Pattern for Panic (27 page)

We must have looked like three tourists, chatting about our souvenirs, and the show at El Patio. The Doctor and Buff looked about the same as before; if they had any scars, they didn't show.

The Doctor shook my hand. “I think we've said it all, Shell. No need to go over it again."

“Sure, Doc. See you in L.A."

He squeezed my hand a moment longer, then released it. “Don't forget. I'll hold you to the promise.” He paused. “You remember our talk that night in Monte Cassino, Shell? When was it? Less than—four days ago. It seems a lifetime."

“I remember."

“I just wanted to say—I won't be making any more speeches. About the need for understanding Communists.” He smiled bitterly. “I'm beginning to understand them myself, finally."

I smiled back at him. “Make all the speeches you want, Doc. Just, uh, change them a little, huh?"

“I'll have to. In these last few days I've learned something else I didn't know before. I've learned—” he hesitated, “—what peaceful coexistence is."

The loudspeakers again announced the flight for Los Angeles. Buff had been standing silently alongside us. She said, “I'll be there in a minute. Dad."

He took the hint, walked away.

She turned to me. “'Bye, Shell."

“So long, honey."

“You will see us again, won't you? Soon?"

She looked lovely. Gray suit that matched her eyes, blonde hair smooth, lips red and tempting. She still looked tired, not quite herself. But it wouldn't be long; she'd look like spring again.

“Pretty soon,” I said. “We've got a date."

She smiled, put her arms around my neck. “I'll be careful of your arm,” she said.

I had the arm in a sling, but it was almost healed. I didn't really need the sling any more.

“Don't worry about it.” I grinned at her and slipped my arm from the black cloth.

She pulled herself against me, lifted her lips and pressed them gently against mine with a wonderful softness and clinging and warmth. It was like a first kiss, or a last kiss, and then she was running across the field away from me; there was the tiny wave of a hand and she was gone. I watched the plane until I couldn't see it any longer, then I left. I suddenly felt lonely, washed out, and very tired.

I sat in the Monte Cassino drinking my third highball. I didn't even know why I'd come here, except perhaps because the four of us had been having fun that night until everything started falling apart. Even fun with Monique, I remembered. And she was dead now. Monique, Villamantes, Emilio, the heavy-jowled lover, Jaime Guerara, and most of the others who had been at the Center when the General arrived that night, blew up the gate and charged inside. He'd had only eight other men with him, but they'd carried submachine guns, revolvers, rifles. When it was all over, two of the General's men were dead and only seven of the twenty-odd at the Center were left alive. Monique wasn't one of them.

I guess it was a lucky thing that Villamantes had clubbed Buff, knocked her unconscious, because when Lopez and his men started shooting everything in sight, she'd been on the floor, the Doc beside her, holding her in his arms. I'd been practically out on my feet, my brain drugged, when I'd walked back inside; but I'd stayed on my feet long enough to help mop things up.

The Doc handled his end gladly, destroyed the papers I'd taken from Villamantes, destroyed all traces of his work. In Villamantes's safe I found the films of the Countess's another now-dead lover, six reels of film in shiny tin cans. I took care of them—with gasoline and a match. The Countess had been grateful when I phoned her, even asked me to tell her all about it over a highball. But I had seen General Lopez in action, with a submachine gun, and I'd told her I would be grateful myself if she showed her gratitude by mailing that fifty-thousand-peso check to me at the Hotel del Prado. Then I had hung up.

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.