The Spanish Connection (6 page)

"Nothing, Señor," he said. "Plenty of women available — singles, doubles, even triples — but nobody has performed a triple recently."

"So we try again."

"We have run out of places." Diego's eyes squinted. "I think we should try Torremolinos."

"Where is that?"

"A little way to the south. On the Costa del Sol."

"More discothèques?"

"The best. Lively. Bestial. Depraved."

I nodded. "Sounds good. Let's go."

At about one-thirty we went into a place halfway down the main street of Torremolinos. It was a gloomy place. Caged animals paced back and forth in cages hanging from the ceiling near the bar at the entryway.

Luminescent painted chairs and tables gleamed in the darkness. A male flamenco dancer sweated through the customary steps on a small stage in the center of the room. A slide of two lesbians in ecstasy was projected onto a wall. The amplified guitar music competed with a female singer's wild lament in an apparent attempt to deafen all patrons.

We sank down, ordered
sangría,
and watched.

Diego disappeared.

Juana and I looked at each other in exhaustion.

A hand gripped my shoulder. I jerked around, startled at the unexpected human contact.

"I have them," said Diego in my ear.

I touched Juana's hand, cautioned her to stay there, and followed Diego out through the darkness. At the side of the discothèque there was a small doorway. Diego guided me through it, and we walked down a dark corridor to a room at the end. A woman of indeterminate age sat at a table in a dirty, torn flamenco costume. A feeble electric light glowed in the wall over her head. She had black hair, black eyes, and black bags under them.

"Bianca," said Diego. "This is the man."

Bianca smiled a tired smile. "I like you," she said.

I smiled. "Your companion?"

"She is not as good as me, but she will be there."

"Her name?"

"Carla." She shrugged.

"Bianca," I said. "You've got to be good. I don't want to waste my money."

"You don't waste your money with Bianca and Carla!" the woman snorted. "We
are
good.
Very
good."

"I don't want amateurs!" I said. "I want to know if you've worked together before."

"Sure, we work together," said Bianca, waving her hand at me reassuringly. "Don t you worry about that. We split the money."

"How much?"

"Seven thousand pesetas apiece."

"That's a lot! I've got to know if you're good!"

"Listen, you ask anybody…"

Diego said, "Who, Bianca? You got references?"

"Sure, I got references! There's that Frenchman lives in Marbella."

I shook my head. "I don't trust any Frenchman!"

She laughed. "That is good. Neither do I!"

Diego and I shrugged.

"Hey," she said. "There was one we did just last night! Carla and I. A real bastard that one was! He wanted everything! All at once! Oh, I tell you…"

"Who was he?"

She frowned. "I don't know. He don't give us his name. He's a dark fellow. You know. Looks Italian or something. Didn't talk good Spanish."

I glanced at Diego and he lowered the lid of one eye.

"Where does he live?" I asked.

"We went to a villa right here in Torremolinos."

I fished in my wallet and brought out ten thousand pesetas. "You give me the address," I said, "and you can keep the ten thousand."

Her eyes widened and I could see sweat glistening on her forehead. Her lips were wet with saliva. She was torn between greed and caution. Now she suspected I might be more than just a customer with strange sex desires. But she was more interested in money than scruples.

She reached for the cash.

"The address?"

"I don't know the address. I… I take you there."

I pulled the money back and peeled off five thousand. "The rest when we get there, Bianca."

Diego looked puzzled. "Señor. What about the — the other señora? Your…?"

"You go back there, Diego, and take her home in half an hour."

I figured if anyone was watching Diego, he would follow him and Juana back to the hotel.

I grabbed Bianca's arm, and we went out the rear door of the discothèque.

It was very dark outside. Neon lights glared at the front of the building, but in the rear, it was almost pitch black.

Bianca said, "You wait here."

She left and within half a minute a cab pulled up beside the building, and she waved me in.

I climbed in beside her, smelling the musty scent of her make-up, her sweat, and her clothing.

She talked to the cab driver, a sad-eyed
viejo
wearing a beret, and he started up, winding through the narrow side streets that led up toward the foothills in back of town. We emerged from the business section of Torremolinos and entered a suburban residential section.

After ten minutes, Bianca leaned forward and slammed the taxi driver on the shoulder.

He stopped the cab.

"That one?" I asked Bianca, identifying the villa she was pointing to.

She nodded.

"The man — does he live there alone?" I asked.

"That is right. No one else there."

I handed her the five thousand pesetas and stepped out of the cab, paid the driver off, and waved them both on their way.

The cab disappeared.

I checked my shoulder holster. The Luger was waiting.

The villa that Bianca had identified was a small stucco place surrounded by a well-landscaped yard. There was an open gate in front of the house.

I stepped through.

The house was dark.

I made my way around the side. It was obvious that the occupant of the house was either out or in bed asleep.

I peered through a window and saw the kitchen and dining room.

The second window looked in on the bedroom, and someone was asleep in one bed.

I glanced around to make sure no one was watching me. Then, making as little noise as I could, I moved around to the kitchen window and tried to pry it open.

To my surprise, it was unlatched and swung right out.

I crawled through.

The floor of the villa was tile and made no sound as I lowered myself onto it. I drew out my Luger and started for the door to the hallway at the rear of the kitchen.

The bedroom door was ajar. I moved quickly through it into the bedroom, and spotted the light switch near the door. I leveled my piece at the bed, and snapped the light on.

"Freeze," I said, thinking he might have a weapon close at hand.

There was no movement. Nothing. I stared. The light flooding the room showed me what had happened and I felt sick. The man who had been in the bed was no longer there. A pillow and some bedclothes had been humped up to resemble the form of a sleeping person.

Feeling a moment of sheer panic, I reached for the light to flick it off.

The sound behind me came too quickly. Although I wheeled as fast as I could, swinging the Luger around to catch whoever it was, I never completed the movement. I went down into blackness the moment the hard metal object caught me in the skull.

The first thing I realized upon regaining consciousness was that I couldn't breathe. And then I discovered that my head hurt, too. The third thing I felt was the constricted position in which my body has been twisted. I was in a very tight space, with barely enough room for my aching bones.

I was gasping for breath, trying to breathe in pure air through the fog of noxious fumes that surrounded me.

I opened my eyes and could see nothing at first. My eyes stung, blurred, and refocused. Suddenly I realized that I could not move my hands or feet.

Struggling to sit upright, I saw in the faint light that I was wedged in the front seat of a very small Volkswagen. The engine was going, but the car wasn't moving.

I coughed and tried to clear my throat, but I could not.

Exhaust fumes! The thought flashed into my mind and I sat bolt upright, staring about me, noticing for the first time the hose thrust in through the almost-closed window.

Exhaust poured through the hose into the Volks. I knew enough about these cars to realize they are practically air- and water-tight inside. And with that carbon monoxide coming in, I didn't have much time left.

My wrists and ankles were bound with tight ropes, tied together so that I resembled a bull-dogged steer. I reached over, trying to grab the key in the ignition to twist it off, but I couldn't maneuver my ankles high enough in the confines of the car to get at the key.

I lay there panting in desperate frustration. I knew there was no way I could get any fresh air into my lungs.

Outside, I knew, The Mosquito waited, and in five or ten minutes he would come into the garage, open the car door, turn off the engine, and take me out for delivery somewhere. He had outsmarted me completely!

I could reach my ankles with my right hand, but I couldn't get them high enough to touch the steel blade taped to the back of my ankle. I slid off the seat and smashed against the gearshift, almost bending it out of shape.

And then I touched the steel blade.

I blacked out momentarily, my entire body racked with agonized coughing. I didn't have much time at all.

The blade came out, and I tried to saw through the ropes holding my ankles. After a minute the rope shredded. I couldn't breathe anymore, and I held my breath. Blackness was beginning to come in on me from all sides. I could hardly move my fingers now.

The carbon monoxide continued to pour into the car.

Then, miraculously, my feet were free. I kicked them away from my wrists and jammed one foot on the gas pedal. The Volks jumped, but the brake held.

I twisted the gearshift to the side and down, into reverse, and jammed my foot on the gas pedal again.

The Volks shot backward into the closed garage door and crashed into it.

But the door did not break open, though I could hear the splintering of wood.

I drove the Volks forward.

My vision was fading again, and I couldn't see much of anything. My lungs were convulsing from the poisonous air.

Again — back, smash.

The doors parted.

I could see night outside. Forward.

I slammed the Volks into reverse again and sailed through the wide-open doors into the driveway. I braked in the open and came to a stop. Fresh air poured in through the window.

On my right I saw a sudden stab of orange flame, preceding the sound of a gunshot.

I hacked at my wrist ropes and freed my wrists. I tore open the door, and rolled down the window, coughing in fresh air. In a minute I had the wheel in my hands. I twisted the Volks, flicked the lights on, and aimed it at the point where the gunshot had originated.

Someone screamed. Another shot sounded. I drove across the driveway and onto lawn, headed for the shrubbery that grew by the garage. I saw the form of a man jump out of the bushes and run across the lawn. I kept the Volks aimed at him.

He turned once, his terrified face highlighted in the bright headlights of the car. He was a small, dark-haired, round-faced man, with thick eyebrows, long sideburns, and a very bluebearded jaw — The Mosquito.

He shot once again but missed, and I stepped hard on the gas. The Volks jumped forward.

Moscato zigzagged now, trying to find cover in the small yard. I jammed on the gas pedal and kept the Volks driving hard. I saw him jump up onto the brick wall and vault over it.

I lifted my foot from the gas pedal and stepped down hard on the brakes. The Volks slewed sideways, dug up grass, and smashed against the brick wall, the lights immediately going out.

I got the wheel in my stomach, but I had not been going fast enough to really hurt myself.

I climbed from the car and jumped up onto the wall, looking into a tangle of vegetation and shrubbery in the adjoining yard.

There was no sight of anyone.

I walked back to the house and went inside. In the bedroom I could see where I had stood and where The Mosquito had hidden before he hit me. I found my Luger on the floor, right where I had dropped it.

I picked it up and started to leave the bedroom, planning to set a trap for Moscato. He would have to come back sooner or later.

Suddenly I realized I wasn't alone in the house.

A man stood in the hallway, smiling at me.

The first thing I saw was the Webley Mark VI, a very lethal weapon. Almost immediately I focused on the man holding the gun.

He was a big, imposing man in a belted raincoat He gripped the Webley almost casually, as if it were nothing more important than a calling card, aiming it straight at my stomach.

He had a long, almost lean face, with dark eyes and wavy hair that fell in a careless lock over his forehead. And at the same time, although his features were immobilized in an expressionless mask of impartiality, his lips were slanted in a flat smile.

"He has flown," he said sadly in very British English. "Now that was most stupid of you to let him escape."

I waved at his gun, carefully not aiming mine at him. "Will you kindly remove that muzzle from my stomach?"

"What? Oh!" He smiled. The Webley slid into a side pocket of the belted raincoat and vanished. "You're an American, aren't you?" He seemed saddened by the idea.

"Yes. And there's no sense blaming me for the escape. If you hadn't come barging down that hallway like the
Q E II
I'd have had him dead to rights!"

He shrugged. "Oh well, that's the way it sometimes goes, isn't it?" He smiled broadly. "What do you think? Shall we go after him? Any chance?"