Pattern for Panic (6 page)

She worried her lip. “Monique went out to see what happened. Finally Dad walked over to the window—you know, the big one in front—and looked out; then he told me to get a cab and go back to the hotel, that there was some kind of trouble. You know how he is about me, Shells, always worrying about me like I was still a baby—he's been that way ever since Mom died. Then he was upset about the way that man acted, too. I know he just didn't want me around if there was any more trouble—but he said he'd come to the hotel as soon as he made sure everything was all right."

“He's probably still trying to find out what happened; it's confused enough to take him a while.” I grinned at her. “He might even still be trying to add up the check at Monte Cassino—I'm afraid he got stuck with it."

She didn't smile. And this was a new Buff to me; she was always laughing, bubbling over with fun. “He hasn't even phoned,” she said. “I know he'd phone me if he was going to be late. He's maybe had an accident, Shell; maybe he's hurt."

I moved from my chair to the divan beside her and took her hand. “Buff, listen to me. You're getting all worked up for nothing. But we can phone Monte Cassino—and even the hospitals if you want."

“I have. He's not—anywhere."

I forced a laugh. “He can't be ‘not anywhere.' Probably on his way here now."

I touched the Band-Aid on my neck. It seemed strange that the last time I'd seen Doctor Buffington was just before I'd been tossed in jail. And it was obvious that, without Amador and his Countess, I'd still be in—especially with slugging a cop tied to possession of marijuana. Marijuana. I knew I hadn't had any joints on me when I was picked up. And the Captain had searched me; maybe he'd had reason for wanting me in a cell for a long time, another reason besides his missing teeth.

Slowly I sat up a little straighter, remembering buying cigarettes at Monte Cassino from the well-stacked gal there, the gal whom I'd later seen talking to that barrel-chested slob. Maybe she
had
sold me hashish—but I'd seen her open the pack, even pull one out handy for me. I shook my head; there were too many screwy angles—and I had to get moving. I looked at my watch: eight-thirty p.m. I got up.

“I've got to take off for a while, Buff. I'm sure your dad will show up soon."

She looked puzzled. “Leave? Surely you're not going anywhere now, are you, Shell? When maybe Dad's hurt, maybe dying?"

“Now, wait a shake. There's no reason to think anything's wrong with him. I'll keep in touch. And I've
got
to leave—or wind up in jail again. I wouldn't be much help in a cell.” I thought of something. “Buff, remember your dad was telling me about his work—that gas stuff he got a slug of? You think maybe it was more than he figured? Could he have got some delayed effects or—"

She interrupted. “No. That was more than two months ago, and anyway he's completely over it. He came straight home when it happened, and it only lasted a few hours. He's had a thorough medical checkup since. No, it's not that. Shell, I'm scared. And I really want you to stay. Please."

“Honey, believe me, I can't stick around right now. I'd like to. Hell, I'd like just being with you, you know that."

“I thought I did.” Her voice was distant.

“You still do. I'll get back here as soon as I can—and if I get a chance I'll check the Cassino, nose around—"

“If you get the chance."

“You don't understand, honey...” I let it trail off. She wasn't listening. When I went out the door she was still sitting on the divan, looking after me, reproach and disappointment in her eyes.

Chapter Five

I sipped the drink Amador had made for me, and considered what he'd had to say so far. It seemed the General was an extremely jealous man and, with the lopsided logic of most extremely jealous men, felt that there was something innately superior or different about men as opposed to women, and he could thus raise all the hell he wanted to. This, of course, did not apply to his wife, who was not a man.

So I had a little picture of the General, who didn't know his wife was carrying on like a man, and I had a very good idea what would happen if he lamped the film. Amador, through his numerous contacts, had learned and told me that the General was given to kicking up his heels occasionally at small private gatherings of Army and political big shots—and one such heel-kicking episode was scheduled for tonight. Amador called it an orgy. While Amador didn't know where or when the so-called orgy was to take place, he was at the phone working on that angle now.

Among the miscellaneous info Amador had given me was the fact that Señora Lopez was Russian-born. That not only explained her Slavic appearance, but also helped me understand the anti-Communist activities of the General. Señora Lopez' parents had been wealthy—until purged during the starving, and then bloody, Thirties in Russia, the years in which Stalin, ably assisted by Khrushchev, liquidated an estimated ten million or more men and women, through deliberate starvation or execution. After the insane “Moscow Trials and Purges,” in which her parents were among those murdered, she had come to Mexico with fleeing relatives, a small girl then. There was no taint of Communist affiliation about the General's wife, but there had been, solely because of her nationality and the General's anti-Communist activities, some unfounded rumors to that effect about her when she and the General were married nine years before, Mexican Communists themselves—hoping, through her, to discredit General Lopez—had initiated the smear campaign against her.

But this time their smear had failed, and in fact had backfired. Because shortly afterwards, the really vigorous anti-Communist phase of the General's life had begun. Since it seemed that the General, despite his occasional extramarital kicks, did actually love his wife, it didn't take a brain to understand at least part of the General's motivation. I rather liked him for that part of it, too.

Now, nine years later, the General was the outstanding enemy of Communist subversion in Mexico. And that would have put me on guard even without Amador's mention of Jaime Guerara's front record. Filthy pix for blackmail—or any kind of gimmick for blackmail—is an old Communist trick. As a matter of fact, every depraved and vicious trick I can think of is an old Communist trick. Of course, it's also a trick of many other unsavory characters.

Amador hung up the phone and started to dial another number. “How you doing?” I asked him. He'd phoned about a dozen people.

“Better,” he said. “I know there's a session for sure, and one other guy that'll be there—another General. Still don't know where, or who else, or when. But it's a real orgy. There's some movies first, then a show with a guy I know, Party Boy, and with two vegetables."

“Tomatoes. Wait a minute.
Movies
first?"

“Sure."

“You didn't miss that, did you?"

“Hell no, I didn't. Why you think I'm calling everybody except the President? It's movies, then the Party Boy—"

“Party Boy? You mean what I think you mean? Like New Orleans?"

“I don't know New Orleans. But that's what I mean. The boy is Alberto Sanchez—and I got to get hold of him.” He started dialing again.

While he worried the phone I took another look at the eight-by-ten enlargements and the film strip which the Countess had turned over to Amador for what help they might give me. There was a clear shot of the man's mug. Heavy-jowled, big-nosed, mustached—practically all the people down here except women are mustached—and with a huge pile of black hair, much disarranged. That was all, except, of course, a certainty that if General Lopez ever ogled these items he would go tearing off into space like a comet. They were the usual. Naturally they were interesting. One of the enlargements showed the Countess, facing away from the camera, black hair high on top of her head with a wide, sparkling comb stuck in the back of it, her hands just pulling a white blouse down from her shoulders. The guy, in a dark robe, was only partially visible at the left of the picture. The rest, and the film strip, were what you might expect.

“I got it!” Amador said suddenly. He had his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. “You know El Golpe?"

“The nightclub? With boxing and wrestling?"

“That's it. Sanchez is there—coming to the phone. Hold your hat."

In a moment he took his hand from the mouthpiece and started firing Spanish into it. Finally he hung up.

“Well? What's the score?” I asked.

“You'll have to go there. He's cautious—can't blame him, the work he's in.” Amador grinned. “I described you and he'll see you. Don't know for sure if he'll tell you anything; I don't know him good.” He paused. “Uh, probably it cost you some pesos, plenty."

“That's O.K. El Golpe, huh? What's he look like?"

Amador told me all I needed to know and I got ready to leave. Before I took off I phoned the Prado and got Buff. “Buff, Shell here. Anything?"

“No. You haven't—I mean—"

“No, Buff. I thought Doc would be back by this time.” It was almost nine o'clock, nearly three hours since I'd seen Doctor Buffington. There wasn't any doubt in my mind now; something was sure as hell wrong. The Doc would at least have phoned Buff if he were delayed—if he could.

“Honey, listen. The minute I can, I'll be there with you. And I'll check around before I come up.” A little worry flickered in my mind. “Incidentally, just in case ... maybe you ought to get a different room there—"

“I have to stay here. What if he should call? Or come in? And, why, Shell? You ... you do think something's wrong, don't you? But why shouldn't I stay here?"

“No reason, I guess. But, uh, I'd lock the door anyway. Hell, it can't hurt."

Her voice softened a little. “I wish you were here, Shell."

“I will be, soon as I can."

“'Bye, Shell."

I hung up, thanked Amador, told him I'd see him later, and left to meet Party Boy Alberto Sanchez.

To get to El Golpe, you turn onto Rosales at the
Caballito,
the huge statue of Charles IV on his horse, and drive to Camelia, then take a right. As soon as you turn onto Camelia you can see the square ring of white lights around the face of the club, and cars are usually parked for a block on both sides of the street. Ordinarily El Golpe doesn't begin jumping until after midnight, but this Saturday night the crowd had started gathering earlier than usual.

I got out of my cab and walked past a poster depicting two female wrestlers in action, then went through the club's entrance, stopped inside and looked around. A few couples were dancing in the roped-off ring in the center of the club, where later the boxers and wrestlers would put on one of the three ‘shows,' and half a dozen couples were scattered around at the tables. Two young hostesses in strapless dresses sat in one of the big wall booths on my right, looking bored. And a man sat alone in a booth beyond them, his back to me. I walked to the booth. He fit Amador's description: dark, in his middle twenties, heavy-set, brown hair, brown suit. He got up as I reached him.

“Sanchez?” I asked.

He nodded. “You're Scott?"

I told him I was and sat down where I could face the club's front. He slid back into the booth, and we verbally fenced for a couple of minutes while I made it clear that it was important I learn when and where and who and all the rest of it. Amador had already explained to Sanchez everything I wanted to know, and he knew I knew it, but I didn't strike pay dirt until I said, “And it's worth money to me."

“How much?” His dark, sullen face didn't change expression.

“A hundred pesos?"

He looked disgusted. “I get a thousand from them."

“You still get your thousand. O.K. Plus five hundred—from me—for information that costs you nothing."

“What you want to know for?"

“For five hundred pesos."

He thought about it for a minute. “O.K. The place is on ... the money?” I fished five hundreds out of my wallet and slid them across the table. They disappeared in his fist and he continued, “On Calle Edison. Just a couple of blocks down from the Frontón Palace. You know?"

“I know. When?"

“Me and the gals at eleven tonight.” He frowned. “Listen, Amador told me you're O.K., wouldn't cause me no trouble. Either of you lying, you both get a knife."

“Relax. I'm not interested in your racket. I'm trying to find a guy."

“It better be that. O.K. Ten o'clock the place closes because of this party you're so interested in. Nobody in after that—you know it's a whorehouse, don't you?"

“I didn't. Go on."

“At ten, the last customer has to be out, and nobody else can come in after that except the guys throwing this brawl. That's so they'll have the place to themselves. They'll have the movies and drinks and that stuff first, see. Then my part. After that I don't know because I leave."

“The rest,” I said. “Who's going to be there?"

As I finished the question I saw four big guys come through the club's draped entrance and stop inside it. I might not have paid much attention, but they were doing a hell of a lot of eyeballing around the place. Some hostesses walked toward them, but they waved the girls away. They weren't interested in hostesses.

I slid over to my left, hidden by the wall of the booth and said, “Sanchez, take a look, huh?” I jerked my thumb and he craned his neck, looking toward the front of the club.

“The four guys. You know them?” I asked.

“No."

“You in here much?"

“Most of the time. Never saw them before, though."

I thought back. I'd been careful going from the Prado to Amador's, and I was positive I hadn't been tailed then. So maybe I was imagining things. Or ... it was possible I'd been followed from Amador's, though why anybody would have a stakeout on his place I couldn't figure. There was even a chance Sanchez had tipped somebody I was coming here. There was a chance I was nuts, too, and they just wanted a drink.