“My Lord,” Fred groaned, pressing a coat sleeve against his nostrils. “This is the foulest smelling place in creation.”
“Breathe through your mouth,” I cautioned.
Inside the building we encountered three men bent over the central table, spattered with blood, hacking away at pieces of meat with heavy handled cleavers. Flies and bugs were thick in the air and crawling on the floor. I gritted my teeth and approached one of the men.
“Do you speak English?”
“Si. What do you want?”
He glanced at us disdainfully with red-rimmed eyes. He was a surly man with thick shoulders. A scar twisted down the right side of his pitted face. Apparently someone had taken a cleaver to him at one time or another. His fingers, yellow with nicotine, pinched an incredibly short cigarette butt.
“I’m seeking information concerning the Americano matador, Senor Freckle,” I said.
“He was killed by a bull last Sunday. I saw it happen.”
“Where’d they take him afterwards?”
He shrugged with studied casualness, wiping blood from his nose. “I only work in the slaughter house, I—”
“Did they bring him here?”
His ugly mouth split open into a laugh. “Senorita, they would not bring him here. This is where they take the dead bulls.”
“I was here last Sunday night,” I said, gesturing. “His clothes were lying on that table over in the corner.”
“You mean his suit of lights? Senorita, you must be joking—”
“His initials were stitched inside the silk shirt. Where are those clothes?”
“I have seen nothing, senorita. It is possible the doctor took off the matador’s suit and by mistake it was put in the truck with the dead bulls.”
That sounded like a logical explanation, but I still wasn’t buying it. His eyes told me he was lying.
“What is nearby here?” I asked, keeping my mouth covered.
“Nothing for miles, senorita” He ran blood-stained fingernails over his mouth, then added, “Oh, there is a new nightclub down on Torrento Road. That is South of here. It is owned by Zingo.”
“You know him?”
“Zingo is a very powerful man, senorita. I am a peon, working in a slaughter house. How could I know such a man?”
“What is the name of this new nightclub?”
“El Puno. It is a big place. .Very expensive. For tourists. Only those with mucho dinero go there.”
I thanked him and we left the slaughter house as quickly as possible. Fred was turning green. We drove down off the hill and turned south onto Torrento Road.
“I don’t care where you’re going now,” Fred muttered. “Just as long as it’s in the direction of fresh air.”
“Thought we’d take a peek at this new joint, El Puno,” I said. “Then we’ll head for Vicaro’s ranch. I understand they’ll be testing new bulls there this afternoon.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means maybe we’ll get a first hand view of this bullfight syndicate in action.”
El Puno had an extremely modern exterior for Tijuana. There were no neon lights, but huge white columns ran the length of the building, giving the effect of an old Southern plantation. It was obviously an American tourist trap. Huge placards advertised in English a New York-Paris revue. Fred gaped at the photographs. One revealed a blonde cutie with nothing on but a gorgeous suntan.
At this time of day, the place was closed and locked. A watchman was on duty at the rear of the building.
‘You speak English?” I asked.
“Si. A little.”
“What time does El Puno open?”
“Cinco. Five o’clock. You come back then.”
“What kind of a floorshow do you have?”
“Muy grande. Singers, dancers, matadors—”
“What do you mean matadors?”
“Last week we have la fiesta brava. A corrida on the stage. With toros and picadors—”
‘You had real bulls in there?”
The watchman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No. These were cardboard—paper—you know. A new show she begin tonight. You come back.”
Wind blew dust in our faces as we walked to the car.
On the way to Vicaro’s I glanced at Fred. “I’ve a feeling Pete Freckle’s secret is wrapped up somewhere in El Puno.”
“I don’t savvy.”
“Punta Punta intimated there was a place near the slaughter house where Pete might be found. That could be it.”
Fred shook his head dismally. “A bullfighter’s gored and disappears before anyone can be certain he’s dead. Only one man has a lead and he winds up with his tongue cut out. So tell me, mighty madame, how do you arrive at the conclusion the injured or dead matador is locked up inside a classy nightclub?”
“Simple logic,” I said, licking dry lips.
“Simple what?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Vicaro’s ranch was southeast of town in a small valley, surrounded by rolling purple-saged hills. His main house, a pretentious two-story adobe surrounded by ornate statuary, was about a mile off the main road. A bronze of a bull loomed off to one side of the front steps, his horns lifted, gigantic body poised, every muscle straining.
A gaunt, dark Mexican woman came to the door and announced that Vicaro and several other men were out en campo. They were testing bulls in the open country. She pointed out a road for us to follow. This led us around a practice arena where the snorting and bellowing of bulls could be heard behind high wooden walls.
We jogged along silently for several minutes before hearing the cries of two men on horseback. They were chasing a young bull, jabbing him viciously in the flanks with sharp pointed poles. Suddenly the bull tumbled over, hurling up a cloud of dust, legs thrashing. He rolled, stumbled awkwardly and then struggled to his feet with a snort of pain and disgust. He eyed the two horsemen for an instant as if he feared another attack.
“Toro! Ah-haaaaaa!” one of the men yelled.
The bull did not pick up the challenge, but turned and lumbered off toward a small herd roaming the fields.
Senor Vicaro, mounted on a beautiful black stallion, saw us and galloped over to the car. He wore a stiff-brimmed hat and a gold-trimmed jacket and pants. His boots were highly polished and a magenta silk scarf fluttered from the top of one of them. With the wind at his back, blowing across my face, I could smell his heavy cologne. It was almost over-powering.
We climbed from the car and I introduced Fred to the impresario.
‘What are you doing?” I asked.
Vicaro’s dark and penetrating eyes showed he was obviously not pleased to see me. He grunted, ‘We are testing the two-year-old males for their bravery. This last one you saw was a coward. He would not fight back. We will not be able to use him in a corrida.”
“How can you be sure he is not brave?” I asked.
‘We run him .at full speed,” Vicaro explained. ‘Two men carrying garrochas tip him over by pushing at his hindquarters. When the beast again stands he should be full of spirit and spoiling for a fight. This last one would not even make an attempt.”
1 see.
“You watch. This time you will see a toro bravo. One with casta y poder, which means charged with breeding and power.”
The two vaqueros drove another young bull from the herd, pushing him forward with their pointed poles. He fell after running for several hundred yards. This time it was a different story. This animal got up and furiously rammed a picador’s horse, crashing his horns into thick padding especially worn for such a charge. The picador shoved him away with his pole, but the bull wouldn’t give up and kept putting his head down and hooking viciously at the horse, finally upsetting both man and beast. The horse floundered, kicking wildly. The two vaqueros came to its rescue, driving the bull back with their garrochas.
“There is a good bull,” Vicaro said, brushing dust from his thin, finely-tapered hose. “Oh, d
on’t worry. The picador is not hurt, and neither is his horse. They take many falls like that. It is all in a day. Now, what can I do for you, Miss West?” His eyelids narrowed.
“We were interested in seeing your ranch, Senor Vicaro.”
“I am highly flattered, but I can not believe this is the only reason you are here, Miss West.”
I nodded. “I haven’t been able to locate Pete Freckle, senor.”
“This is an unfortunate tragedy. I am sorry.”
“Who’s responsible?”
“He was to have been buried in the sanctuary of El Bosque at Villa de Hablo. What happened to his body, I am humbly at a loss to say.”
“Is it possible, senor, that he was taken by mistake to the slaughter house?”
“No!” Vicaro cried, turning his horse angrily. “This could not be. My people would not be so stupid! Miss West, you were asked to leave Tijuana last Sunday. Why did you not follow that course?”
“Because I chose to stay.”
“You are a foolish woman,” the impresario said in his throat. Then, apparently thinking he’d spoken too harshly, an apologetic smile cracked his thin bps. “Would you and Senor Sims stay to lunch with me?”
I glanced at Fred. The newsman nodded. “Yes, that would be nice,” I said. “Thank you.”
Vicaro gave a few commands in Spanish to his men and gestured for us to follow him. His horse sped across the fields toward the big house. He was already there by the time we turned around.
We enjoyed lunch in a large dining room decorated with statuary, most of the pieces representing some phase of bullfighting.
“Have you ever fought the toro bravo, Senor Vicaro?” I asked.
His head lifted proudly. “Si. I began as a boy in a small village in Spain where my father lived. He had a ranch and he taught me many things from the first day that I can remember. I used to handle a training device for toreros. It was made of wood with a wheel on one end and a pair of horns on the other. I would run this around an arena while the young men worked with cape and muleta.
“As I grew older,” Vicaro continued, “my father moved to Mexico City and it was there, in the largest plaza de toros in the world, I fought until I was gored* like your friend Pete Freckle.”
“Was the injury severe?”
“St. In the right thigh. I bled too much and almost died. But that was a long time ago. Now I am too old to even stand up against a calf.”
“Senor Vicaro, are you acquainted with a man named Zingo?”
He answered sharply. “No!”
“You are certain?”
“Zingo is well known to me, but I have not had the pleasure of meeting him personally, no.”
“Are you sure it would be a pleasure?”
“This I can not say. He is a powerful man, this Zingo. He owns two very big nightclubs here in Tijuana. He—” Vicaro stopped.
“He what?”
“Well, he seems to have some sort of influence with the ganaderos who furnish the bulls for our corridas”
“What sort of influence?”
“I do not know exactly.” Vicaro paused again and swallowed some water, his face glazed slightly as if he were somewhat frightened by the turn of the conversation. “It—it could be that Zingo has organized them.”
“What do you mean, ‘could be,’ Senor Vicaro? Don’t you know? Aren’t you the impresario at the plaza? Don’t you have some idea of the kind of bulls you get for your toreros?”
“SI, but it is not easy to tell if something is wrong with a bull until after he is in the arena. Sometimes they have been caped before and are what we call, ‘not clean.’ A berrendo can kill a torero if he is too smart.”
“Did Pete Freckle have one of those Sunday?”
Vicaro hesitated, then, ‘Talk to Manuel Garcia. He is the corral boss. He chose the bulls Sunday. If Senor Freckle got a berrendo it was Manuel’s fault.”
“Where can I find this Manuel Garcia?” I asked. . “He hangs out at Los Toros downtown. This is where most of the toreros and vaqueros who work at the arena get together and talk. I was planning to go there myself later this afternoon. Do you and Senor Sims wish to accompany me?”
‘We have a busy day ahead of us,” I said. “Perhaps we’ll see you there later.”
We thanked him for lunch and excused ourselves.
In the car, halfway to town, Fred laughed. “I’ll bet you my bottom dollar that guy is Zingo.”
“You’d better retract that bet, Fred.”
“Why?”
“’Cause if he’s Zingo we probably haven’t got long to live.”
“What do you mean, Honey?”
“Did you enjoy your lunch, Fred?”
“Sure, but—” He gagged, hands grasping his throat. “Honey, you don’t think—?”
“You’re the gambler, Fred. Was the sauce garlic or arsenic?”
TWELVE
At Los Toros, we asked for Manuel Garcia. The bartender said he’d just left and that we might find him at his house, which was two blocks South of Calle Rafaelito. Sun burned our faces as we walked. The streets were dirty and strips of torn newspapers fluttered in the wind. We stopped at the address the bartender had given us. A squat little Mexican with a red face and high-pitched voice answered the door. He was well dressed, and a streak of white on the left side of his head relieved the shiny blackness of his hair. He introduced himself as Manuel Garcia and asked what we wanted.
“Senor Vicaro told us you might be able to answer some questions for us,” I said. “We’re tourists in town—”
At the mention of Vicaro, Manuel’s face lighted up and he threw open the door, inviting us in.
“Vicaro is my very good friend,” Manuel said, showing us to a table and sliding a chair under me. His house was tastefully decorated. “What did the impresario suggest you might ask me?”
“Why you give such bad bulls!”
Rolls of fat sagged on Manuel’s cheeks. He winced. “Please, I am sick today. Would you return another time?”
“Did you give Pete Freckle a berrendo?” I continued, not moving from my chair.
His voice became even more high-pitched. “Now you leave me alone, do you hear? I only work at the arena. I know nothing—”
‘Did Pete refuse to pay Zingo, is that it?”
“Senorita, please—”
“No, you please us,” I ordered, removing my revolver. I aimed it at his trembling head. “What happened to the matador?”
“He—he was taken away!”
“Where?”
“I—I do not know. Maybe to La Tita.” Sweat stood on Manuel’s forehead and his knees quaked from fright.
“You mean El Puno.”
“Si.”
“Was he dead?”
“No—not when he left the arena. He was bleeding badly. Too badly to live, I think.”
“Had he been wounded by a bullet as well as by the horns?”
“St,” he squeaked, tears streaming down his flabby cheeks.
“Who fired that shot?”
“Punta Punta. He is crazy. I—I do not Mil,” he babbled, brushing at his tears. He reached into his coat pocket as if searching for a handkerchief and withdrew a small .22 revolver with a black muzzle. Before I could squeeze the trigger, my gun flew out of my hand as a bullet bounced off the barrel.
His lips curled over crooked yellow teeth. “Now you stand up, quickly, both of you!” he snarled.
The fat Mexican moved forward and patted Fred’s pockets with his hand, keeping the gun pointed between us. Then he stepped back and laughed. “You fools! You ask too many questions. I will have to kill you.”
“Thought you didn’t kill people,” I said.
“Miss West—”
“Oh, you know my name. How quaint.”
He nodded apologetically. “I did not recognize you. From the airplane you were so small.”
I felt my fists clench. “So you were the one who shot link.”
“Who?”
/> “Link Rafferty. The owner of the boat.”
“Unfortunate,” Manuel said, wiping fingertips across his fleshy lips. ‘We only planned to get you, Miss West. But now the opportunity has returned, thankfully. A certain person was very angry that I missed before. I thought perhaps he would—”
“Cut your throat?” I interjected. “He should have. The same way you cut Don Mano’s tongue out.”
Manuel shook his head. “Oh, no, that was not me. That was Punta Punta again. He is very blood-thirsty. It was a horrible sight. I became sick afterwards.”
“You are sick,” I said. “So sick they couldn’t make you right if they got all the doctors in the world together.”
“Miss West, I do not like that kind of talk. It disturbs me.” He turned toward me, vengefully aiming the revolver at my heart.
“Good,” I said, trying to egg him on, keeping Fred in view out of the corner of my eye. “Then you won’t mind knowing you’re a creep on top of everything else. A full-blooded, one-hundred percent—how do you say it in Mexican—maricon.”
“I don’t like those kind of words,” Manuel babbled, moving toward me. “I will kill you for that. I will kill you.” Fred followed through nicely. His cane came down so hard on the fat of Manuel’s neck that the cracking sound could have been heard a block away. The squat little man collapsed to the floor. But he wasn’t out. Not by any means. He squeezed a shot past my arm as I reached for my gun. I decided to leave the revolver and turned toward the front door. By this time Fred was vanishing out a side entrance, leaving me very much alone with Manuel. I snatched up a lamp and tossed it at the Mexican, the pottery base shattering against his shoulder. Another shot split the air, puncturing the wall behind me. I threw a small table at him. Then a wooden chair. He drilled another bullet over my head, rolling to free himself of the furniture, groaning. There was a bronze statue of a naked man near the door. I picked it up and threw that, too. This time he didn’t retaliate. The statue cracked sickeningly against the side of his head. He screamed, spurting blood, and crumpled over, arms askew.
I picked up my gun and hurried to the door. Sounds were beginning to break in the neighborhood. I heard high-pitched voices, loud cries. I raced down the front steps and didn’t stop until I reached my car two blocks away. Fred wasn’t waiting. A policeman strode by and glanced at my convertible, then moved on. I backed out and drove up Calle Rafaelito, but Fred was nowhere in sight. When a woman dashed out of Manuel’s house and stopped dead center in the street, screaming, I decided I couldn’t wait for Fred. His hotel was nearby. He’d make it okay.
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