Bolan accepted that without further question. He finished the simple meal and declined a cigar from his host. Margarita eased into a chair next to Bolan and offered him an odd-looking cigarette from an unfamiliar package. He accepted it. The dark tobacco grains were rolled in leaf instead of paper. The girl watched his face as she lit the cigarette. He did not disappoint her, grimacing under the impact of the harsh smoke.
She laughed delightedly and said, “Gringo no fum—” then cut it off and gazed guiltily into the disapproving eyes of Toro.
“Margarita does not speak the English well,” he told Bolan. “I teach her but she does not apply the lessons. I tell her she must speak the English with El Matador.”
Bolan took a long drag on the cigarette and wafted the smoke over the girl’s head. He smiled at her and told Toro, “Anyone who looks that good, amigo, doesn’t need to be worried about diction.”
Toro laughed and translated the compliment to Margarita. It embarassed her. She hastily left the chair and began busily clearing the table.
Bolan watched the girl and idly asked, “How’s your strike force, Toro?”
The Cuban sighed, puffed at his cigar, then replied, “We grow daily.”
“I don’t mean size, I’m thinking about effectiveness. How good are you?”
Toro shrugged. “Good enough to every now and then step upon El Culebra de Cuba. We are—”
“I didn’t get that,” Bolan protested, grinning.
“Sorry—the snake. Is it not the snake who beguiles the innocents and then perverts them? And so this Culebra de Cuba, yes—he is the betrayer of my country, my Cuba. And we walk upon him with each opportunity.”
“You launch your raids from this base? Against Cuba?”
Toro smiled. “Did I say that?”
Bolan grinned back. “No, I didn’t hear you say that, Toro. How are your weapons? Modern?”
The stocky Cuban again shrugged his shoulders. “The very best our modest funds can acquire, senor.”
“Money is your big problem, huh?”
“Si, is this not always the case? We work the jobs, any—”
“That reminds me,” Bolan interrupted. “As a bellman you spoke almost perfect English. Ever since we left the hotel, you’ve gotten more and more Cuban. If it gets any worse, amigo, we’re going to need an interpreter.”
“I am sorry, sir. Is this better?”
Bolan grinned. “No, I guess I like you better the other way.”
Toro smiled and explained, “To speak the English properly, one must think in English. Comprendo? To think in Spanish is to speak the English with the accent. As a bellman, I do not mind this thinking in the English. But, amigo, Toro is Cuban—not English.”
“Yeah, okay amigo. What were you telling me about the money problem?”
“The problem is not that much. As I was saying, we work the jobs, we pool the money, and we do what we can do with what we have. Not all Cubans are with us, naturally … or we would no longer be in exile.” His gaze dropped to the floor and his voice took on a sorrowing tone as he added, “Many Cubans have lost the vision of the free Cuba, you see, and have become as Yanquis. I do not blame them. It is a lonely vigil, senor, this wait to return to the homeland. But …” The eyes flashed up, with a return of the old fire. “To many of us, to lose the vision is to lose the reason for living. We work and we plan and sometimes we strike! And we know, Matador, that one day we shall walk the length and the breadth of our Cuba.”
“Killing snakes,” Bolan put in quietly.
“Si, killing the snakes.”
“You war is impossible enough, Toro. You should have stayed out of mine.”
Toro laughed scornfully. “Reverse the situation, Matador. Could you have stayed out?”
“I guess not,” Bolan murmured. He made a quick decision. “If my vehicle gets here exactly the way I left it, Toro, I’m going to …”
“Senor?”
“What do you call a modern weapon?”
Toro intently studied his guest’s face for a moment, then replied, “A gun manufactured since the end of the first World War, this is a modern weapon in this camp.”
Bolan shot back, “How about a Stoner?—a Honeywell?—have you ever fired an M-16, an M-79, an M-60?”
An expression of vague frustration swept the Cuban’s face. “This is not modern, Matador, This is ultra modern.”
Bolan sighed. “That’s what I thought. Listen, Toro, when you’re going against the odds you’ve got to take every advantage available. And you start with weapons.”
“Si, comprendo.” He smiled and turned his palms upward. “So, now you see our nakedness. We are a ragged band, no?”
“No,” Bolan replied. “You just need some support. And I think I know how to—”
Toro winced and hastened to interrupt the declaration. “Senor Bolan,” he said quietly, “Toro must confess the ulterior motive.”
Bolan was getting the prickly feeling again at the nape of his neck. He said, “Okay, maybe I’m ready for that, too. Go ahead.”
“When I first recognize you, at the Plaza, I am thinking … for La Causa de Cuba—here is a big fish, no? Here is the thing for which Toro has prayed and pledged his life and his fortunes, here is …” He caught the look in Bolan’s eyes and quietly ran out of words.
Bolan said, “You weren’t thinking of collecting on that open contract, amigo?”
Toro’s eyes dropped. “The thought was there, amigo. One hundred thousand Yankee dollars will buy many ultra modern weapons, no?” The eyes lifted again, and this time there were lights twinkling deep within. “But I could not do a thing like this to El Matador. I realize this while we swim for the boat. No, amigo, this I could not do. But …”
“Yeah?” Bolan prompted him, uneasily.
“But I think, maybe this fierce warrior could be persuaded to enter another cause, a finer one.”
Bolan said, “I feel honored, Toro. But you know better.”
“Si,” the Cuban replied, sighing. “I respect your war, amigo, as you respect mine. How long will you stay with us, El Matador?”
Bolan hesitated. “I haven’t slept for two days,” he replied. “If I could get a couple hours sleep—How long before my car gets here?”
“Momentarily, amigo.”
Bolan studied his wristwatch. It was just past seven p.m., far from the end of a most active day. He removed the watch and stripped the leather band between his fingers to remove the Atlantic moisture still clinging to its fibers, then returned it to his wrist. “I’ll wait till the car arrives,” he told Toro. “Then, if you have some place to bed me down, I’d like to catch a short nap.”
Toro quickly made available upon demand the full hospitable resources of his camp. Then the two men went to the veranda and perched upon the railing and quietly talked “shop,” discussing weapons, tactics and other aspects of impossible wars. Some minutes later, Bolan’s rented Chevy rolled to a halt beside the jeep and the two Cubans alighted from it. They approached the veranda and one of them dropped the keys into Toro’s hand, delivering them with a short speech in Spanish. Toro handed the keys over to Bolan and explained, “They took every precaution. They were not followed. Your luggage is in the rear seat.”
Bolan shook hands with the men and thanked them, then went directly to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He called to Toro, and his host joined him there. Bolan was leaning into the trunk and wrestling with a bulky package, wrapped in heavy green waxed paper. “Get the other end,” Bolan instructed. Toro did so, and they carried the heavy object to the veranda. The two men who had delivered the Chevy watched with interested silence, then dropped to their haunches and assisted as Bolan began removing the wrapping paper.
Exclamations of awe accompanied the final unveiling. Bolan grinned at Toro and announced, “This is a Honeywell, the hottest little number in any arsenal.”
“This is a machine gun?” Toro asked in a hushed voice.
“Sort of. Actually, a
migo, it’s a rapid firing M-79 grenade launcher. Operated like a gatling gun. Belt fed—see?—there’s your firing mechanism. Maximum effective range is about 100 meters, fires a 40 millimeter round of high explosives with an effective kill radius of five feet, also handles a shotgun round of 20 double-ought buck, a tear gas round and a flare round—and you can mix ’em in the belt any way you please.”
Toro was running his hands about the weapon in a reverent inspection. He declared, “This is most impressive, Matador.”
“It would stomp a lot of snakes,” Bolan replied, grinning. “It’s yours, Toro, and there’s a couple of cases of ammo in the car.”
Toro was dumbfounded. He spluttered, “You are giving this … this … magnifico …”
Bolan explained, “It’s too much for one man to handle, Toro. I added it to my arsenal in a weak moment, I really can’t use it. It’s a crew-served weapon, takes two men to operate, even better with three.” He spun away suddenly and went back to the Chevy, returning immediately with another object. It was a leather golf bag with a canvas snood. Toro and the other two Cubans were still ardently occupied with the Honeywell. Bolan asked them, “Can you figure it out?”
“Si, we shall figure it out, amigo,” Toro assured him. “But are you sure that you do need this magni—”
Bolan cut him off with, “Look, I don’t need it. Here’s why.” He was removing the snood from the golf bag and removing another weapon. “This,” he explained, “is the best bundle of firepower going for a man alone. It’s an over’n under M-16/M-79. Great for firefights. The 16 is our standard infantry weapon now, fires a 5.56 tumbling projectile at 700 rounds per minute, gas operated auto or semi-auto, your option. I carry 30-round magazines. This baby on the underside is the M-79, a pistol-grip for this configuration and a slide action breech, handles the same stuff as your Honeywell there, but just one at a time.”
“Magnifico!”
Toro. You want M-16’s, M-79’s, Honeywells, M-60 machine guns, and maybe a few Stoner Weapons Systems. You tell your supplier to dump the other junk in Africa.”
Toro laughed. “My supplier, amigo, is one of your enemies, of this I am certain.”
Bolan said, “Where the hell do you think I get mine?”
They laughed together, then Toro hefted the 16-79 configuration, gave Bolan a pleased nod, and said, regretfully, “Such weapons, I am certain, are beyond our limited means, Matador. But we thank you for the instruction. We will add it to our dream mountain.”
Bolan muttered, “Well, there is one other thing, Toro.” He made another trip to the car, returning this time with a leather satchel. He opened it, extracted a package of U.S. currency, riffled the edges of the packet with a thumb, then stuffed it into the waistband of his swim trunks.
Toro was watching him with puzzled eyes. Bolan closed the satchel and soberly passed it over. “El Matador’s contribution, Toro the Spanish bull, to La Causa de Cuba. You will buy some snakestompers, no?”
Toro’s face was split from ear to ear in a delighted grin. He cried, “We will buy the snake-stompers, si! Senor Bolan, I do not know how to thank—.”
“Hell, you already did,” Bolan assured him.
The Cuban could contain himself no longer. He turned to the other men with an excited rattling speech.
“No! No!”
“Si! Si!” Toro was digging into the satchel and throwing out packets of currency. “Yanqui dollars, muchos muchos dinero, amigos, para la causa. …”
Bolan was quietly putting away his weapon. He dropped the packet of retained money into the golf bag and restored the snood, then replaced the bag in the Chevy’s trunk, wrestled the Honeywell ammo cases to the ground, took his luggage from the rear seat, and passed back into the house, pushing his way through a growing crowd of excited insurgents. Margarita made way for him at the door, regarding him with glowing eyes. He went on through and into a small bedroom, dropped his bags to the floor, and immediately sprawled out across the bed. He was bone weary. Also uncomfortable. The swim trunks were too tight, and briny from the swim in the ocean. He struggled to his feet and took them off, then lay down naked and passed almost immediately into an alert combat sleep.
There was no sensation of a passage of time, but he awoke with a start and the realization that he had slept for some time. The house was still, as though deliberately quietened for his benefit—but also there was another presence in the darkened room, a most distinctive presence which was hovering above and very near. Recognition beat reaction by one flashing synapse and his instinctive lunge into the attack was quickly converted into a soft embrace of delicately scented and delightfully resilient flesh.
“Margarita?” he whispered.
She came on down atop him then, wriggling into the embrace with a soft exhalation, the firm flesh of her chest spreading onto his in an electrifying merger. Her mouth covered his and she sighed into the union, her hips seeking an accomodation which was impossible to acquire in the existing arrangement.
Bolan rolled her to her side and dragged his lips regretfully clear. “I’m not complaining,” he assured her in a soft whisper, “… but are you sure this doesn’t exceed Toro’s sense of hospitality?”
Perhaps the only word she understood was Toro. In struggling English, she told Bolan, “Toro no … habla?… no say thees. Margarita say thees.” She sighed and nuzzled his ear. “Ees soldado, no? Ees time, R and R, no? El Matador say yes?”
Bolan rubbed her hip then pushed her onto her back and kissed her throat. “Hell, yes,” he sighed.
She laughed lightly and wriggled back to her side, tossing a leg nonchalantly across his hips. “No cansado?” she inquired, suddenly quite sober.
“No what? Tired? No, Margarita, not that you would notice.”
“Love me, Mock. Margarita esta soldada, tambien. Soldados R and R, yes, Mock?”
Bolan understood. They were soldiers together. Tomorrow perhaps each would die. Tonight, they would love, as only soldiers can. He gathered her into his arms and rolled to the edge of the bed, kicked his legs over the side, and sat up, cuddling her in his lap. She was clutching him fiercely and breathlessly moving her lips across his chest and moaning, “Mock, Mock, Mock.…”
Soldados together, they lay back down and took a respite from their respective wars, joining forces in a most engaging act of love.
Chapter Thirteen
AND GONE!
When Bolan next awakened he was alone on the bed and the yellow light of a kerosene lamp was dimly illuminating the room. Toro stood just inside the doorway. He said, “It is nine o’clock, Matador.”
Bolan surged to his feet, unmindful of his nakedness, and went over to his luggage. A man with a huge smile moved into the room and helped Bolan transfer the two suitcases to the bed, then stepped back with arms folded across his chest and glowingly watched El Matador get dressed.
Bolan first selected a midnight skinsuit of fine woven, tough nylon and put it on. It fit like underwear, skin tight, with elastic cuffs at ankles and wrists.
The man with the big smile nudged Toro and said something in excitedly hushed Spanish as Bolan strapped the side leather on over the skinsuit. He tied the waist strap and inserted a fresh ammo clip into the Luger, then glanced at Toro and asked, “What’d he say?”
“He was admiring your black costume, amigo. It is a psychology suit, no? To strike terror into the hearts of your enemies? This is what he asks me.”
Bolan grinned. “I don’t know about the psychology thing. I wear it because it blends beautifully into shadows and because it doesn’t hang me up on doorknobs and fences and stuff. Sorry to spoil the illusion.”
Toro rattled an explanation to the third man.
Bolan began drawing on a shirt. “So what’d you tell him?”
Toro laughed. “I tell him yes, the suit strikes terror into the hearts of your enemies.”
Bolan chuckled and selected dark trousers, then canvas sneakers. As he finished dressing, he told his host, “Something i
s on your mind, Toro.”
“Si.” He leaned against the wall and lit a cigar, then turned to say something to the other man. The man nodded, tossed Bolan a final face-splitting grin and left them alone. “Your enemies begin a retrenchment, Matador,” Toro said soberly.
Bolan found a pack of Pall Malls in the suitcase, opened it, lit up, then turned to his friend with a frown. “Just what are you calling a retrenchment?”
“They have been scattered about the Beach, no?”
Bolan nodded. “I had that understanding.”
“Suddenly, senor, their scatterings are no more. They leave this place and that place, bag and baggage.
“Where are they going, Toro?”
The Cuban sighed heavily. “Two large Beach hotels are suddenly in the midst of labor difficulties. All workers are pulled out, and these muy bueno haciendas are suddenly without service. Reservations are cancelled, and with mucho stirrings, registered guests are transferred to other establishments.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Si. But … other guests come quickly, amigo. Bringing with them their own service. Is this not strange?”
Bolan smiled. “Yes, I’d call that a bit strange. Names, Toro.”
The Cuban sighed again, almost a moan. “This would be most dangerous to attack these places, Matador. This would be the suicide mission.”
“Who has to make that decision, Toro?”
“You are correct,” Toro replied unhappily. “Starlight Palms. Beach Hacienda. You know of these?”
Bolan said, “Yes, I know them. You have one hell of an intelligence network, amigo.”
Toro delicately shrugged his shoulders. “We are everywhere, Matador. A piece here, a piece there, it comes together as a whole picture.” He frowned. “But we do not deserve such praise.”
“No?”
“No. A something is missing. Some of your enemies, it is said, are going to a boat, a large boat, and I have not the name of this boat.”
Bolan stood up and snapped the suitcases shut, then turned to Toro with a thoughtful gaze. “Some one else mentioned a boat to me today, amigo. A party boat. Something like that?”
Miami Massacre Page 10