Rafael was a woman!
SIXTEEN
I caught an arm and pulled her to the edge of the pool. She floundered, sending up a spray of water, exposing more of her chest. There was no mistaking the soft fullness.
She grasped the tile rim and pulled herself up, breathing deeply, choking from the water, whimpering. She threw herself down on her elbows, hands brushing at her thick black hair.
“So now you know,” she whispered, closing the front of her shirt and tucking it into her trousers. “You are the only one in all of Mexico.”
“It’s amazing,” I said. “I never guessed until tonight. How have you been able to keep it a secret all these years?”
‘It hasn’t been easy. Every time I fought I knew if a bull gored me seriously they would find out. But I have been lucky.”
She rolled over and stared up at me, her deep blue eyes shaded by a slender hand. “I lied to you,” she continued. “I’m an American. I came down here six years ago after graduating from college. I tried to get into bullfighting, but at that time there were too many Bette Fords and Pat McCormicks; the field was overcrowded with American girls trying to become toreros. So I cut my hair and changed my identity from Patty Robinson, female, to Rafael, male torero from Spain. I began to get matches right away. No one ever suspected. Until you came along.”
I tossed her a towel and grimaced. “It was the way you acted about Pete Freckle that made me suspicious. Another woman recognizes female ardor when she sees it. Did Pete know you were in love with him?”
Her face grew sad again, drawn about the mouth like a little girl’s mouth after it has bitten into something sour. “No. He thought of me as just a fighting companion. We used to drink together. Even wrestle. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“La Fiesta Brava is a solemn dedicated ritual to these people. Like Hollywood film stars and baseball players, matadors are made into heroes. The people build shrines to them. They don’t like being deceived. To wake up some morning and find your handsome, virile movie star is a spindly-legged dame from the Wabash would cause an explosion. The same applies here. I’m a God to fifty million Mexicans. You can’t destroy something like that overnight.”
“Patty Robinson,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s unbelievable. Even the color of your face and hair—”
“I kept myself out in the sun constantly. My hair is naturally black. That helped immensely.”
“Has it been worth it all? I mean, being without male affection or companionship?”
She wiped beads of water from her face and smiled. “Bullfighting has always been my first love. Nothing can compare with it, Honey. I was very fond of Pete, but truthfully he came second. I would die without bullfighting.”
“You may die with it,” I said, gesturing toward the back patio. “If Zingo finds out you hired me to stay in Mexico he may have you pegged for next Sunday.”
She sat up on the rim of the pool and exhaled audibly. “Possibly. Honey, what are we going to do with—” She winced, glancing toward the patio.
“Cover him over,” I said, finding it difficult to say the words. Pete Freckle was dead. The smiling, devil-may-care face swept through my brain like a face in a crazy, sideshow mirror all warped out of proportion. All bloody and decayed. “We can’t call the police. Not yet anyway. Do you have a shovel?” >
“Yes, in the garage.”
I found a long-handled spade and, with teeth clamped together, I tossed dirt onto Pete’s body. When he was completely covered I returned to the house. The slender, dark-haired woman was changing out of her wet clothes. The curve of her white buttocks gleamed rawly in the faint light cast from the master bathroom as she squirmed into a pair of panties.
She blushed and said, “Have you given up the idea that I’m Zingo?”
‘Temporarily.” I crossed to a mirror and combed the dampness from my hair, then touched up my lips. “Would you loan me your car tonight?”
“I will if you promise to keep my secret. Please! It means everything to me.”
I nodded. “I promise.”
She followed me to the side door which led to the garage, her hips swinging in that boyish manner. I was anxious to get hack to the trailer and talk to Jay and Bass about their encounter with Punta Punta. I hoped everything was all right.
“Be careful,” she said, as I crossed the bridge.
“I’ll try,” I returned. “You may hear from me later tonight.”
I backed her little Mercedes-Benz out onto the road and started toward Rosarito Beach. The memory of a lifelong friend flitted across my mind again. I thought of the days when we were kids playing in wide fields near our homes. Pete Freckle. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I wanted Zingo. But I wanted Punta Punta most of all.
It was nearly midnight when I arrived at the trailer. A car was parked a few feet away, its headlights gleaming. I pulled up behind it and climbed out. Wind off the ocean rustled my hair and spray dampened my face.
Noticing there were no lights in the trailer, I deduced Jay and Bass had just arrived. That was my mistake.
I walked around the rear of the other car and was about to call Jay when a machine gun poked from the rear window into my chest. Then a squat, sweating red face poked out beside it.
“Hello, Manuel,” I said, lifting my arms. He had a bandage on his forehead.
“Senorita,” he said, slowly through his teeth. “It would do me so much pleasure to blow your head off that my finger is itching to death.”
“Scratch it,” I said, “with a piece of poison ivy.”
Skull-faced Punta Punta crawled from the front seat, grinning, shaking his thin body. “Senorita West, you are so beautiful it makes me want to cry to think we are going to have to kill you.”
“I’ll bet you’ve been filling buckets thinking about it,” I said. “Where’s Luis?”
“Right here, Honey.” The tall, handsome Mexican came around the car from the driver’s side. His shirt was open down the front and he clenched his fingers together. “Get her gun!”
Punta Punta bent down and lifted my skirt. That was his mistake. I kicked him in the Adam’s apple and he (ell over in the sand, choking. The machine gun rammed against my neck.
“Try that sort of thing one more time, senorita” Manuel grunted, “and I will send your pretty head to the moon.”
Luis laughed. “You do not think much of your life, do you, Honey?” He pulled my skirt up with his left hand, revealing the garter holster and gun. With his other hand he patted my leg and extracted the revolver.
Punta Punta climbed to his feet, wobbling, still gagging and swore in Spanish. Then he suddenly back-handed me, a savage swipe that nearly knocked me off my feet. I fell back against the car.
“I should cut your heart out,” he cried. “Get in the car!”
Manuel opened his door and dragged me inside. A fourth man, a greasy, huge Mexican with big hands, pinioned my arms as Manuel bent toward me.
“Leave her alone!” Luis spat, as he moved behind the wheel.
“She is such a beautiful big woman,” Manuel said, “I was just going to touch her in a couple of places. Give her a thrill.”
“I’ll give you a thrill,” I said, through pressure exerted on my ribs. “Give me a knife.” I squirmed.
“She is like a wildcat,” the man behind me growled.
“Hold her, Juanito,” Punta Punta said. “We will be to Vicaro’s ranch shortly. Then you can let her go.”
There was a quick exchange of Mexican words and they all laughed in their throats. Silence followed, except for the hum of the tires on the asphalt road.
Suddenly I bit Juanito’s arm, forcing him to release his hold. I lunged for Manuel, but the fat little maricon was ready for me. He brought the machine gun up into my face.
Blood dripped down from a cut on my forehead.
“That is for the hole you made in my head,” Manuel said, grinning. “You spoiled my nice r
ug in the living room. I did not like this. You made it all red in one spot.”
“I should have made it red all over,” I said.
“Watch her,” Luis warned. “She is very tricky. One false move and she could have us lined up alongside the road with holes in our stomachs.”
“You were a fool, Luis,” Punta Punta growled, “to let her switch drinks on you.”
“How big a fool were you,” Luis lashed back, “to let her turn your cafe into a shooting gallery. You even missed and shot the wrong woman.”
“You are both fools,” Manuel said, covering me with the machine gun. “While you argue she plans something in her clever female mind.” His voice lifted into its feminine shrill. “Pay attention to the road and not to your petty quarrelling.”
Vicaro’s ranch came into view, etched rawly in the night. They drove up a side road, keeping well away from the house, and stopped alongside the training arena.
“Get out!” Manuel ordered, sticking the snout of the machine gun against my chest.
I backed out into the dirt against the building. Punta Punta jammed a cigarillo into his thin mouth and lit it, then he laughed. The medallion glittered on his hairless chest.
“So you want to know who Zingo is, eh?” he demanded, scratching his honey cheeks. “You are in for a big surprise, senorita. The surprise of your life. Come!”
He took my arm, as Manuel covered me from behind, and dragged me toward one of the outer gates which led into the arena.
Luis, walking a little ahead, turned to Juanito. “Did you douse him with turpentine?”
“Si” Juanito replied. “He is so mad he could kill himself if he knew how.”
Punta Punta flung open a gate, taking us into a narrow covered tunnel which apparently circled the training arena. Beyond was a wooden wall about twelve feet high with another gate bisecting it. Punta Punta jerked me around against this, placed his fist under my chin and glared at me threateningly.
“You know too much, senorita. Far too much.”
“You mean like a million dollars worth of dope being transported illegally into the United States?”
Punta Punta’s thick-lidded eyes snapped around at Luis. “She did find the records, you fool!”
“It does not make any difference now,” Luis said. Punta Punta blew smoke in my face and laughed again. “It is too bad you found out, senorita, because it is a shame to kill a woman as pretty as you, but this time it must be done.” He turned to Juanito. “Pull the hinge.”
The next move came so quickly I wasn’t prepared for the shove which spilled me backward into the arena. Then they slammed the gate closed.
I landed in gritty warm sand, staring up into a sky that was black as pitch and moonless. Icy blue stars winked. Something stirred across the arena. I leaped to my feet and spun around. In the pale dark I saw a huge figure hurtling across the sand at me, head lowered, horns glistening. I lunged quickly to my right, felt the hone hardness of a killing point brush past my arm, felt the short thick neck swollen with rage toppling me forward, felt the rush of sand in my mouth and eyes as I rolled away from him. He snorted furiously, wheeling around, turning on his hoofs. I stumbled to my feet, kicked off my high heels and ran toward the other side of the arena, hoping to find a burladero shield. There didn’t seem to be any. Or at least I couldn’t find one in the dark. The bull charged again like a freight train, pounding across the arena, hoofs flying. My heart leaped into my throat. At the last second he seemed to lose me in the dark, angling off to the side, banging against a wall and shaking the whole building.
A cry lifted. “He must have got her!”
I blundered into a stubby pole lying on the ground. After a quick appraisal I realized it was wide enough on top for me to stand on if I could climb it. I leaned it against the wall, lifted my skirt and began to shinney. The bull had gone sort of berserk now, running crazily around the walled circle, brushing against the boards, dragging himself on his forelegs, snorting fiercely.
At the top of the pole I found I could reach far enough to climb over the arena wall. Grasping with both hands I pulled myself up and then over, dropping about seven feet in grimy, soft dirt on the other side.
That was when they discovered I’d escaped the bull and entered the corrals, which were blocked off from any access from the front side of the building. The only way they could reach me now was to cross the arena. They decided to send Juanito. I watched his progress through a tiny hole in the wall. He narrowly escaped the bull twice, both times using a cape to ward off the angry beast. When he reached the far gate he broke the lock with the same pole I’d used earlier. Then he came in after me, his face a cruel mask of hate and lust. He caught me in the closed passageway and tore my dress down to my waist. “Senorita, I’m going to kill you, but first—”
The words rang in my ears. I glanced up. Luis’s angry face hovered over me, pinning me against the wall inside the training arena tunnel. His fingers were taut around my throat. I suddenly recalled seeing myself escape from Juanito, seeing him burst blindly through the arena gate into the bull’s furious charge, which killed them both. I had tried to escape from Luis, Manuel and Punta Punta, but the squat, little maricon’s cry had brought Luis hot on my trail. He’d caught me in the tunnel and jammed me against the wall.
“You are such a beautiful woman, Honey,” he said, half-laughing. “It is a shame to kill you, but it is your neck or mine.”
I looked back in the dim light at the approaching figures of Manuel, a satisfied smile on his sweating face, and Punta Punta, grinning and shaking his head happily at what he saw.
Then I lifted my knee as hard as possible and Luis let out a cry, dropping his hands. I ran to the end of the tunnel, pulling up the top of my dress, toes digging into the dirt. I was frantic, knowing Manuel still carried the machine gun. Even as black as the night was I sensed he’d have a clear target when I got out into the open. My only hope was the car, where I remembered seeing Luis drop my revolver in the front seat.
Outside the arena, crickets chirped and bulls in a distant corral snorted. I ran toward the car, legs pounding under me. Luis emerged from the tunnel, pointing, shouting.
“The car,” he roared. “She’s going for the car.”
“Stop her!” Punta Punta yelled.
I heard a burst of machine gun fire and felt the ground spitting up around me, saw my path marked by tracer bullets, but I kept running.
When I reached the car I threw open the front door and dived inside, slamming the handle after me.
“She’s got a gun in there,” Luis warned. “Get her!”
I fumbled in the seat, feeling the butt of my .22 revolver come into my fingers, swinging it into position. I cocked it over the window sill and took aim at the blurred, running shapes. I squeezed the trigger. One of them fell in the dirt, howling. The other two men stopped and leaped to the ground.
“My hand,” Luis cried. “She hit me in the hand.”
Manuel came to his knees, machine gun cocked in his thick hands. A burst shattered the side of the car, bullets puncturing the door, thudding against the metal, the tracers skidding off like metallic sparks in the sky. I pressed my trigger and Manuel fell on his face, apparently unhurt.
“We will never reach her from here,” he cried. “We are too much out in the open.”
Luis bellowed, “I need a doctor!”
“Help him,” Punta Punta ordered. “We’ll go back to the arena.”
It was difficult to see them in the dark. I saw something moving toward the building, and took a shot at it, but missed. In a short time there was nothing except the rush of wind blowing through the radiator grill.
Luis had taken the car keys with him. I strained for new sounds, but nothing came. Then I thought I heard somebody running behind the car. I whirled frantically trying to look outside, but my vision was blocked by darkness. I knew if Manuel sneaked up on me with that machine gun I’d be sunk. He could poke it through the window and blast me to hell and
gone. I cursed the night, and then suddenly realized I was a fool not to take advantage of it myself. If I could get out one of the doors, without being spotted, I could crawl along the ground until I reached the highway.
I wondered what had happened to Jay and Bass. If Punta Punta had been suspicious he might have done something to them. It was strange that they weren’t at the trailer when I arrived.
Slowly I inched open the door on the passenger side and wriggled out into the dirt. I kept myself flat on the ground and started for a distant patch of high brush. Every move seemed to create a torrent of noise. I stopped and caught my breath.
I couldn’t have been more than thirty feet from the car when I heard a sudden cry behind me.
“Get her, Manuel!”
Then another, “Not so loud, you fool!”
I whirled, but couldn’t see anything.
“Look out!” one of them yelled. The machine gun chattered.
Then I saw them as clear as day in a luminous burst of fire. The gas tank on the car exploded, sending up a sheet of flame almost twice as high as the automobile. And in the wild glare I saw all three of them standing behind the car, arms lifted, mouths open, bathed in fire.
I saw Manuel, clutching th£ machine gun, begin to run, his thick body jogging weirdly. He took three or four clumsy steps and then fell in a pyre of reddish-orange. Punta Punta didn’t move. His face just seemed to melt into its skeletal frame and he slumped to his knees and then crashed onto his back. Luis was etched in the fiery curtain. He appeared to see me in the reflected glare and his arms went out, seeking, searching, pleading. Then he fell face down onto the burning earth.
SEVENTEEN
Three charred mounds lay twisted in the darkness.
As flames licked over the car, shooting up orange geysers, I crept nearer, shielding my eyes from the heat. Manuel had fallen on his side and the fire, ignited by the tracer bullets, had scorched the ground around him until it was as black as coal dust. He still clutched the machine gun, its barrel now a reddish hot stem. Except for the gold medallion on Punta Punta’s neck there wasn’t enough left to identify him. Luis was in even worse shape, if that was possible. He’d landed under the tank and the gas had burned him to a crisp.
Dig A Dead Doll Page 13