“Did you find anything?”
“No. Where are you, at El Puno?”
“Yes. Listen, get out of there fast. This manager is nobody to fool with. I’ll meet you back at the trailer.”
“Okay, Honey. Have you found anything?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
I hung up and surveyed the bar and breakfast nook. The portrait of the bullfighter caught my eye again. He smiled down at me, the eyes gleaming wildly.
When I left Luis’s suite, the gunsel was waiting outside. His thick eyebrows lifted as I tiptoed from the room, closing the door, but when I placed my finger to my lips he seemed satisfied that everything was all right. I winked and moved down the stairway. At the bottom I bumped into one of the bronzed Mexicans who had wrestled with me on the stage. He recognized me without the mask.
“Senorita” he said, “you are a very good kicker. Did you ever play in the Rose Bowl?”
“No,” I laughed. “Tell me, if you were going to hide something around this place—something big—where would be the best spot?”
“You mean like a body?” He thought he was being cute. He didn’t know how cute.
“Yeah.”
“Well,” he pursed his lips, grinning, “I suppose downstairs would be the best. Under the elevated stage.”
“You mean in the freezer?”
He shoved an elbow in my ribs. “SI. There is no place better to hide a body, no?” His eyes slid down to my hips. “Speaking of bodies, it is a shame to hide yours.”
“Thanks,” I said, patting his swarthy cheek. “You’re not so bad after all.”
“But you are very bad,” he said, a sly smile edging around his mouth. ‘You almost made me into a woman.”
A winding stairway led down from a corridor at the rear of the building. Faint lights reached for the plaster ceiling, casting shadows as I moved. The steps carried me to a steel door, and a blatant warning in Spanish not to go beyond was painted glaringly on its face. An icy blast shook me as I stepped through, checking the lock on the other side to see if it would open again. Only a bare green bulb glistened in the ceiling of the room beyond. It was a huge room crammed with machinery, cables and pumps, frosted over and pulsating rhythmically. At the base of another flight of stairs reclined the ice-laden part of the stage which was suspended by two steel claws that lifted and lowered it when needed. It was freezing cold down in the bowels of El Puno. My breath came in icy gasps. My hands nearly froze on the stairway railing.
Cautiously I moved around the machinery which kept the temperature below freezing in the compartment. Particles of frost hung from the ceiling and walls. I climbed over chunks of ice, heels crunching deep into the crystals, being thrown off-balance. This seemed like a futile search. In the faint light it was almost impossible to distinguish anything, much less a body. I started hack toward the stairs when my right ankle turned, throwing me down. I fell into a narrow trench in the ice, between two blue-white mounds of frozen moisture. I lay there for a moment trying to catch my breath, wincing from pain. Then I tried to get up.
My fingers dug into one of the mounds. A piece broke off. Under it was an arm.
FIFTEEN
Lying face down in the ice was a man’s body barely discernible in the green bulb’s glare.
A hairless part of a forearm lay exposed in the blue-white block where I’d broken a piece off.
I staggered to my feet, looking around for some sort of instrument to chop through the ice. Suddenly a voice lifted behind me, over the pump-pump-pump of the machinery, it reverberated in the chamber. I whirled. Standing on the stairway in front of the steel door was Rafael, his pale blue eyes blazing, legs apart.
‘Don’t be a fool!” he spat.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, shoulders tensing.
“I was watching the show until the masked prima ballerina threw a fit and refused to continue on, then I came behind the stage. I caught a glimpse of you coming here, so I followed.”
His boots crunched in the ice as he moved around the machinery toward me. I didn’t like the look on his slender, beardless face. It was full of anger. Fierce anger.
“I think I’ve found Pete Freckle,” I said, fixing my gaze on the faint outline deep in the frozen mound.
Rafael bent over the body and extracted a knife from a trouser pocket. Then he plunged the blade into the exposed forearm. A scream froze on my lips. Instead of flesh and bone being split open by the knife a jagged tear appeared revealing a hole underneath. Rafael quickly sliced a piece off and handed it to me. It was flesh-colored cardboard.
“But—” I stammered.
The matador closed his jackknife and pocketed it again, then he glanced at the steel door. “It is a dummy used last week in the fiesta show. It must have fallen from the movable stage. You were a fool to come down here.”
“Why?”
“They could kill you easily with no fear of being heard.” Vapor spewed from his mouth and nostrils.
I shook my head, digging §t the cardboard figure. “I thought sure—”
“Honey, you have a lot to learn. In Mexico we bury things deep so that they can never be found.” He caught my hand and pulled me up the stairs. “Be very quiet. We will go out a side door. Keep walking and don’t look around.”
We crossed backstage around curtains and scenery. The door was unguarded. Apparently Luis still slept. Outside we dashed to Rafael’s car, a bright red Mercedes-Benz. Above the distant profile of the mountains, stars glittered like polished brass buttons on a dark suit.
As we drove, some of the anger melted in the matador’s face. He lit a cigarette and said, “I never thought we would leave El Puno alive.”
“Why not?”
“I saw you go upstairs—with a gun in your spine. They weren’t playing games, were they?”
I hunched down in the seat, feeling the wind in my hair. “Luis Chucho played a game with me. Only he lost.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Not so much luck as skill,” I said. “Ever play the shell game?”
“No.”
“Well, you have three little shells and under one of them you place a pea. Then you switch them around until your opponent is too confused to know where the pea is. The real trick is to remove the pea altogether while you’re moving the shells about.”
‘Too clever for me.”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t say so. Isn’t that about what a bullfighter does? Puts himself under a red silk shell to keep his homed opponent from knowing exactly where he is?”
“I guess you’re right, Honey.”
A miniature waterfall tumbled wildly in front of Rafael’s house, running down steep banks and emptying into a narrow river where a bridge crossed from the garage.
We parked in the driveway and entered through a side door where a blue slate corridor led into the living room. The matador poured us each a drink, then beckoned me to join him outside by the pool. He stubbed out his cigarette with the heel of his boot and slumped cross-legged on the stone. A sadness came into his eyes as he glared up at me.
“I don’t think we’ll ever find Pete,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because, as I said, in Mexico they dig deep. Very deep.”
Staring down at this slim-shouldered torero I got the feeling again that there was something not quite right about him. Whether it was his looks, his dress or what, I couldn’t decide.
“Rafael, you came to El Puno looking for me, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer for a second, then said, “SI.”
“How’d you find where I was?”
He dropped a hand in the pool and dabbed some water on his forehead. “I learned this morning about Maria Spota. I also learned about your newspaper writer friend, Senor Sims. Another torero told me he had been arrested, so I called the police station and talked with him. When I told him who I was he did not hesitate about giving me information.”
Crickets scratched their
unceasing rhythm in the formless depths of Rafael’s yard. A foul odor was in the air. I moved to a deck chair and eased into it.
“Rafael, do you think Vicaro could be—?”
“Zingo?” the matador finished. “This is what I have always wondered, Honey.” He drummed his hands on the stone. “Vicaro is a formidable man. He has much more power than he shows on the surface.”
“But he seems honest,” I said.
“So does a rattlesnake until he strikes. Vicaro is not to be trusted. He and his maricon friends are of a special breed. They make me sick. Have you met Manuel Garcia?”
“Briefly. He took several shots at me with a .22 revolver and I creased his fat skull with a piece of statuary. We didn’t shake hands if that’s what you mean.”
“Honey, you are an amazing woman.”
“Hardly.” I shook my head. “If it hadn’t been for me Maria Spota might still be alive.”
“No, do not blame yourself. I talked with Rachel and Juanita this afternoon. They were frightened, but I could tell by the way they talked that Punta Punta killed Maria.
I told this to the police Capitan before speaking with Senor Sims.”
I rocked back in the chair. “The night you took me to La Tita, Maria gave me a note supposedly signed by Pete Freckle. It asked me to meet him at the Isthmus on Catalina. This turned out to be a trick. Enroute to the islands we were attacked from the air and nearly sunk.”
Rafael ran slender fingers through his curly black hair. “Zingo must be very afraid of you. I wonder why?”
“He knows I’m trying to unmask him—and his operation.”
The matador sipped at his drink, then said, “I guess you realize by now that there is some truth in what you said about a bullfight syndicate.”
I nodded. “Why did you try and keep that a secret?”
“Because I am ashamed of what is being done. And I am powerless to stop it. I do believe, though, that Vicaro is the leader of the syndicate. Through his position as impresario he is able to elicit money from the toreros and ganaderos for the privilege of appearing in the ring or supplying the bulls. He should be made to face one of his own berrendos sometime and have his stomach torn to shreds.” He slapped his hands together. “It is a very warm night. Would you like to go for a swim, Honey?”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“That does not matter. You will feel much cooler with nothing on.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
A look of surprise came into Rafael’s eyes, then he said, “Of course, you are not like the other girls.” He disappeared inside the house. “I think I have a suit which will fit you.”
While he was gone I tried to locate where the penetrating odor was coming from, but I could see little in the moonless night.
He returned with a knitted purple suit that was slashed almost to the navel.
“You can dress in there,” he said, indicating the master bedroom.
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay, I could use a cool swim, but it will have to be fast. I’m meeting some people out at Rosarito Beach.”
Once alone in the bedroom, I closed the door and began a systematic search of the bureau drawers. Gaily colored trousers and sashes, hats, boots, silk shirts and jackets were among the items uncovered. Then I hit a drawer full of lace things: panties, nighties, negligees.
I peeled off my own clothes and shucked into the bathing suit, making no attempt to cover the deep cleft between my breasts, which was an impossibility with this suit anyway. He glanced at me when I came out.
“How about you?” I asked.
“I prefer the indoor pool myself,” he said, quietly. “It is not too deep and I am a poor swimmer.”
I plunged in, feeling the coolness of the water bubble over me. When I surfaced he was leaning over the side, nonchalantly puffing on a cigarette, fist under his chin. I swam over and flicked water at him. He reared back and laughed.
“Hey, take it easy!”
I lifted myself on the rim, feeling the suit slide back from my breasts. He didn’t bother to look.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said, enticingly. “Let’s both go in together in the indoor pool. In the raw.”
His eyes widened. “I thought you said—”
“Can’t a girl change her mind?” I patted his cheek and drops splattered on his trousers and sash. He got up.
“Not tonight, Honey,” he said, his voice low.
I climbed out and grabbed his sash. “Don’t be a party pooper. They do it in Japan all the time.”
He tried to stop me, but I was too quick and his sash came loose. He lunged, whirled and side-stepped as if he were in the bull ring. I got my hands on the top of his trousers and he uttered a cry, turned and ran. I was quick on his heels. He dodged a poplar tree in the dark, raced around a fountain and got a little distance between us. Being unfamiliar with the layout, I grazed the tree and took a different route trying to head him off. That’s when the ground gave way under me. I fell headlong, rolled on a mound of dirt and landed on my back in the hole I’d stumbled into. A horrible stench caught my nostrils. I choked and tried to lift myself up, but my fingers sank into something soft and gummy and I fell back. Then I really got a whiff of what was in the hole and I nearly regurgitated. It smelled like the slaughter house, only this odor was more rancid, more putrid, like rotted flesh. I rolled over and felt underneath me. That was when my flesh began to crawl I I was lying on a partially decayed dead body.
I screamed.
Rafael bent over me. “What’s the matter, Honey?”
“My God,” I said. “There—there’s—Help me up, quick.”
His hands helped raise me from the hole and I fell beside it, quivering in every muscle of my body.
“Get a flashlight!” I ordered.
He ran toward the house, boots crashing against stone. I felt things crawling on me now, and I brushed at my body, jerking down the bathing suit and climbing out of it. I circled the dark hole and plunged into the pool, trying to rid myself of that creepy, crawly feeling that came with my fall. By the time I’d surfaced Rafael came jogging back, a cone of light gleaming in his hand. He bent over the hole and stabbed the beam into the opening, then he let out a sharp gasp.
I climbed from the pool, forgetting I was unclothed, forgetting everything except what was in that hole. The thought of looking inside turned my stomach, but it had to be done. It was ghastly. In the pale shaft of light a partially eroded head peered up through sightless eyes, teeth grinning in a twisted, shapeless mouth. The body was that of a man. He was stripped naked and his lower abdomen appeared as a sea of torn flesh.
Rafael dropped the flashlight and emitted a low, animal-like moan. Bugs scuttled in and around the hole, crawling on my bare legs again. I stood up and covered my eyes. The search for Pete Freckle was over.
“Oh, my God!” the matador whispered.
“How long since you’ve been out here?” I said, not looking at anything except the empty dark palm of my hand.
“Several days, but—”
“He’s probably been here since Sunday. The rain Sunday night washed most of the top soil away.”
“Oh, my God I What are we going to do?”
“What can we do?” I felt drained, weighted in my ankles, dizzy. I walked unsteadily to the house and slipped on my clothes. Rafael joined me after a few minutes, his face a white mask, hands trembling.
“He—his eyes,” he stammered.
“The grave’s not very deep,” I said. “Whoever buried him expected he’d be found.”
“But, why here?”
I brushed some strands of wet hair from my eyes and poured myself a drink. “How close were you to Pete Freckle?” I asked.
The blue eyes, now limpid and almost moist, stared at me. “We—we were friends.”
‘What kind of friends?”
“He—” Rafael stopped, chewed on the back of a hand. “Honey, you don’t understand.”
“I unde
rstand this much,” I said, angrily. “Pete Freckle —or what’s left of him—is lying in a shallow grave in your back patio. Did you forget it might rain?”
“You don’t think that I—”
“Rafael, you’re a very wealthy person. Wealthy enough to own a house with two swimming pools, and perhaps even a couple of nightclubs.”
“You mean La Tita and El—”
‘Yes.”
Fists balled on his hips. “That is ridiculous.”
‘You’re the only one in this area, besides Vicaro, who is big enough to run an operation like Zingo’s.”
“I wouldn’t do such a thing!”
‘You took me to La Tita that night. If I hadn’t gone I’d have never received that message to go to Catalina.”
His face reddened. “But I didn’t know Maria had a message for you.”
‘You knew all about the nightclub. About Punta Punta and the fact that Zingo owns the place.”
“This is common knowledge, Honey.”
“Is it? And is the fact that Mexico’s number one bullfighter is the only torero not bothered by Zingo’s influence, also common knowledge?”
“I don’t know,” Rafael hurled, huskily. “But you can’t accuse me of being Zingo!”
‘You’re hiding something, matador,” I said, advancing toward him.
“No!”
‘You pretend to love women, but when they are dancing in front of you stripped to the teeth, you look away.”
“I told you, Honey—”
‘You said you were not a maricon, and I believed you, but you were in love with Pete Freckle!”
“I—I—” He took a step backward, trying to avoid my piercing gaze.
“What are you trying to hide, matador?”
He took another uncertain step. The indoor pool lay behind him and be toppled back into it, sinking almost immediately.
When he came to the surface his face was livid white and his mouth formed frantic syllables of fear.
“Help!” he cried. “Help, Honey!”
He sank again, splashing wildly. When he came up I didn’t have to ask any more questions. The top of his shirt had opened in the water and pulled away from his shoulders. Exposed now were two rounded, pink-tipped protuberances.
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