All the odds and ends were cleaned up. The General had handled most of it: Belchardo; the maid, Carmelina—who naturally had been the one who gave Villamantes the nicknames “Nana” and “Toro” to be used in the General's suicide note—the tag ends. There was nothing left. Me, I'd probably be on a jet headed for L.A. tomorrow.
I finished my drink, feeling mean, tried to push the black thoughts out of my mind. They kept coming back. It was night outside, rain falling softly through the darkness. I felt lousy.
“Cigarettes? Cigarros? Cigarettes?"
“Hell, no, I've got—” I raised my head suddenly, almost spilling my drink, and there they were, swaying gently back and forth in front of me. They looked like the same ones; I was sure they were the same ones. I didn't feel so lousy. Hell, I felt pretty good.
“Well, Sarita,” I said.
“Ah, Mr. Scott."
“Not Scott, Shell. Shell Scott. Call me Shell."
“You wish cigarettes?"
I leaned back in my seat, looking at her, and finally I remembered something, perhaps because now there wasn't any pressure on me and my mind could single out the little things. I remembered that when I'd been leaving jail that first night, I'd seen my Belmonts on the sergeant's desk, spotted a fingerprint or something on the cellophane around the pack. The thing was, that while I'd waited for this tomato to make change when I bought the Belmonts, I'd ogled her strenuously and pulled the cellophane off, crumpled it, and damn near torn a cigarette or two in half. So the pack with cellophane couldn't have been the one Sarita had sold me. Anyway, she had an honest face.
She was still waiting for an answer and I said, “Cigarettes? Yes. Sure. I'll try some new ones, several different kinds. Stoop over here so I can see them."
Her smile broadened. She stooped.
I said, “I'll have one of these and one of those and one of those—"
She interrupted, laughing softly. “Did you really wish cigarettes?"
“Not really. I, uh, I'm still suspicious of you. What I really want is to ask you some more questions."
“Like last time?"
“Sure."
“But last time I was in bed."
“What the hell do you think I want to ask you?"
She chuckled. Then she frowned. “The arm. What is it wrong with?"
“Why, the arm,” I said slyly, “is broken. Several places. I can hardly move it. The pain is agonizing. I am harmless—I mean, helpless."
She nodded. “I see. From a man with one arm I can fear nothing. No?"
“No—yes. When do you get off?"
She shrugged. “Oh, any time now. I go, I come."
“Well, let's go."
She looked at me. “Is serious?"
“Is serious as hell."
"Momentito."
She was gone for a minute, then came back without her cigarette tray, a black coat tossed over her shoulders.
“Come,” she said.
I dropped money for my bill on the table, got up groaning a little. We walked to the door. As we went outside she said smiling, “What is it you wish to ask me?"
“Oh-h—things."
“Well,” she said, “no matter what, I do not worry about a man with broken arm."
I laughed as we walked down the street. The rain had stopped.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1954, 1961, 1982 by Richard S. Prather
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ISBN 978-1-4804-9860-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Pattern for Panic Page 21