“I didn’t want you to go, either. I told Angelo that you had no part in this,” he said.
“Angelo was my cousin and I loved him,” I said. “Of course I would go with him. He came to Sicily with me.”
“I want you home,” he said. “When can you get a plane?”
“It’s night now,” I said. “I’ll check the first thing in the morning.”
“Get on Braniff,” he said. “I don’t trust any of the foreign airlines. You fly American.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said.
“You call me the moment you book your flight.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said.
“When you get home, we’ll arrange for a mass for Angelo,” he said.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
His voice was husky. “The girl? Is she all right?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Was she a nice girl?”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said. “Angelo had good taste. He didn’t go with tramps.”
“Take care of her,” he said.
“Thank you, Uncle,” I said.
“Take care of yourself, too,” he said. “Don’t forget that you’re the only man in the family that I have left. And call me tomorrow.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too,” I said. The telephone clicked off in my hand. I gave Alma the receiver.
There were tears in her eyes. “How is he?” she asked.
“Heartbroken,” I said. “Angelo was the light in his eyes.”
8
WE HAD BREAKFAST on the balcony. The sky was blue, the sun bright, and the air fresh. The old lady served us a large plate of fried eggs, onions, and tomatoes, and thin slices of grilled meat covered with a spicy salsa. The bread was hot and dark and the slices were covered with butter. The coffee was strong and hot. I was starved. I ate like there was no tomorrow.
Alma laughed. “Do you always eat like this?”
“Only when I’m hungry,” I mumbled through a mouthful. “At least it’s real food, not that shit we had on the river.”
“Mamacita is a great cook,” she said.
“I’ll agree to that,” I said. I looked at her. “You don’t eat much.”
“Girls have to watch their diet,” she said. “Peruvian women tend to get fat.”
“Like Peruvian pussy.” I laughed.
“That’s good fat.” She laughed with me. “You didn’t seem to complain.”
“Beautiful,” I said. “The best.”
She leaned across the table and kissed my cheek. “You’re sweet.”
The old lady stood at the balcony railing. She turned to Alma and spoke.
Alma rose from her chair and looked over the railing. She gestured to me and I joined her. “Down there across the street. That car with two men standing next to it. They might be police.”
“You don’t know?” I asked.
“It looks like a police car but I don’t see any insignia,” she said. “Could be plainclothes men. Their cars are not marked.”
“How do you know they’re looking at us?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But Vince said that the Iquitos police might have been tipped off about us. If they had, they would have notified Lima headquarters because it’s the national headquarters.”
“And if they are not police?”
“Then they are the cocainas still looking for the property.” She raised her hand to mine and took my arm away from the railing. “Get dressed,” she said. “I have some friends in headquarters. My patrón was a general in the army and was once the jefe of police. At one time we were all close. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can find out.”
I went to my room. The old lady was better than any valet. She had my clothes all laid out on the bed: a dark blue blazer with gold buttons, gray flannel slacks, a light blue shirt and a narrow black knit tie. My black oxfords were polished to a high shine and the silk socks carefully placed in each shoe. It took me less than five minutes to dress. There was only one thing I thought I might need. I opened the attaché case and took the automatic from it and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Then I took the ten thousand dollars I had promised Alma and put it into a manila envelope. I placed my passport and visa in my breast pocket and a few packages of bills in my pants pocket. I walked through the bathroom into her room.
She was still speaking on the telephone. The old lady was taking a dress from the closet and laying it out for her. I waited in the doorway until she put down the telephone.
“They are the police,” she said. “But they are not looking for you.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about,” I said.
She shook her head. “They are looking for Angelo. And they think that you are him.” She dropped her dressing gown to the floor and stepped into lace bikini panties, then quickly fastened a matching lace brassiere over her breasts. She looked up at me as she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled up her nylons. “You’re staring,” she said.
“You’re a tease.” I tossed the manila envelope on the bed beside her.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The money I promised,” I answered.
She was silent for a moment, then handed the envelope to me. “You don’t have to do it,” she said. “I don’t need the money.”
“I made a promise,” I said, returning it to her.
“But we were different then,” she said. “Now we are friends and lovers.”
“I want you to keep the money,” I said. “More now than before, because of the way we feel about each other.”
She rose from the bed and kissed me. “You’re a lovely man,” she said softly.
I held her for a moment, then let her go. “Thank you.”
She took the dress from the bed and slipped it on over her body. “Mamacita!” she called.
The old woman hurried into the bedroom. Alma spoke quickly to her. Mamacita nodded and fastened the snap of the dress near the base of her neck. Then she took the envelope from the bed and left the room.
Alma turned back to me. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“I’ll fix my makeup,” she said. “You pack your valise, we’ll be leaving for the airport in a few minutes.”
“What about the police outside?” I asked.
“There won’t be any problems,” she said. “I spoke to the captain of police. He’ll call them off and take us to the airport in his car.”
“He believed your story?”
She nodded. “Of course. It was the truth anyway. But he will want to see your passport before we go. You have your visa, and it wouldn’t hurt if you also left a thousand-dollar bill with it.”
“I thought he was a friend of yours,” I said.
“If he wasn’t a friend he wouldn’t do this for us,” she answered. “You don’t understand. Our officials don’t earn much money, they need much help.”
“We have the same thing in the States sometimes, but we call it graft,” I said.
“You have no right to be sarcastic,” she said quietly. “You’ve been breaking almost every law we have on the books.”
I stared at her. She was right. Who was I to cast stones? I took her hand. “I apologize.”
She squeezed my hand. “Now hurry. Get packed.”
* * *
I CLOSED THE valise and locked it, then placed the attaché case on top of it. I left them on the bed and walked out onto the balcony. The small black Volkswagen was still parked across the street. While I was watching, a large four-door Ford Fairlane pulled into the street beside it. I couldn’t see the driver, but the two men who had been standing next to the Volks seemed to speak to the driver in the other car; then the Ford moved, and the men got into the Volks and started to drive away. I watched them until they had turned the corner, then went back into the apartment. I took my valise and attaché case and walked into the living room.
&nbs
p; Alma was waiting for me. I stared at her. She had a dark mink coat loosely thrown over her shoulders, and on the floor beside her were two large valises, a folded hanging bag, and a small, square jewelry bag. All Louis Vuitton. I smiled at her. “You’ve got class. Planning a trip?”
She laughed. “I’m going to New York with you.”
“Hey,” I said. “I don’t remember talking about it.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Do you think he would have believed me if I hadn’t told him that you were taking me to New York with you?”
“It’s not that easy,” I said. “You need a visa.”
She laughed again. “I have a multiple-entry visa to the States. After all, I went to school there.”
I was silent.
“I also went to school in Paris for a year,” she said.
“Are you planning to go there too?” I asked.
“Maybe. But I won’t be any problem to you. My patrón left me a small apartment in the Hotel Pierre.”
I started to laugh. “Maybe you could take me in. I don’t have an apartment in New York.”
“You can be my guest as long as you want,” she said.
The buzzer rang from the house phone near the door. She pressed a button and spoke into it. House phones always have a tinny sound, and this was no exception. The man’s voice sounded thin and excited. She spoke to him. His voice came through again. Finally she nodded and replied with the only word I could understand: “Okay.”
“El capitán is downstairs in the garage under the apartment house. He has kept the two detectives with him. He says they tell him that there are three suspicious characters waiting in a car just outside the entrance to the garage. He thinks they are pistoleros because the car has Colombian license plates. He doesn’t want us to open the door to anyone except himself.”
“Shit,” I said. I took the automatic from my pocket. “Do you have another door to the apartment?”
“Service door through the kitchen,” she said.
“We better push a table against it,” I said. “We don’t want anybody to come in from the back.”
She called to Mamacita and I followed them into the kitchen and helped them move a heavy wooden table against the door. Then we walked back into the living room. She turned and spoke to the old woman. The old woman began weeping. She hugged Alma and kissed her. Alma kissed her too, said something else to her in Spanish, and finally Mamacita left the room.
Alma looked up at me. “I told her to go to her room and lock the door behind her. That the police were here and they would take care of everything.”
“Good,” I said. “Maybe you should go with her.”
She shook her head. “I have to be there with you. You wouldn’t recognize the captain’s voice.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” I asked. “I’d feel better if you could be safe.”
“I’m with you,” she said simply. “You pulled me out of the water from the piranhas. Besides we are friends and lovers.”
I didn’t speak—just leaned over and kissed her. “Friends and lovers,” I said.
9
“TEN MINUTES,” I said to her. “He’s taking his time.”
She looked at me. “He’s a very careful man. I’m sure he knows what he is doing.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m getting nervous.” I moved to the front door and peered through the wide-angle tiny glass peephole. I could see down the hallway to the elevator door. There was nothing moving. I turned back to her. “Can you reach him in the garage?”
“No,” she answered. “It only works one way. When they call here.”
A moment later the tinny sound came through the house phone. The man’s voice crackled through the speaker. Alma replied quickly. He spoke again, a nervous urgency in his voice. Alma turned and looked at me. There was a puzzled expression on her face, then she spoke to him again. “Okay.”
She let go of the speaker button and the house phone went quiet. “I don’t understand it,” she said. “He called me Alma. He never called me by my first name before.”
“But that is your name,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered. “But you don’t understand. He is a very correct man. And this is not his kind of etiquette.”
“Okay,” I said. “What else did he say?”
“First he asked if we had our bags packed, and if you had your attaché case. I said we were ready, then he said he’s coming up in the elevator.” She shook her head. “He didn’t seem quite like himself.”
“I think he’s in trouble. Otherwise he would not have known or even asked about my attaché case,” I said. I turned to the peephole in the door and called over my shoulder to her. “You hadn’t said anything about the attaché case, had you?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she said angrily. “I am not stupid.”
I laughed. “I never said that you were stupid. But we better find a quick way out of here.”
“This is the only way,” she answered. “The kitchen door will only take us down the stairway.”
I looked through the peephole. The elevator doors began to open. I gestured to her. “Check. See if it’s your friend.”
She glanced through the peephole. “It’s him. But there is another man behind him.”
I looked through again. Her friend was not a tall man. But he wore a police uniform and high-heeled boots that added some height. The flap on his leather holster was snapped open, with no gun in it. There was also no gun in his hand. The man behind him was a head taller than he and his arm seemed to be pushing against the captain’s back.
The captain’s voice came through the door. “Alma! Estoy Felipe!”
“What do we do now?” she whispered.
I slipped the safety from my gun and stepped behind the blind side of the door to hide myself. I held the gun tightly in my clasped hands and nodded, whispering to her, “Let him in.”
She turned the knob and stepped back as the door began to open. The captain seemed to be pushed into the apartment. He stumbled against Alma. The other man was still on the other side of the door, and I couldn’t see him.
“The Americano!” the man said harshly.
Alma kept silent. She gestured to the bedroom behind her. The man shouted in Spanish at them. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I could understand the tone of his voice. Alma shook her head. The man shouted at her again and started to move into the apartment toward her. Now it was my turn.
I slammed my heavy automatic against his gun hand and wrist. His gun fell to the floor as he turned to me and tried to grab my arm. There were a few things I had learned in the army. I stepped back from him slightly, then kicked him in the balls. He grunted and bent forward; this time I laid the gun over the side of his head. Now he was on the floor. He stared at me, then tried to reach for the gun.
But this time the policeman was fast. He had picked the gun up from the floor. He looked at me and gestured with the gun. “My revolver,” he said.
“Good,” I said.
The policeman bent over the man and quickly snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists behind his back. He rolled the man over on his back and snapped at him harshly. The man snarled back at him. The policeman smashed his gun against his face. A trickle of blood began to come from his mouth and nose. The policeman began to hit him again.
Alma spoke quickly: “Not on the white rug. It won’t clean.”
The policeman stared at her, then half smiled and nodded. He wasn’t a big man but he was strong. Easily he pulled the man across the floor out to the marble balcony, then he hit him across the face again. This time the blood began flowing freely. The policeman growled at him. The man shook his head silently.
I spoke to the policeman. “Do you know anything about him?”
The policeman answered me in English. “Nothing, only that he’s Colombian. We thought there were only three of them. We had watched them in the car. He was hiding in the garage and he got me when I got out of th
e car.”
“Where are your men?” I asked.
“In the street watching the others in the car,” he answered. He turned to Alma and spoke in Spanish.
She answered in English. “I don’t know anything about why they are after us. Maybe they had the same tip that you had about the other man.”
I looked at her admiringly. She didn’t use Angelo’s name. No reason she should call attention to it.
“But did you ever meet this Angelo Di Stefano?” the captain asked.
“Possibly,” she said. “Maybe at one of the discos or a party. I meet many people.”
“And this man?” he asked, nodding toward me. “How did you meet him?”
“One of my girlfriends from school in the States. She called me and said that he would be calling on me.”
He looked at her. “But you went away for almost two weeks with him. Where were you?”
“I was at my small place in the country,” she said.
“And you’re going to the States with him? It seems like a quick romance,” he said.
“Love comes in mysteriously sudden ways,” she said.
He turned to me. “You know about guns?”
“I was in Special Forces in Vietnam,” I said.
“Where did you get the gun?” he asked.
Alma answered quickly. “I gave it to him. It was given to me by your general.”
He was silent for a moment, then turned back to the Colombian. He spoke quickly to him in Spanish. Again he wouldn’t answer.
The captain picked him up and turned him around, pushing his belly into the balcony railing. Holding his revolver against the back of the man’s head, with his other hand he unlocked the handcuffs and pulled them off his prisoner’s hands. Still holding his revolver to the man’s head he again snapped at him in Spanish. The Colombian snapped angrily back. It sounded to me like he was cursing at the captain.
The captain seemed to be shrugging his shoulders. Then he slammed the revolver against the back of the Colombian’s head. He half slumped over the railing. The captain moved gracefully. He shoved his hand between the man’s legs and lifted him under his groin. As the captain stepped backward, the Colombian flew up over the railing, and, screaming, he fell down toward the street.
The Piranhas Page 6