“Come on,” she said. “I had a rough afternoon. I need this!”
He grabbed her, pawed her naked breasts, tweaked her nipples until tears came to her eyes. As good as her breasts were, it was still good to just turn her over so he wouldn’t have to see her face.
He threw her on the bed, flipped her over, and removed the rest of her dress, then slapped her hard on the buttocks until they glowed red.
“Stay there!” he said.
She remained where she was, but reached for a pillow so she could bury her face in it. She didn’t want anyone to hear her when she screamed.
He removed his trousers, and then his shirt. He had already been barefoot, and he never wore underwear. His cock was already swollen, but he reached down and stroked it so that it grew larger and harder. He stared at her ass while he did this. When he was sufficiently hard, he went to her, took her buttocks in both hands, and spread them. Then he leaned forward and spat on her anus. He’d learned this from a whore in Sonora. He worked his spit in with his big thumb, then pressed the spongy head of his cock there and pushed.
Lillian’s screams were indeed muffled by the pillow . . .
Clint removed his boot as soon as he got into his room. He also unwrapped the foot so he could rub it. The swelling had gone down, and he hoped it would stay down. He wanted to take a walk around Veracruz the next day, see what the town looked like, maybe even go down to the docks to see what boats were coming in, and from where.
He walked slowly over to the window to look out. It was dark, and the streets were not very well lit. He could see shadows moving about, but not many of them. People in this area were probably smart enough to stay inside.
He went back to the bed and reclined, keeping his gun close. The only benefit of having hurt his foot was that he’d met Lissa Sugarman. He hoped to see more of her in the next few days.
A lot more.
She had learned to keep some clothes in Rufus’s hotel room. He always tore her clothes off her. When she returned home, her husband never remembered what she had been wearing the last time he saw her.
She was sore after a couple of hours with the big ugly man. Her ass was sore from being slapped and fucked, her vagina ached, and so did her mouth and jaw. His penis was so large she sometimes thought her jaw would come unhinged, but somehow she always managed to accommodate it.
She knew she was an ugly woman, but he was an ugly man and they fit together. It excited him to brutalize a woman, and she reveled in being brutalized by him. It was something her husband would never understand.
Oliver had respect, and he had money. That was all she wanted from him. And Rufus gave her what she wanted from him, and she gave him what he wanted from a woman. And after the sex was over, they were done with each other. She had two perfect relationships with two men—one whom she dominated and one who dominated her.
In front of the hotel she got into her buggy. With any luck she’d get home before Oliver. If she didn’t . . . so what?
NINE
When Clint woke the next day, he tested his ankle immediately and found it much better. Not perfect, and he knew if he spent the day on his feet, he’d pay for it by day’s end, but it was better.
He got up, washed and dressed, strapped on his gun, and went downstairs to find some breakfast. The desk clerk that morning was someone he hadn’t seen before, so he approached.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“Sí, señor,” the man said, “I spik English berry good.”
Well, Clint thought, good enough.
“Where is a good place to get breakfast around here?” Clint asked.
“Señor,” the clerk asked, “jou are not looking for a eh-gringo breakfast, are jou?”
“No,” Clint said, “a Mexican breakfast is fine.”
“Ah,” the man said, grinning and showing gold teeth. “Den jou go to my seester’s cantina, up the street.” The man pointed. “Is called Josephina’s.” He pronounced it Hosephina’s.
“Josephina’s,” Clint repeated. “Thanks.”
“De nada, señor. Please tell her that her hermano, Julio, sent you.”
“I will.”
Clint left the hotel, turned right, and walked up the street until he reached the cantina. He looked inside, saw about half of the dozen or so tables filled. But it was the aroma that drew him in and set his stomach to growling.
“Sit anywhere, señor,” a black-haired woman called out.
Clint chose a table as far from the door and windows as he could get. The Mexican couple at the next table nodded pleasantly to him, and he returned it. He saw a small bar against one wall, but no bartender. He figured this place used to be a cantina, but had since become a restaurant.
“Excuse me?” he said once he was seated.
“Señor?” the man at the next table replied.
“Is the food good here?”
“Is best in Veracruz, señor,” the man said eagerly.
“And who is that woman?” he asked, indicating the black-haired woman who had spoken to him.
“She is the owner, and the cook, señor,” the man said.
“Gracias,” Clint said.
“De nada, señor. Enjoy your breakfast.”
He sat back and Josephina came over to his table. She wore a low-cut peasant blouse that showed off a lot of her smooth, dark skin, including full, bountiful breasts.
“Buenos días, señor,” she said to him. “How can I help you?”
“With breakfast,” he said.
“What would you like?”
“Whatever you recommend,” he said. “I’m hungry and would like a full Mexican breakfast.”
“Ah, señor,” she said with a beautiful smile, “that is my specialty.”
“I’m staying at the hotel down the street and your brother, Julio, told me to tell you he sent me.”
“You tell my brother I am happy he sent you, but he still has to pay for his food. I will be right back, señor.”
“I’ll be here.”
She returned with a pot of coffee and a heavy mug and poured it full for him. He tasted it and found out why the mug was so heavy and thick. Anything flimsier would have been eaten through by the coffee. It was black and strong and he loved it.
When she returned about ten minutes later, she had plates up her arms.
“Huevos rancheros,” she said, putting one down, “breakfast burritos, and here are my famous jalapeño corn cakes.”
“Thank you. It all looks great.”
The huevos rancheros included tortillas and salsa.
He had a mouthful of huevos rancheros when the couple at the next table stood up. The man turned to face him.
“Did I not tell you, señor?”
“You did,” Clint said. “It’s great.”
They nodded to him again and smiled, both revealing gaps where teeth used to be.
He continued to work on his breakfast and found every part of it delicious. The jalapeño corn cakes were a little hot for his taste, but still good, and he asked Josephina for another pot of her coffee.
“You have a cast-iron stomach,” she said in only slightly accented English. “No one ever asks for another pot of my coffee.”
“It’s perfect,” he said.
She brought him his second pot, and by the time he was finished, he was the only diner left in the place. Josephina came over to talk with him.
“When did you arrive in town?” she asked.
“Just yesterday,” he said.
“I knew I had not seen you in here before.”
“Maybe not before,” he said, “but you’ll be seeing me again, that’s for sure.”
“I am always happy to see a man who enjoys his food,” she said. “But why are you staying in that terrible hotel my brother works in?”
“I was just looking for a place to lay low for a while.”
“Ah, you are here because the gringo law is after you, eh?”
“No,” he said, “I just wa
nted to go someplace where I might not be recognized.”
She sat down opposite him, put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. The movement squeezed her breasts together so that they threatened to spill out of her blouse. He wasn’t complaining. In fact, he saw a small brown semicircle of nipple aureole peeking out.
“Are you a famous man north of the border, señor?” she asked.
“Well, I guess that depends on what you mean by famous.”
She waggled a finger at him.
“You are playing games,” she said. “You do not want to tell me your name.”
“My name is Clint.”
“Just Clint?”
“Adams,” he said, “Clint Adams.”
She sat back, took a deep breath that swelled her breasts, and stared at him.
“Dios mío,” she said. “El Armero?”
He’d heard the word translated in Spanish before, on previous visits to Mexico.
“Yes.”
“My brother did not tell me he had such a famous gringo staying in the hotel.”
“Well, I’m glad of that,” he said. “I’d like you to keep the information to yourself.”
“You do not want me to tell anyone?”
“No one,” he said. “I’m just trying to relax for a while. If word gets out that I’m here, I’ll have to leave and go somewhere else, and then you’ll lose a good customer.”
“Ah, then we will make a deal, eh?”
“What kind of deal?”
“I will not tell anyone that you are here,” she said, “and in return, you must eat all of your meals here.”
He smiled and put his hand out to shake.
“That’s a deal I can live with.”
TEN
Promising to return later in the day for his next meal, Clint left Josephina’s and stepped outside. He’d be returning for a lot more than the food, he hoped. She seemed interested in him, and he hoped it wasn’t just because he’d been the only one left in the place. She had an amazing body and he hoped to see a lot more of it.
He strolled back toward his hotel, moving slowly and favoring the ankle, which was feeling sore—though not as sore as the previous night.
When he reached the hotel, there were a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs out front, so he pulled one over and sat in it. He figured to relax and watch the town go by for a while. He usually found that if you sat in one place long enough, you could get a good feel for a town just by watching the people go by, as well as the traffic in the street.
By the same token, if you sat in one place long enough, people would sometimes get curious about you.
Three men came across the street wearing wide sombreros and bandoliers, carrying rifles. One of them had a pistol tucked into his belt. Clint had seen them going in and out of some of the businesses across the street for the better part of an hour.
And they had noticed him.
“Señor,” one of them said when they reached him.
“Yes?”
“What are jou doin’?”
“Just sitting.”
“Sittin’ and doin’ what?”
“Just watching.”
The man exchanged glances with his two compadres.
“Watchin’ what?”
“People,” Clint said. “Just people.”
“Jou been watchin’ us?” the man asked.
“Are you the only one of the three who speaks English?”
“Sí.”
“How did you know I spoke English?”
“Señor,” the man said, “jou are a gringo, no?”
“Yes.”
“And jou look like a gringo.”
Clint shrugged.
“And you look like a lawman.”
“And the three of you look like bandidos,” Clint said. “Are you bandidos?”
“Bandidos?” the man said. “No, no, señor, we are not bandidos.”
“Then why are you worried that I might be a lawman?”
“Because jou have been watchin’ us, and jou might get the wrong idea.”
“What idea is that?”
“About what we have been doin’.”
“I assumed you were doing some shopping.”
“Chopping.” He looked at his amigos and said, “La compra.”
The other two men laughed.
“Sí, señor,” the first man said, “that is what we are doing, chopping.”
“Well, that’s fine, then,” Clint said. “We have no problem.”
“No problemo,” the man said. “Sí.”
“Then you fellas might as well go back to your shopping.”
“And jou, señor?”
“Me? I’m just going to keep sitting here, watching the people go by.”
He turned to his friends and they had a short conversation in Spanish before he turned back to Clint.
“Señor, jou are new to Veracruz, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you should know,” he said, “the people here, dey are berry boring.”
“Really.”
“Dey are not worth watchin’ for berry long,” he went on. “I think jou have seen enough.”
“What are you saying?” Clint asked.
“I am sayin’ dat jou should go back inside.”
“I should?”
“Sí, señor.”
“Or what?”
“Señor,” the man said as if he was trying to be reasonable, “we are not here to threaten jou.”
“Sounds like a threat to me,” Clint said. “Why don’t you go back to minding your own business, and I’ll go back to minding mine?”
“You will continue to watch us do our eh-chopping?” the man asked.
“Well, I could,” Clint said, “except that I think what you said is true about the other people is more true about you.”
“What is that, señor?”
“You guys are boring.”
“Boring?”
“Yes,” Clint said. “With all the shopping you say you’ve been doing, you guys have no packages.”
The spokesman turned to his friends and translated what Clint said.
“Of course,” Clint said, “you could be having your items delivered.”
“Señor,” the man said, dropping all pretense of reason-ability or amiability, “we think jou should go inside.”
“And I think not,” Clint said. “So where do we go from here?”
Their hands tightened on their rifles. The spokesman was the one wearing the pistol in his belt, and he put his hand on it.
“You fellas are very close to making the wrong decision,” Clint said. “I just came to Veracruz and I have no desire to litter the streets with Mexican blood.”
“But, señor,” the man said, “we are three and jou are one.” He held up the index finger of his left hand, while keeping his right hand on his gun. “Uno.”
Clint knew he could draw and shoot off the man’s index finger in the blink of an eye. That would certainly send a message, and it was something he might have done many years ago, when he was younger, and brasher.
“Keep your finger there.”
“Eh?” The man frowned, lowering his hand a bit.
“No, no, keep your finger up,” Clint said.
“Señor?” the man said, as if confused, but he raised his finger back to where it had been.
“What’s your name?”
“I am Gomez, señor.”
“Well, Gomez, I’ll make you a deal,” Clint said. “I’ll draw and fire and shoot your finger clean off. I mean, so clean it’ll hardly hurt.”
“Eh?”
“And if I do that, you and your friends can turn and leave. They can take you to a doctor. I know a real good one.”
“Señor?”
“If I miss—and I mean, even if I hit it, but it’s still dangling—I’ll go inside. What do you say?”
Gomez looked at his left index finger.
“Jou are very calm, señor.�
��
“I know.”
“And jou could choot my finger off?”
“In a second.”
“But we could kill you.”
“I don’t think so,” Clint said, “but even if you do, Gomez, I’ll kill you first. Then your two friends can leave us in the street and continue their shopping.”
The other two men were staring at Gomez, wondering what was being said.
“Un momento, señor,” Gomez said, and turned to them to translate.
Clint watched while the three men spoke. He thought the other two were kind of curious as to whether or not he could really shoot Gomez’s finger off.
“Señor, jou are a berry lucky man,” Gomez said.
“How’s that?”
“We have decided to let you sit there as long as you want.”
“That’s very nice of you. I’d appreciate it if you’d take your hand off your pistol, then.”
Gomez hesitated, then removed his hand.
“Good.”
“Jou have a good day, señor,” Gomez said.
“I will, Gomez,” Clint said. “You, too.”
The three men backed away, then turned and quickly walked down the street, bickering in Spanish.
They did not do any more “chopping.”
ELEVEN
Dr. Oliver Graham checked on his patients. He had a small building he was hoping to make into a hospital. Right now he had all the people from the accident in beds and was keeping an eye on their progress. The two children who had been crossing the street had been seriously injured, but the quick work of Dr. Sugarman at the scene had managed to save one of the girl’s legs, and the lives of both children. Of course, this made his wife very angry. She felt that Graham should have treated all three people on the street with no help, but there hadn’t been time. If Dr. Sugarman had not stopped to help, the little girl would surely have lost her leg—and still might. She needed an operation, which Graham wanted to do, but his wife was telling him to ask for a lot of money for it. He felt bad for the parents, because they did not seem to have a lot of money. All he wanted to do was treat the little girl, but his wife was adamant about the money.
The Lady Doctor's Alibi Page 3