Pattern for Panic (9 page)

I hurried forward through milling men and women, then burst into the Frontón court itself and turned to my left, walking rapidly past the bottom row of seats. Noise slammed against my ears as if it were something solid, with that faintly hollow sound like men yelling in a gymnasium or indoor swimming pool. The long court was on my right, much like two handball courts back to back, with high green walls at each end, a red stripe painted horizontally across the front wall, three or four feet above the floor. Between the court and the spectators was a heavy wire screen, and on my left were ascending rows of seats filled with well over a thousand screaming jai-alai fans.

I spotted an empty seat seven rows up, between two shouting Mexicans, plowed through seated men and women, made the seat and plunked down in it. It wasn't the one I'd paid for, but I was in a hurry. I turned to look back at the spot where I'd entered, just as a man came inside. Long sideburns, no mustache: the bastard who liked to pinch.

He was looking over the crowd, his face not pleasant now, but contorted and angry—and bruised. Apparently he was also the guy I'd slugged and kicked in the face. He was a tough one to be chasing me after all that. Remembering the pain on the little cutie's face, I wished I'd kicked him harder. I turned toward the game out front, watching the man from the corner of my eye.

The two-man “Gray” team was leading the “Blues” twenty-eight to twenty-six, and betting was getting frenzied. Odds offered by the dozen or more shouting bookies change during the thirty-point game after almost every point scored, and everybody bets like mad. Now slit tennis balls carrying money and betting slips inside them were flying all over the place.

Another guy came through the entrance and stood beside Sideburns, who reached under his coat and seemed to touch his armpit. Eight to five he had a gun there—and better odds he was the one who'd shot at me. The two men spoke for a moment, then the one I'd slugged started walking along the pathway down in front of the seats, looking up at the customers, including me. I didn't think he'd been close enough to get a good look at me in the headlight's glare—but there was my damned white hair. It would have been like a beacon in the light.

And, suddenly, I realized that almost everybody around me was yelling and screeching and making bets, while I sat here gawking.

Down on the court the white
pelota
was whizzing back and forth, smacking the front wall and rebounding to be caught by one of the four players. A Blue man leaped high into the air, caught the hurtling ball in the long, curved, basket-like
cesta
strapped to his hand and wrist, then twisted his body as he came down and hurled the ball against the front wall; as it bounced back a Gray snared it, whipped it forward again. I glanced at the scoreboard; while I'd been gawking around the Grays had made another point. Now it was Grays twenty-nine, Blues still twenty-six.

I yelled, “Come on, Blues!” then swore. The long-sideburned slob heard the American voice and glanced in my direction. Only casually, so far. I waved my arms, yelled
"Azul! Azul!"

There is something suggestive, contagious about a huge crowd yelling almost as one person, and the noise and color and action caught me up with it a little, and I almost started enjoying myself. Sideburns was still down front, maybe twenty-five feet from me.

I thought of the reel in my pants, looked down, knowing if a strip of the film was dangling out of me like a loose suspender, I'd probably have to shoot my way out to get out. Nothing was showing. The bulge was hardly perceptible. But I stopped jumping up and down.

The slob was looking straight at me now. I waved at one of the white-coated, red-capped bookies who take money and bets during games. As he shouted the 100-to-60 odds I yelled
"Azul,"
and fished sixty pesos from my wallet, waved the bills. The bookie scribbled on a betting slip, tucked it into the hole in one of the white tennis balls and threw it to me. I caught it, took out the slip and shoved the money inside, tossed the ball back. He caught it expertly. I yelled
"Azul!"
some more.

Sideburns looked at the men and women around me, ground his teeth together, jaw muscles wiggling, then walked slowly along the pathway looking at every face. I wiped my forehead, surprised to find it wet with perspiration. The score was twenty-nine to twenty-seven now. The yelling kept up, more tennis balls were thrown back and forth, the
pelota
was hurled against the front wall and rebounded against the side wall and floor, the
cestas
cutting yellow arcs through the air. The ball hit the side wall as a Blue leaped for it, missed it. The game was over—Grays thirty, Blues twenty-seven. I threw my betting slip away.

Some of the fans were leaving, probably to stretch their legs or get a drink before the next game. I asked the guy on my left, “Where's the bar?"

He frowned.
"Mande?"

“Cantina. Licores."

"Allá y a la derecha."
He pointed out the way I'd come in, then around to the right, grinning and bobbing his head.

"Gracias."
I left my seat and headed for the bar. Before I reached the exit. Sideburns came through it and walked toward me. He looked straight at me and when we were a couple yards apart he raised his hand.
"Momentito, señor,"
he said. He stepped up to me and let his hand fall lightly against my coat, right over the .38, as he spouted something at me. Then he dropped his arm.

"Mande?"
I said, screwing my face up.
"Turista."
I tapped one ear to show the words going in, and pointed away from the other to indicate them going out. I don't know whether he got it or not, but I merely wanted to look a bit like a harmless fool, which wasn't difficult. Anyway, he laughed a little, barely opening his mouth. One lip was split so I didn't blame him.

I nodded at him and pushed past, bumping into him a bit roughly. It was a gun. “Hell,” I told him. “Pardon me all to hell."

His eyes narrowed. I went on into the bar and had two drinks. When the place started emptying and I didn't see any familiar faces, I went out the front door, where there are always plenty of
libres,
hopped into one and told him the
Caballito.
There I changed cabs, switched to another on San Juan de Letran, and finally, sure I wasn't followed, gave the driver Señora Lopez' address.

The film was in my coat pocket when I rang the bell. In a minute Señora Lopez opened the door. I'd been thinking of her as “The Countess” for half the night, and now I realized she did look the part. Only much more interesting than most countesses. She stood straight and tall inside the door, light behind her tracing the mature curves of her body, her face in dim shadow. When she saw me she didn't burst out in a rash of excited questions. “Mr. Scott,” she said. “Come in, please."

I went inside. She was wearing a gray silk dress, and the faint scent of perfume brushed my nostrils as I passed her. Then she asked me, “Did you—have any success?"

“Yes, Señora. At least for now.” I took the film out of my pocket and handed it to her.

She seemed startled. Then she said, “I thank you, Mr. Scott, I thank you so very much. I really find it difficult to believe ... how did you get this? Where? Do you know who—"

I interrupted. “I'd rather not say, if you don't mind. At least not yet. And there must be more of these around, Countess. Probably—"

“Countess?"

“I'm sorry. That slipped out."

She smiled. “It is what Amador calls me. I do not mind. Really, I like it much better than Señora.” Facing me, the light fell on her face and the large dark eyes seemed the only features in shadow, the extremely long black lashes darker smudges. “But come,” she said. “We should not stand here. Come with me.” She took my hand and led me into a large room a few feet away, one of four or five that lined a long, carpeted hall. Her hand was warm in mine; I thought she squeezed it rather tightly.

She turned on the lights as we went inside where white walls reflected the bright light. Heavy wooden furniture filled the room, a piano was near one corner, a big maroon divan sat on our right. There was a small bar against the far wall.

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Scott?"

I thought about Buff and the doctor. “I'd better leave, Señora—Countess.” She smiled. “There are other things I have to do tonight.” I looked around for a phone, but didn't see one.

“Come now,” she said. “I must know a little more. What—what can I expect tomorrow—or the next day? You will have a drink and tell me."

“One, then.” I'd already had a half-dozen or more so far this evening. Now that the tenseness and excitement had faded a bit I could feel the faint warm glow inside me.

I sat down on the couch and in a minute the Countess handed me a tall drink of rum and bottled Tehuacan mineral water. I rested my head against the cushions behind me, thinking about what had happened. The Countess was moving around behind the divan doing something. I sipped my drink and she said, “Mr. Scott, do you think this will end it, my difficulty?"

“Frankly, no. There must be other copies. I don't know where, or even who has them. I do have a couple of ideas, but I don't know—we may come out all right. I can't promise."

“Did you—” She hesitated. “Did you see, I mean—"

“Uh, no.” I gulped some more of the drink. “No, Countess."

“Then how can you be sure this is the one?"

“I, uh—” I had some more rum and Tehuacan. I couldn't very well tell the Countess I'd snatched it from under her husband's nose in a whorehouse. “I'm pretty sure, yes, pretty sure."

“I must be positive, Mr. Scott. There was a little doubt that my husband was to be given this tonight.” At least she'd said given, not shown. But there was something about the
way
she'd said it, a sort of purring softness, that made the hairs on my neck stand up and wiggle.

I looked around at the second projector I'd seen this evening. I finished my drink.

She said, “I purchased this after the first film was delivered to me. I had to know what, exactly, the man had to ... blackmail me with."

“Yes,” I said. “I see. That was smart."

“So it will be easy to tell if this is the right one."

I got up. “Yep. Sure will. Well, so long, Countess. I guess it's—"

“Please sit down, Mr. Scott. Please. Just for a moment."

I did. Just for a moment.

She leaned over the back of the divan, put her hand on my shoulder, and said softly, “A little moment. If you have made a mistake, then you must rectify that mistake, is it not so? You will still have work to do tonight if this is the wrong one. Is this not true?"

“Yes,” I said. “I guess so. It sounds very logical."

She leaned closer and smiled. “And tell me, Mr. Scott, Tell me the truth. Wouldn't you like to see it?"

I didn't realize I was doing it, but I sucked in my breath and it made one of those funny whistling noises. “Well,” I said. “Well..."

“Be honest.” Her mouth was parted, the moist red lips gleaming, curved in a half smile. The dark eyes looked directly into mine. Softly, “Wouldn't you?” Ever so softly, “Truthfully, wouldn't you?"

I said, “Well, I suppose so. Can't say I'd mind. No, can't say that."

Her smiling lips curved even more. “Let me fix us another drink, Mr. Scott."

“Look, you'd better start calling me Shell."

She moved around the divan, walking with the gracefulness which was the first thing I had noticed about her, hips moving smoothly under the silk of her dress. She mixed the drinks at the little bar, swiftly, her back to me. It was almost the same pose I remembered, except that she wore a gray dress now, and there was no comb in her upswept hair. Her waist was small, hips swelling from it in a smooth line that curved down into her long legs. I was wishing she'd hurry with that drink. My throat was parched.

She carried the drinks over, stood close in front of me as she gave me the highball. “Here, Shell."

I took it. I drank half of it. The couch faced the far wall, that bare white wall, and the projector behind the divan would cast the pictures on it twenty feet from me. From us. She turned out the lights and I heard her moving through the darkness. Then she switched on the projector and its beam leaped forward to the wall, the machine whirred and she walked to the front of the couch and sat down at its end.

My shoulder was partially blocking the beam of light, so I moved to my right. “No, Shell,” she said. “Please, over here. Sit by me."

I could have said, “No! I won't.” But that's not what I said. I didn't say anything. I moved over by her. In order to keep out of the beam of light, I had to sit pressed close against her. My arm was between us, so I put it behind her on the back of the divan. She reached up with her left hand and pulled my arm around her shoulders.

Still holding my hand, she said, “That is better. Isn't it, Shell?"

“Yeah."

On the wall, the scene was part of what I had watched earlier. The Countess had dropped her blouse to the floor, her hands were sliding the skirt from the swelling hips. Then she stopped, turned toward the man in the dark robe, apparently said something to him and waved her hand. He nodded and went out somewhere. She slipped the skirt from her hips, stepped out of it, stood for a moment in brief step-ins and brassière, her fingers at the brassière's clasp. She pulled it from her shoulders, slid the step-ins from her hips, then picked up all the clothing and walked out of sight. In seconds she was back, completely naked. She stood by the bed, sat on its edge facing the camera, and took the comb from her hair, touched the hair with her fingers and let the black mass of it tumble down over her shoulders. She stroked it, combed it.

On the divan, the Countess squeezed my hand, then pressed my palm tight against her shoulder. Her long, soft leg was mashed against mine. “It is the one,” she said.

“Uh-huh. Well, now that we know, maybe—"