I snapped my fingers. “I know someone with a fist like that. The boxer I told you about who was going to give me a warning. The knuckles on his right hand were raw, like he’d been in a fight recently.”
“Perhaps he gave Juan a warning too.”
“I gave you the descriptions for those three. Why don’t you do a sweep of the neighborhood they jumped me in? You might get lucky.”
“We just might,” he said, and hung up.
Lucky. We’d have to be plenty lucky to find those three. They were probably hiding out right now, assuming they were even still in town. And how to make them confess? How did we even know they killed him?
I checked my watch. Time. Time. I didn’t have any time. I had to alert the operatives and get them to the rendezvous.
So that was it. We’d run out of time. Unless Gerald got a miracle dropped in his lap, this case was a bust. Felipe would go to jail, or even the hangman, for a murder he didn’t commit, and the real murderer would get off Scot free.
With a heavy heart I went over to the operatives’ hotel, taking a zigzag route and hopping into a series of three taxis to make sure I wasn’t followed.
They were still sitting tight there, one reading a book, the other shining his shoes. It was like I had never left.
“Get ready to go,” I told them.
The Reader looked up from the Trotsky book I had lent him.
“When?”
“Right now. You’re going to meet a car at the corner of Boulevard Pasteur and Rue de Goya at noon.”
Neat Freak set aside his cloth and the Reader put down his book. With swift, economic movements, they packed their few things. They were ready in less than five minutes. The Reader handed me back my book.
“If they search me at the border I can’t have this.”
“They way you’ve been devouring it, you can probably recite it to yourself.”
We left the building and walked down the alley without a word. They didn’t even glance at the brothel as we passed it. True professionals.
Before we got out of the medina, I turned to them.
“We better split up. You have a little less than an hour. You each take separate paths to get there. I’ll meet you there. I have something to do first.”
They nodded and left. I headed over to Melanie’s.
I found her serving drinks to a table of Frenchmen. Thankfully there was no tourist boat in town.
Once she was done, I followed her in.
“Gotta go, baby. Just came to say goodbye.”
“You have your gun?” she asked in a low voice.
“Of course.”
“Good. Where—” she stopped as one of her waiters passed by. “—are you meeting?”
“Why would you want to know that?”
“Because I’m driving you to the rendezvous.”
“What? Are you crazy? I thought you didn’t want to get mixed up in this.”
She gave me a kiss. That relaxed me a bit. “I’m mixed up in this because I’m mixed up in you. You said Chason has a man following you. He must be on foot to follow you through the medina. If we hurry to my car and drive off, he will not be able to follow. It is much safer for me to drive you than for you to walk.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. Still, it sat wrong.
“You sure, baby? It’s taking an awful risk.”
“I am a big girl and can take care of myself.” She went upstairs to fetch her purse. Knowing her, she’d have her little surprise inside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Melanie dropped me off on Boulevard Pasteur a couple of blocks from Rue de Goya. After a long, final kiss, my heart pounding not just from the taste of her lips, I got out and walked the rest of the way.
I spotted my operatives at the corner. Neat Freak was pretending to look at a shop window of men’s suits. The Reader sat across the street, sitting on a park bench and pretending to read a newspaper. I didn’t see them spot me, but I’m sure they did. Professionals, like I said.
What I didn’t see was the pickup car. Walking slowly, looking at each storefront like I was window shopping, I subtly checked my watch. Two minutes after twelve o’clock. Trust the anarchists to show up late.
I pretended to stare at a window for a minute, then moved on through the crowd. Still no car. Oh, there were plenty of cars in sight. All the parking spots by the curb were taken and a steady stream of vehicles passed by in both directions, but no one was giving us the high sign.
As I got to the corner, I saw it, or should I say him.
It was the tough guy with the broken nose and cauliflower ear, one of the Iron Column who had delivered Melanie’s illegal liquor. He was just coming out of a tobacconist’s and getting into a four-door sedan. I could make out someone in the back seat.
Typical. Five minutes late, not at the exact point of the rendezvous, and stopping for cigarettes. I can’t believe we trusted these idiots with part of the front.
I made my way toward them, knowing my operatives would follow at an inconspicuous distance.
Cauliflower Ear was at the wheel by the time I made it to them. I got in the back seat. The man there was someone I didn’t recognize. He was middle-aged, slight, nondescript. He could easily pass for a tailor. He might even have been a tailor. Certainly no one would suspect him of being an operative for the Iron Column.
“They’re coming,” I said.
“I can see that,” the Tailor said in a calm voice, looking out the front window.
Neat Freak was strolling up the Rue de Goya, and the Reader was just coming into view around the corner, disappearing and reappearing as he stuck to the thickest part of the crowd.
Neat Freak got in the passenger’s side front door. A minute later, Reader slipped in beside me. That left the Tailor sitting right behind the Cauliflower Ear. Reader hadn’t gotten in the other side and sandwiched the Tailor between us. Smart boy. No reason to get these guys jumpy.
Actually they didn’t look at all jumpy. They looked as cool as a pair of cucumbers.
So did my boys. I hoped I did. I sure as hell didn’t feel that way.
Cauliflower Ear started the engine and we headed on out.
“We’re headed to Houara,” he announced once we got to the main road out of town. “It’s a common border crossing so there will be plenty of people around. They’ll cross the border and take a bus wherever they want to go.” He made eye contact with me in the mirror. “Then you and I will drive back.”
Yeah, alone in a car with this mug. That will be something to look forward to.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
I noticed he had a fresh bruise around his eye and a fat lip.
“Got in a fight?”
“No, just practice.”
“I didn’t know there was a boxing gym in this town.”
“I have a sparring partner.”
“If he did that to you, what’s the other guy look like?”
He laughed. “Just fine. No shame losing to him.”
A terrible cold, prickly feeling went from the back of my neck down my spine, spreading out through my fingers and toes.
Someone this guy didn’t feel ashamed losing to.
Which meant he was stronger and faster, and this guy looked plenty strong and fast.
I’d met someone like that. He’d hit me so hard I still hurt two days later, and he’d been pulling his punches.
If he hadn’t been pulling his punches he could have broken me to bits.
Or just cracked a couple of ribs.
I sat very, very still for a couple of minutes. The Tailor and Neat Freak were making small talk, with me stuck in the middle stiff as a mummy. The car had sped up, getting on the main highway and leaving the last of the Moorish shacks behind. Countryside opened up on either side, olive groves and fields and the occasional farm.
All the pieces fit. Octavio was right. The Falange had never found out that Juan was an anarchist until someone tipped them off. He kept a low prof
ile. Even his fellow anarchists called him a “nothing.” Outside his little circle, nobody knew him.
But inside his little circle, there wasn’t much tolerance for sleeping with the enemy.
Because that’s how they would see Octavio. No one suspected he wasn’t really a fascist, not even Felipe.
Silone’s words came back to me.
We were always fair. Regressive elements were always given a chance to change. We always gave a warning.
A warning. Like a couple of cracked ribs.
A warning. Like getting jumped in the alley.
Stay away from Octavio. Stay away from the case.
Neither of us had listened. One of us was dead.
I pulled at my collar. It sure was hot in this car.
“Could someone open a window?” I asked, my voice coming out dry.
“The widows are all open,” the Tailor said.
OK, Kent, think. First off, are you right? Did the Iron Column bump off Juan?
Tomau at the factory had seen Juan driving up the mountain with someone he didn’t recognize. He might have spread the word around. Since the few Spaniards on the Mountain were mostly rightwing, that would have raised some eyebrows. People might have started asking around. Juan might have let something slip. They would have watched him.
Or they may already have noticed he had a boyfriend and done some digging on Octavio. His crowd was far more open about their leanings.
So they beat up Juan as a warning. He was preoccupied at the Manara, uninclined to talk. Gaspar said he looked sick. Stiff and pale from those cracked ribs? Sick in the heart too. Perhaps wondering if he’d ever see Octavio again. Perhaps wondering if he should dare to.
Then Octavio came over to visit. Someone spotted him and that had been the last straw. Juan was found guilty of consorting with the enemy. Maybe they found out he was making deliveries to Colonel Ramiro Fernández de Tomelloso. That would have clenched it.
They waited for him to come out late one night. Perhaps he was sneaking over to Octavio’s house. Or perhaps they dragged him out of his apartment and brought him to a hidden cul-de-sac to finish him off.
Who? The boxer and his two pals from the other evening? The boxer had raw knuckles from hitting Juan and cracking his ribs, but that didn’t mean he stabbed him. No, pummeling the guy to death would have been more his style.
I glanced over at the Tailor, looking as calm and collected as my two operatives. A pro. And someone who had to get out of the International Zone in a hurry.
Because he was the killer?
Only one way to find out.
I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking one hand beneath my forearm so the tips of my fingers touched the button holding my jacket closed. The Tailor glanced at me, so subtle I almost didn’t notice. I didn’t move. I just kept quiet and stared out the front window.
I waited a whole minute, and then, with slow, almost imperceptible movements I got my fingers around the button and worked it through the buttonhole.
My arms pressed against my chest kept my jacket from opening and giving the game away.
The Tailor and Neat Freak had stopped chatting. I could see Neat Freak in the rearview mirror. Was it my imagination or did he look a bit tense? Had he sensed something was up?
There were three of us, and two of them, but really it was two against one. My operatives couldn’t go to the border armed, and I’d bet a million bucks the Tailor had a heater stowed somewhere that he’d ditch before getting on the bus. That Cauliflower Ear was carrying went without saying.
Standard military tactic—if you’re outnumbered, the best way to win was surprise.
My left arm shot out, the elbow connecting with the Tailor’s temple and smacking his head against the side of the car with a loud bang. At the same time, my other hand dipped inside my jacket and whipped out my .38.
Even then I was almost too slow. The Tailor had a gun halfway out from under the seat before I had my pistol pressed against the side of his head. Damn fast, that guy. Almost had me sewn up.
Neat Freak didn’t skip a beat. He ducked down and grabbed the Tailor’s gun.
Or tried to. Events in the front seat changed everything.
All I saw was the Reader grab at Cauliflower Ear, probably to stop him from pulling a gun.
Cauliflower Ear lashed out at him, and the Reader flew to the other side of the car, thudding against the door.
At that same moment, the Tailor smacked my gun hand away, a risky move but one that worked.
Sort of.
My trigger finger jerked from the blow and the gun barked. A spray of blood erupted from Cauliflower Ear’s shoulder and he lost control of the wheel. The car swerved, hit the bank, skidded, and then rolled.
In the chaos of the next couple of seconds I lost my gun and got banged around the inside of the car, slamming against the two other men in the back seat, hitting the floor, smacking against the roof. I could have sworn that my gun flew against my skull at some point. Yeah, my own pistol pistol whipped me.
The car ended up on its roof in a field. I ended up half conscious, sandwiched between two bodies. Someone groaned. Maybe it was me.
Movement on top of me. Someone rummaged around, feeling around me and the guy beneath me. Then he planted the bottom of a shoe on my face. I wasn’t too happy about that but it did wake me up. A door opened.
I struggled to orient myself. Fumbling around, I crawled off Neat Freak, who was just coming to, and looked for my gun.
I found it in the hand of the Tailor, who stood beside the car with it trained on us.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Get out of there,” the Tailor ordered, training my own gun on me.
I had to think fast. There was another gun back here, the one he had been going for. Glancing at the front seat, I saw I’d get no help from there. The Reader was out cold and Cauliflower Ear’s eyes were fluttering open. Did he still have that heater in his jacket?
“Don’t even think of it,” the Tailor snapped. “Get out.”
I glanced around again. Wherever the Tailor’s stowaway piece had ended up, it wasn’t in easy reach.
“Move it or you’re a dead man!” he shouted.
“You killed Juan Cardona,” I said as I crawled out.
“He was a traitor to the revolution, as are you.”
“What did I do?” I stood up, almost fell down again, and got my balance.
“Hands up. You betrayed the revolution by trying to set free a fascist guilty of countless crimes. You tried to arrest the executioner of a class traitor, a traitor who was helping the Falange spread their hateful ideology.”
I cocked my head. “You know about the shipments to the colonel’s house?”
The Tailor frowned. “Don’t you know? You stupid American, you think the Trotskyites are the only group with operatives? The fascists are supplying propaganda and weapons to the Moorish independence movement. And Juan was helping them.”
That made a lot of pieces fit together. Wish I had known about that before.
“He was helping his boyfriend,” I said, “and neither of them knew what was in those crates.”
“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t matter. Juan deserved to die.”
A door opening made us both look. Cauliflower Ear dragged himself out, leaving a trail of blood along the roof of the car and on the Reader, who was still out cold.
I glanced at the back seat. Neat Freak was awake, and out of sight of the murderer because I was standing between them. He gave me a wink.
That wink better mean he had found that other gun, or we were in for an even worse ride that it had already turned out to be.
“Got your gun?” the Tailor asked Cauliflower Ear.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling inside his jacket. He hadn’t made it to his feet yet.
“Oh my God! Are you all right?”
We all turned.
Melanie stood on a little uphill from us, on the bank beside the road. She clutched her purse.
The Tailor trained his gun on her, which is just what Melanie wanted.
I know my girl.
“Don’t shoot!” she shrieked. Well acted. She’s not the shrieking type. She opened her purse. “I have money.”
I took a step forward, making sure I made some noise.
The Tailor swiveled back to me.
Melanie whipped out her little .25 automatic and put a bullet through his skull.
“‘Atta girl!” I shouted as I dove to the side.
Cauliflower Ear went for his gun, scrambling behind the car for cover. Melanie couldn’t shoot him from where she stood.
But Neat Freak could.
To my relief, he’d found the holdout weapon, a snub-nosed .32 that he fired, planting a bullet in the boxer’s back. The guy grunted, fell forward. Neat Freak aimed and finished him off with a coup de grace to the back to the head.
He crawled out of the car. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”
I didn’t answer. I rushed to Melanie and gave her a big hug.
“You came just at the right time, baby, but what are you doing here?”
She glanced around. No one was in sight.
“I’ll explain in the car. Let’s get moving before someone comes.”
Neat Freak took that as a good enough answer for the time being. He dragged the Reader out of the front seat. The guy was pretty banged up but a groan told me he was coming to. Once we got him a safe distance from the car, we dragged the bodies of the two anarchists into it and got the operatives’ luggage. I retrieved my gun and between us we carried our comrade up to the side of the road.
To my surprise, Melanie’s little blue convertible wasn’t parked there, but rather a four door Citroen.
“What gives?” I asked.
“I was afraid they might recognize my car so I hotwired another one, of course,” Melanie replied.
“Of course,” I mimicked her lecturing tone. “So where’s your car?”
“On Boulevard Pasteur, probably getting a parking ticket as we speak.”
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