Pattern for Panic (7 page)

I rubbed the Band-Aid on my neck. That wasn't imagination.

I asked Sanchez, “They still there?"

“Three of them. One's walking down the far side, looking around. What about them?"

I swore. It didn't sound good. I glanced down the passageway leading to the back of the club. “Can we get through in back there? Empty room or something?"

“Yeah."

“Let's go. I don't want those guys to see me."

He frowned.

“Dammit,” I said, “for money."

At least he didn't ask me how much. He got up and jerked his head. I followed him, scooting out of the booth while I watched the front. There were dancers wiggling around between the three men and me now, but I spotted the fourth guy peering at the tables on the far side.

Sanchez took me into a small room at the back of the club. It smelled of sweat and liniment. I bolted the door. “
Boxeadores
use this before the fights,” Sanchez said. “You got some kind of trouble?"

“Yeah. Who's going to be at this party?"

“I ain't telepathic,” he said. “I know the General's gonna be there, Lopez, like I told Amador. And General Fernandez. A couple of big
políticos.
Six altogether, but I don't know their names."

That was enough for me. I stood up and heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Somebody knocked on the door.

I looked at Sanchez. He shrugged.

The knock came again. Good and loud.

I whispered to Sanchez, “Get over there. If that's anybody looking for me, you never heard of me."

He pinched his chin. The doorknob started to turn. I tapped my coat, over my wallet.

That did it.
"Momentito,"
he yelled, then walked to the door and slid back the lock. There wasn't any place to hide, so I moved up against the wall where I'd be hidden when the door swung open. I slipped the .38 from its holster and cocked it as Sanchez opened the door.

A bunch of Spanish followed and I heard the other man say something about
hombre
and
rubio. Rubio
means blond. I'm as blond as you can get. Sanchez said something about a
boxeador.
There was more, then Sanchez shut the door and the footsteps went down the hall. I heard the faint sound of knocking when the footsteps stopped.

Sanchez was open-mouthed, staring at the revolver in my fist. No wonder; it was aimed at his belly. I pointed it toward the floor, eased the hammer down and stuck the gun back in its holster.

"Madre de Dios!
” Sanchez said. “What the hell is that for?"

“Relax. What happened?” I remembered tapping my wallet and took it out. While I fished inside it, he gave me the translation.

“Looking for you, all right. White-haired guy, he said, husky like you. Little bit rough-looking. I told them I saw you. You came in, then left. I'm a boxer, getting ready for the show. What the hell is happening? I don't like that gun."

I grinned at him. “I don't like knives."

He swallowed strenuously. “Hey, well,” he said. “I was kidding, fellow."

“Sure.” I took a five-hundred-peso note out of my wallet and gave it to him. “Thanks, I didn't want to see that guy. Still don't, so how do I get out of here?"

He took the money, went to the door and looked into the hall, then waved for me to follow. I walked after him down the dim corridor to the door. He opened it. I went past him, out the side of the club, and put some distance between me and El Golpe.

Four blocks away I caught a
libre
and told the driver where I wanted to go. We passed me big brightly lighted jai-alai building, the Frontón Mexico, lined with parked cars that had brought fans to the games going on inside. I had my driver slow down on Edison while I checked the street numbers till we reached the one I wanted, then paid him and got out in front of one of those big mansions that look as if they'd been shipped over from Spain a hundred years ago. The house was two stories of cement and stone and marble, elaborate scrolls and grillework covering its front. Little balconies, or
terrazas,
projected from two of the wide windows open on the second floor. The place was set back twenty feet from the sidewalk, and green lawn filled the space from house to walk. I patted my gun, went to the huge, carved-wood door, and looked for a bell or buzzer. There wasn't any, so I lifted the heavy brass knocker shaped like a lion's head, and whacked the door with it a few times.

I was nervous. Maybe this was all in the line of duty, but I couldn't help feeling a little odd. I hadn't been in a whorehouse for years.

Chapter Six

I didn't hear footsteps or any other noise, but soon the door swung halfway open and a little man with white hair and a dark wrinkled face peered out at me. He didn't look particularly intelligent. His mouth was open and his lower lip hung down half an inch from stained teeth.

“Hello,” I said. “Friend sent me. Ha. You speak English?
Habla inglés?
"

He shook his head. He didn't invite me in, either. I glanced at my watch. It was a little past nine-thirty, and Sanchez had said they'd close the doors at ten p.m. Surely they had time for another customer. Customer? I groaned. But, hell, I had to get inside, didn't I?

I grinned evilly at the little man. He looked like a eunuch. Maybe he was. “Girlies,” I said. “I mean,
muchachas. Muchachitas.
Weemen."

He sucked his lower lip up and let it droop down again. Outside of that, nothing. I pulled out my wallet. Ah, now he was watching my every movement. I grabbed a ten-peso note, gave it to him, then pointed into the house behind him, nodding my head eagerly. And then I was inside.

The Spanish influence was even more pronounced here. Thick carpet covered every inch of floor space, and bright tapestries were on two of the walls. A curving stairway led up to the second floor; ornate, twisting grillework forming the guard at the outer edge of the marble steps. The little man held his thumb and index finger close together as he looked at me—it meant something about “a little moment"—then he went away through a door at my right. I looked around, letting the layout sink into my memory.

For a moment I thought about Doc and Buff, then a tall, gray-haired woman came to the door through which the eunuch had gone, and waved a hand at me to come inside. There was a little Spanish chatter between us. She said many things, including
"cien pesos"
—so I gave her a hundred—and something about
"a las diez,"
or what I assumed was ten o'clock, and I said,
"Sí."

She smiled at me and went out. In less than thirty seconds a cute little gal came in: mine. She was at most a couple of inches over five feet tall, which is a foot shorter than I am, but she had as many dangerous curves as the road to Acapulco. The curves were distributed on a foundation which couldn't quite be called plump, but would never get her a job in the States as a high-fashion model. Which was fine with me. She was dressed in a snug-fitting green satin housecoat, and high-heeled pumps. I guessed her age at maybe twenty, and like many Mexican women she had, in addition to those other dandy things, a healthy mass of black hair and hot dark eyes.

She walked to me, smiling sweetly, and took both my hands in hers, speaking in a low voice, and pulled me after her through a side door, into a long narrow hall, and off it into a small room containing a dresser, overstuffed chair, green carpet and green drapes on the window. Ah, yes, and a bed.

Naturally I hadn't understood a word this little doll had said. She was standing in front of me, way down below me there, and smiling very prettily as she carried on this interesting conversation. Her face was animated, full of life, and once she put both hands out at her sides, opened her dark eyes wide and wiggled her head back and forth rolling her eyes and looking cute as the dickens.

I said “This is all most enjoyable, little lovely, but I haven't got the foggiest idea what you're talking about. And I hate to say it, but I'm here under false pretenses. Just want to stay in here a couple of minutes. You understand me?"

She opened her mouth wide and blinked her eyes rapidly.
"Es un norteamericano turisto, no?"

That much I could understand. I was an American tourist.
"Sí."

She clapped her hands and winked at me. While I searched my mind for the few words of Spanish I might be able to remember, she walked over to the bed. I hunted around in my head for words meaning movies, or pictures, and came up with what I thought would do. Then I turned toward the bed.

She had the green housecoat off, and was facing me in her high heels, white pants and brassière, her hands behind her back.

“Ah, ah,” I said. “Whoops, no, no.
Momentito,
just a minute.” I held my thumb and index finger close together as the eunuch had.

She paused, dropped her arms to her side and walked toward me.

I shook my head, still holding my fingers close together. She turned her head sideways, looking at me and gurgling in her throat. She shook her head and held her hands wide apart, still gurgling.

“Oh, no!” I said. “You don't understand. Look.” She giggled, and that didn't help either. I spoke very slowly. “I do not wish to—I mean,
yo no deseo—"
I stopped. I couldn't think of the next word. I said,
"Por favor, yo deseo—
"

She nodded, winked, and took off her brassière.

“Oh, hell,” I said. “You don't get it,
no comprende!
” I shook my head back and forth and held both hands up in front of me. “Stop!” I said.

She liked that. She looked at my clutching hands and walked right into them. “Honey,” I said,
"querida.
Please,
por favor,
I can't, I don't, oh, man, pictures—pictures—"

She laughed, giggled, wiggled, and took off her pants.

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” I said. “No, no, no. Pictures,
películas?
I want to see the
películas!
” I was getting a little hoarse.

"Películas?"
She appeared surprised.
"Películas? Películas!"

“
Sí. Los cines.
Moving pictures. Moving. Mooooving pictures.” I put an imaginary camera to my eye and made clicking noises while I aimed all over taking pictures with my camera.

She clapped her hands some more and yelped a little, happily, and started dancing around the room.

Finally I grabbed her, pushed her over to the bed and shoved her down on top of it. I simply bad to make her understand.

I looked at my watch. It was fifteen minutes to ten. What was it I'd come here for? I sat down beside her and shook my finger at her. She sort of snarled back and shook her finger at me.

I said slowly, shakily, “
Películas, cines.
In this house.
En esta casa.
In what room are the pictures?
En cuál cuatro?
In which
cuatro?
"

"Cuatro?"
She blinked rapidly. She held up four fingers and repeated,
"Cuatro?"

“Hell no, not
cuatro,
not four. I mean
cuarto.
Room.

Cuarto.
Listen, goddammit,” I shouted. “Where the hell are the goddam movies?"

I was losing my grip. I shut my eyes, counted to ten in English, and started all over. I must have said it in several old and new languages, but at last I got my point across. She finally understood me and pouted a little.

"Sí,"
she said.
"Cines."

“That's what I said."

She got up and went slowly to the door. I felt like a heel. But I followed her outside into the hall and back to the room where we'd met. She began to climb the marble stairs, paused and waited for me. Then we started up together, strolling along hand in hand. I kept up a running fire of inconsequential chatter, just to break the silence. “Isn't that marble cold on your bare feet?” and things like that. She didn't say anything.

At the top of the steps we turned toward the front of the house and walked to a closed door at the end of another hall. She pointed to the door.
"Los cines. Allá. A las diez y quince."

Movies at ten-fifteen. I tried the door. Naturally the damn thing was locked. I took the little doll by the shoulders, turned her around, then bent down and peeked through the keyhole. I turned her around because I didn't want her to see me. I didn't want anybody to see me. Peeking through keyholes in a cathouse is a good way to get yourself pointed at by giggling people.

I couldn't see much: black carpet, part of an extremely low couch, and the wide windows I'd seen from the street below, standing open. At least I didn't see anybody moving around inside. I stood up and had another of those dear conversations with my naked woman. It was mostly in sign language, opening the door with an imaginary key, but she nodded and said something about a key in her
cuarto.
I assumed that her room key worked this door, too.

When I thought she understood, I gave her a hundred pesos. She looked at it, then wadded it in her hand. She didn't have any other place to put it. I hoped. I put my finger to my lips and said, “Shhhhh."

She said “Shhhhh,” back at me, grinned, nodded her head and things, then tiptoed down the marble stairs. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded conspiratorially, laughed softly, and went out of sight. I just stood there trying to look like a customer. It was easy. Then she was back with a key and unlocked the door.

I gave her some more of the “Shhhh” routine, hoping she'd understand that she wasn't to tell anybody about the silly man, and she laughed and “Shhhh'd” me.

Then I said,
"Gracias. Mil gracias."

"Por nada."

For nothing. Almost invariably that is the polite phrase Mexicans use when you thank them for something; this time, it was true. She looked up at me, seeming incredibly small in her bare feet, and said,
"Es todo? Nada mas?"
She kept looking at me, expectantly.

I shook my head. “Nothing else, honey."

She gazed solemnly at me for another moment, then turned and started to leave. She looked a little hurt.