. That way, they appeared to have just arrived in town.

  The Hotel Riviera Pacifico was a product of the late twenties. Originally the Playa de Ensenada, it had been built by its charter investors as the hub of a second Monte Carlo. According to the cab-driver, two million dollars had been sunk in it. At that time, the hotel accommodations were only a luxurious appendix to the casino. Then the bottom had dropped out of the American economy and the tourists stayed home with their dollars. When they began coming south again, the Mexican government classified Ensenada as a border town and that ended table gambling.

  So the Riviera Pacifico was just a hotel now. "The casino stands empty, waiting," the driver said sadly.

  Biggo was impressed with the place. It looked like two million dollars in the sunlight, creamily stuccoed and red tiled with many-angled roofs and sudden towers. The building was broad at each end, narrowest in the middle as if corseted. It loomed on a slight crest facing the beach and most of its sleeping quarters were in the south end.

  The bulk of the cars in the tree-lined parking lot bore USA license plates. There were flowers and grass and mixed in the salty bay breeze was the fragrance of pine. Biggo took the suitcases out of the cab and sucked some of the pleasant air into his lungs. He felt opulent.

  Jinny got out of the cab by herself and looked around and murmured, "I wish I hadn't come. I shouldn't have dared."

  Biggo grunted.

  She asked, "What are you looking at?"

  "Not a thing, honey. Relax." He had seen a lanky figure slip out of the parking lot and around a corner of the building, a dark-skinned man in overalls who carried a rake. The man resembled Adolfo, his ex-cellmate, but Biggo couldn't be sure.

  "Well," said Jinny finally, "does it suit your taste?" She had repaired her make-up so the bruises didn't show but something still seemed vaguely wrong about her face. "Or would you rather just camp out here?"

  "Is that the way they do it in Scribner, Nebraska?" Biggo paid off the taxi and picked up their suitcases. "Now try smiling. Remember you're my wife."

  "So that's a reason."

  "Cute," he said. "Cute as all get-out. I'll bet you bowled them over with that in Scribner."

  "Stop talking about Scribner," she said irritably. She switched ahead of him through the big rear entrance and along the tiles of a Moorish hallway with paintings on the wails. Biggo followed, grinning, watching her hips wag.

  They went down tile steps to reach the registration desk. The huge beam-ceilinged lobby was off to the north, down more steps. Biggo registered as Mr. and Mrs. John S. Biggo, Scribner, Nebraska.

  "Ah, Nebraska," commented the desk clerk. Jinny eyed him sourly.

  "We'd like a nice quiet double off by ourselves somewhere," Biggo told him and winked. "We're on our honeymoon, you know."

  Jinny made a strangled sound in her throat.

  "Certainly," the clerk said. "Riviera Pacifico is the ideal location to enjoy a honeymoon. If there is anything which we may do to enhance your pleasure…"

  "Never called for help yet," said Bingo. "But I'll let you know."

  A bellboy took them up to a large corner room that overlooked the trees of the parking lot. It was a bright airy room with twin beds.

  Jinny sat down on one of them. When the bellboy had gone away, she said, "Well, thank God for these, anyway. Why the big act downstairs?"

  "Business. You just let your husband worry about business matters."

  "Well, I didn't know I was supposed to look like a bride. If there's anything I don't look like, it's a bride. You should have bought me a bouquet or something."

  Biggo was going to kid her some more. But then he noticed that she was sitting there, stiff and uneasy, so he didn't. He said, "We can't afford it," and wandered around the room, examining the pale gleaming furniture. It appeared brand-new. He fingered the drapes and let more sun in through the Venetian blinds. He thought it might make the room gayer for her. Biggo supposed that she was embarrassed at this pretense they were carrying off. Jinny knew most of what there was to know but she evidently hadn't gotten used to it.

  He left her alone for a minute to see if anyone lived next door. No one did. A Mexican girl was mopping in there and the closet was empty. That suited Biggo fine. He hadn't yet seen many people in the rest of the hotel either.

  When he went back to their room, Jinny had gotten up to stare fixedly at the room number. Then she sat down on her bed again, dragging nervous fingers along the bright woven stripes of the spread. Biggo sighed at her and then commenced whistling to keep his spirits up. He hung his coat in the closet, the Bible still in its pocket.

  "Might as well unpack," Biggo said, just to be saying something. He went about it. He put his razor in the bathroom and hung his clothes in the closet, leaving

  Jinny exactly half the hangers. He worked down toward the Beretta automatic. He decided it would cheer him up to spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning it. He thought how comfortable its weight would be in his coat pocket, a balance to the Bible. It would make him feel like he was doing something besides waiting. He stuffed the rest of his clothes into a bureau drawer.

  And then the suitcase was empty, completely.

  Biggo gaped at the barren lining for an instant. Then he swiftly searched the pockets of the suitcase. After that he went through the clothes he had put away to see if the gun and ammunition had gotten mixed up with them.

  The idea was slow taking hold but at last he looked at Jinny. He asked, "Where's the gun?"

  She didn't bother to raise her head. "I threw it away."

  "You did what?"

  "I threw it away. And the bullets too."

  "You're kidding." He tore into her little blue suitcase, dumped her belongings on the floor and pawed through them. "Where is it? Come on-I got to have it."

  "I threw it away. Guns scare me. It's in the bay." She gazed down on him calmly. She seemed to be thinking of something else altogether. "I threw it away. That's all."

  "That's all?" cried Biggo. He rose to his feet and wavered like a smoke cloud over an explosion. "Just like that? My pretty Beretta's gone?"

  She nodded.

  "You held on to my watch and suitcase tight enough!"

  "I didn't want the gun found on me in case I got searched by customs. It's always my luck to be picked out for a shakedown." She pulled her legs up on the bed and turned away. "Oh, let's not talk about it any more."

  Biggo kicked her tiny heap of clothing and it scattered across the carpet. "No gun. Some people in this town would just as soon kill me and I got no gun to do anything about it when it happens. You see the spot you put me in? Where am I supposed to get another one in a place like this? No wonder the jefe didn't cause any fuss over it. It was gone already. Look at me!" He grabbed Jinny's face between thumb and forefinger and jerked her around so he could confront her. "I could crack in your teeth and love the sound of it."

  Her mouth puckered up and was homely. Her eyes swam and she slid away to fall face down on the bed, sobbing.

  Biggo stood over her perplexed. She never failed to frustrate him. He snarled and walked around the room a little. Then he kicked her strewn clothing into a neater pile. Finally he said, "Forget it. Shut up. I'm not going to hit you."

  She struggled up to her elbow. There was a wet place on the spread where her face had lain. "I don't care. What makes you think it matters?"

  Biggo made the big effort. He sounded almost generous. "Forget it, will you? It was just a gun."

  "Oh, hell," Jinny said and began to sob again. "I don't give the first damn about your damn gun. I'm not crying about that."

  Biggo just looked at her.

 
She said, "This is the very room. Look at the number on the door."

  "What are you talking about? Or do you know?"

  "I'm talking about me!" The tears kept coming and running into the sides of her mouth. "There were too many of us on the farm. I was the talented one, I could sing. You can guess how I did in Hollywood. I didn't have any voice at all. I was a carhop, usherette, worked in a dairy-all the jobs." Crying made her words come out in gasps. "Sometimes I got to sing with some little band but I was down to hostessing when this fellow said he'd give me my big chance on television. I came down here with him to meet some people. But there wasn't anybody here to meet except him in this very room. He was just kidding about me ever getting a chance at anything. He was just like everybody."

  She sprawled on the bed again, hiding her face. Biggo grunted. He went over to pat her shoulder but Jinny flinched away from him. "Keep your dirty paws off me! Don't ever think I trust your big talk. Every last one of you has got the same thing in mind."

  "Well, that bloody well doesn't include me!" Biggo snapped. She made him mad all over again. It made him madder still that Jinny wasn't too far from being right. "Shut up that bawling or you may squat in Ensenada the rest of your life."

  He got his coat and went out, slamming the door as hard as he could.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, September 15, 5:00 p.m.

  No Beretta. Biggo sat at the hotel bar until about five o'clock sulking over it. He couldn't think of where he could get another gun in a peaceful town like Ensenada without the transaction coming to the attention of the police. Capping everything else, the Beretta's loss seemed tragic, even deathly. Earlier this afternoon-after he'd fluked out of jail-he had felt impregnable; now, in the dark oaken and muraled taproom, he felt flayed. He began to think his powers were being stripped away from him, layer by layer, one by one. "I feel like Toevs looks," he complained. He reassured himself by flexing the thick tendons in his wrists; difficult to reach the veins even with a knife; powerful as ever.

  "A little something to do would cheer you up, Biggo," he said. He picked up his coat from the next bar stool and prowled around the slender middle of the hotel, through the lobby and dining patio, hoping to meet somebody who'd start something. Nothing happened. Defeated, he bought a cigar in the shop next to the taproom. He moseyed back through the lobby to the foot of the stairs, unwrapping it. Then he dropped it and swore as he bent over. He felt eyes watching him. He looked up and then pretended he was bowing.

  Pabla Ybarra stood at the bend of the staircase, a slim sheath of pale blue satin. Where the evening gown ended, a gauzy shawl was clasped around her bare shoulders. The sun came through a window behind her and through her blonde hair so that she looked like a figure in stained glass.

  He grinned, feeling good all at once. But she only smiled quizzically. She couldn't quite place him. Biggo took his coat off his arm and spread it on the tile floor. "For the queen," he said.

  She frowned as if baffled. She came down the stairs. At the very last minute, she avoided stepping on his coat. Then Pabla said, "Why, it's the prisoner!" and her pink smile curved deeper. "The very religious prisoner!"

  Biggo picked up his coat and tapped the Bible in its pocket. "I carry it everywhere. It seems to bring on visitations."

  She laughed. "I really didn't expect to see you again."

  "I made sure you did. I've been waiting by this stairway for hours." He kicked the cigar to one side. He felt a little closer to her. He had made a discovery, why her dark eyes had a soft misty look. She was near-sighted. Somehow, suddenly, that brought her within his reach.

  Just as suddenly, two people were standing behind her like a guard. Pabla said, "Senor Smith, may I present my duenna, Senora Garcia." Biggo nodded to Mamacita, the frosty old woman in black. "And Senor Emilio Valentin. He accompanies me." Valentin bowed nastily. He was a snaky Latin with gray sideburns and he wore tails. He appeared to have been born in tails.

  There was a moment of small talk during which Biggo corrected his name to John Smith Biggo and Pabla's mouth quirked. Then Valentin flourished his wrist watch before his eyes.

  Pabla's chin came up. "Please, no occasion to hurry, Emilio. Once we arrive we will be there long enough, heaven knows."

  "But, senorita-"

  Pabla said no without letting it sting. "Would you play us something, Emilio, while we wait?"

  They were drifting toward the center of the lobby, an immense beamed room with iron chandeliers and tapestries and heavy carved furniture. Valentin accepted his exile to the distant grand piano. A second later, Pabla got rid of Mamacita with a whispered errand.

  Then the two of them had the lobby almost to themselves and Pabla indicated he should sit beside her on an antique divan. Biggo did but kept his distance. He was breathing straight shots.

  She said, "It's very gallant that you should want to see me again, Senor, ah, Biggo. But it's unbelievable. Don't I remind you of your past?"

  He chuckled. "You remind me that luck can always get better. But, you know, I was only in that jail for one night-and that was all a mistake." He was bringing himself up to gentleman status. "Uh, why don't you call me just Biggo?"

  "How odd!" She tested the name by itself. "It's so harsh."

  "It fits."

  "Oh, no," Pabla said gravely. "On the contrary, I find you very gentle and lamblike." She smiled then. "I hope that doesn't offend you."

  "Well, no." It didn't from her. It was just as well that people like Jinny or Lew Hardesty would never hear about his being a lamb. And it occurred to Biggo suddenly that it would do him no good with Pabla if she found out about Jinny, his "wife". No explaining a setup like that. Pabla's innocence must have its limits even though she accepted his presence at the hotel solely as a tribute to her charms.

  For the moment-which was all that counted-Biggo believed his own lies. They talked about Mexico City, where she would have to go home after the fiesta. Music came from the piano and he gloated over how near and pretty she was. Once, when she crossed her legs, he kept his eyes from looking there but he couldn't help imagining how slim and golden they must be, and fresh to the touch. With the music and her faint fragrance, he felt a special tender desire for her, something new. He learned that Mexico City had changed some in the twenty years since he'd been there; quite a shock to recall that he had been there before Pabla was born.

  Mamacita returned but stayed in another far corner of the lobby, watching. Valentin sneered over the piano occasionally. Even surrounded like that, Biggo was having a wonderful time. He lowered his voice. "I've got a hunch why you sent the duenna back to your room."

  Pabla shook her head. "No, you're wrong." Her smile was mock-melancholy. "Please don't assume I speak with every senor I release from jail."

  "Nothing like that." Biggo grinned. "I think you sent her back after your glasses."

  Pabla became unqueenly enough to gulp. She touched his arm. It tingled. She murmured, "Oh, never mention that again, Biggo! I never wear them except in strictest privacy and if certain of my girl friends knew-" She realized she was looking fiercely earnest and she burst out laughing.

  Biggo said, "Don't worry about it going any farther." It was their secret.

  They looked into each other's eyes. She met his gaze quizzically and Biggo guessed she hadn't been around enough to be afraid of him. Her hand stole up to her throat and massaged gently. She noticed and dropped it to her lap. "A nervous habit," she apologized. She confused prettily. "I find myself doing it before each-" her eyes danced "-each crisis."

  He didn't know what she was talking about.

  "There's something I've managed to refrain from mentioning so far," she said impulsively. "Am I to understand that you won't be seeing me tonight? You haven't said."

  Biggo looked blank.

  Then a hand slapped across the back of his neck and a voice said, "Biggo!" Lew Hardesty stood there, grinning down at him.

  Biggo barely managed not to speak his mind.


  Hardesty pretended to discover Pabla. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I'd interrupted anything-"

  Biggo thought, Like hell you didn't. Pabla gazed at the newcomer curiously. She had taken her hand off Biggo's arm. Biggo wished that Hardesty didn't look quite so young and dashing. Resignedly he lumbered to his feet and made the introductions.

  "I should have realized," said Hardesty in a voice that made love. "Not only the queen of the fiesta but also the principal artiste of tonight's concert."

  "Thank you, Senor Hardesty." Pabla gave Biggo an arch smile. "Apparently not every American in Ensenada has failed to read the posters."

  "Senorita," Hardesty explained, "he's an old man. His eyes aren't so good."

  A joke about eyes didn't go over with Pabla. Suddenly she was no longer teasing Biggo. She rose, and Valentin and Mamacita closed in from opposite ends of the lobby.

  Biggo said, "Oh, you sing. Sure-I've seen the posters." Then he saw what Mamacita had returned to the room for; she carried a violin case.

  Pabla told him, "I've only a little name in Mexico City. None at all here. You're forgiven for not feeding my ego."

  "I'll be there tonight. The loudest clapping-that'll be me."

  "I'm afraid the tickets are more than sold." She extended her hand; it was warm. "It's been good to see you again. Until the next time."

  Biggo said much the same. He was glad to see Pabla hardly bother to say goodbye to Hardesty, only a cool little nod. The trio went off across the lobby, Pabla leading in her princess manner.

  "Hell on fire," said Hardesty. His gaze crawled after her body. "There goes a flesh pot your buddy Lew wouldn't get bored with. That has bounce."

  Biggo started to tell him to shut up. Then he realized no matter what ran through Hardesty's mind, that didn't dirty Pabla in the least. So he growled, "What bloody misfortune brought you out here?"

  "I like to mix with class. This beats the motel where I'm quartered. What's your own reason?" Hardesty was asking after his business again.