Manhunt. Volume 6, Number 4, June, 1958

His name was Welles, but it wasn’t. He came from Louisiana, but he didn’t. He looked like a bum — but he had a hundred and fifty grand in his pocket...

1

The night was thick and soggy with a threatened rain. He drove through the thick night down the coastal highway, going much faster than the law allowed, yet taking no chances and functioning with an instinctive cunning of which he was only partly aware. Approaching Long Beach, he eased up on the accelerator and went through the city like any other late driver going home. Only when the car had again nosed out on the open highway and was headed south toward San Diego did his foot sharply feed gas into the carburetor again.

No red light blinked behind him. No siren shrieked him to a stop. A little after midnight, thirty-five miles north of San Diego, he saw a house. It was a house that he had never seen before but he knew instinctively that it was empty. There were no lights in the windows. He turned the car into the drive.

A double garage was at the driveway’s end, and that was empty too. He forced it open with a tire iron, ran the car inside and shut the door. Then he climbed behind the wheel, let his head fall back and closed his eyes. For a while he rested.

For a little while.

But pictures formed in his mind, nebulous figures like gray, accusing ghosts. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of them. They pressed in closer. He sat up straight, opened the glove compartment, took out a pint of Scotch. He drank, the whiskey trickling over his chin. It warmed him, pushed the ghosts away. Presently he slept.

His head was throbbing when he awoke and there was nausea in his stomach and his mind. The ghosts were back again, and in the instant between sleep and waking he saw a woman’s face. Her reproachful eyes looked directly into his. He groaned, fell over on the seat and vomited. As suddenly as she had come the woman disappeared.

There were a couple of drinks left in the pint. He took a white pill from a bottle in his pocket and washed it down with whiskey. When his headache grew a little less intense he began acting in an orderly, decisive manner as though according to a pre-arranged plan. From the glove compartment he took a second pint and put it in his pocket. He felt his wallet but did not open it. He knew how much money it contained. He knew how much was pinned to the inside of his shirt. He opened the door at his side and climbed out of the car.

He started to leave the garage but turned back, unstrapped the car’s registration from the driving shaft. He unscrewed the license plate and took it with him when he went outside.

Inland, the sky was growing light. In another hour it would be dawn. He hurried to the road, walked quickly toward a cluster of lights a quarter of a mile away. The license plate he threw into a ditch.

The lights came from an all-night eatery. Three trucks were parked in front, two of them headed north. The third was headed south. He approached the cafe’s plate-glass window, cautiously looked inside. Three truck drivers drinking coffee at a counter. A languid fry cook with a toothpick in his mouth. He turned away, feeling a faint distaste.

The body of the southbound truck had high sideboards and a canvas top. He parted the canvas at the rear and crawled inside. The truck was not carrying a load. When his eyes had adjusted to the denser darkness, he made out an empty fruit crate. He sat on it, put his arms around his knees and held them tight. Gradually his trembling lessened. He opened the second pint and took a drink.

A screen door slammed and footsteps crunched toward him. He sat very still as the driver climbed into the cab. The motor started and the truck gave a sudden lurch ahead. Although he had been expecting that, it startled him. Then, as they reached the smooth bed of the highway, he settled back into a state of dull acceptance. He focused his eyes on the canvas sidewalls, watched them slowly grow light.

A limp, dark object dangled within his range of vision. Narrowing his eyes, he identified it as a suit of coveralls. Minutes passed before he removed it from its suspending hook. More time went by while he did nothing but sit quietly, holding it in his hands. Then he pulled the coveralls over his own clothes. He rubbed his hands on the floor and smeared his face with dirt. After that he sat and waited while the miles unwound and the dawn turned into morning.

The truck bumped over tracks. He parted the canvas and looked out. San Diego. Another quarter of an hour, at the first stop light... no, the second stop.

2

They stopped, went on for ten more minutes, stopped again. A quick look out the rear showed a deserted street. He dropped from the truck as it was getting under way again. He went quickly to the first corner, rounded it, and rounded two more before he slowed down.

The first used car lot that he found was closed. He entered a lunch room across the street and sat down in a booth.

“Coffee, black,” he told the waitress.

“Juice, eggs, Danish pastry?”

“Just coffee. Wait,” he said. “I’ll have one doughnut, please.”

The doughnut was stale, but the hot coffee gave him strength. He drank two cups. Meanwhile he watched the car lot and went through the pockets of both the coveralls and his own clothes.

His own pockets contained a wallet packed with bills of large denominations, plus a number of more readily negotiable smaller bills. There were also cigarettes, matches, keys, a driving license and the registration of the car he had left behind. That, with his whiskey and the bottle of pills, was the lot. In the coveralls he found a driving license and more cigarettes. The license was in the name of Peter Jarvis Welles — home address, Oxnard. He put it in the breast pocket of his coat. He also saved the two bottles, his money and the cigarettes. The other things he set before him in a little pile.

There was movement in the lot across the street. He picked up the things on the table and went out. He paused at the curb to shred his own papers into bits and drop them with his keys into a trash disposal can. He crossed to the used car lot and stopped before a last year’s Cadillac.

“Yes, sir?” It was a stocky, balding salesman. “Nice job.”

He grinned. “Ain’t for me, mister.” He had spoken to the waitress with no perceptible accent. Now he had an exaggerated southern drawl. “Just figured on something might hold together long enough to get me home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Pine Ridge, Louisiana. Just a little place.”

“Mister, I got just the car for you,” the salesman said.

An hour later he drove an old Pontiac off the lot. It rattled, and there was evidence that at one time it had been wrecked. But it ran, and it was registered in the name of Peter Jarvis Welles. He turned south on the Tia Juana road.

But only for about six blocks. Then something slowed him. Panic, combined with the same sure instinct that had governed his driving the night before. Suddenly he made a right turn, circled the block and sped back the way that he had come. When he left town three quarters of an hour later he was headed east toward the pass through the mountains, toward El Paso and Juarez.

Then for a week he disappeared.

Seven days later a man who identified himself as Peter Jarvis Welles applied for a tourist permit at the Mexican Information Service on the outskirts of Laredo, Texas. His identification was an Arizona automobile registration and a driving license from the same state. His home address was Yuma. The car he drove was a new Buick convertible and its rear end was packed with expensive luggage. He had five thousands dollars in cash and eight bank books showing deposits totalling over one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. He intended, he said, to run down to Monterrey. Because of the rainy season, which would be coming along shortly, he didn’t think he would go farther. The permit was made out.

That was in the afternoon, and he checked in at a motel to kill time until the following morning. Some previous guest had left a newspaper on the closet shelf. He glanced at it casually.

The usual scare headlines. Two airliners had crashed. A boy had murdered his sleeping father with an axe. Police still wanted a man named Richard Hammet, described as a California chain-restaurant magnate. A picture of Hammet accompanied the story. He studied his own features for a moment before crumpling the paper, throwing it away.

Early in May at four-thirty in the morning he drove across the International Bridge to Nuevo Laredo. As dawn was breaking the Buick rolled out on the highway and started on its long trip south to the high mountains.

To the man who called himself Pete Welles, it was as though a thick miasma which had hovered over him for many days had lifted, leaving his mind and breathing free and clear. He turned on the radio. Mexican music blared from the loudspeaker. It was exhilarating. It sounded good.

3

The road descended from the mountains at last, the plateau was left behind. The last turn in the highway was just ahead. The Buick rounded it, coasting down hill, and there below was Acapulco. The houses were pink, yellow and vanilla white; the sea was blue, the setting sun was red. He drove through town and checked in at an unpretentious hotel on a hill overlooking the Pacific. His room had a view of a crescent shaped beach lined with cafes and magnificent hotels. Caleta Beach.

Pete looked down at the warm, white sand. It was evening, but tomorrow the sun would rise again and he could think of nothing he wanted more to do than to lie on that warm sand and forget. His nerves were ragged; he’d been on the run too long. He would crack up if he didn’t get some rest. He crossed to the dresser and studied his reflection in the mirror.

Except for a twitch in the left cheek, the face he saw could have belonged to anyone. The hair was brown, the nose was the usual straight nose. Scattered throughout the town there must be hundreds of Americans who looked like that.

He stood at the mirror, frowning, undecided. South of Acapulco was a remote village named Emancipación. In the rainy season only burros could struggle over the primitive road. He would be safe there until the rains had ended, but after that? Someone would be sure to talk about the eccentric foreigner. The news would spread.

But here in this resort town he could be just another American tourist. It shouldn’t be too hard to act like one. He would have to hole in somewhere, find a house. A hotel, any hotel, was too exposed and dangerous.

Suddenly he went to the door, ran downstairs and out to the car. When he returned a gun was in his pocket, a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight. He did not leave his room again that night, and when he fell into a restless sleep the revolver was on the table by his bed.

He was lucky. The hotel proprietor owned a small house in the hills above Caleta. It was for rent and Martin, his young son, drove Pete up to see it. They climbed a steep road scarred with chuckholes and stopped before a green, heavily padlocked gate. An old man opened the gate and they drove into a car port, parked beside an open porch. Beyond the porch, a footpath ran through a garden to the edge of a steep cliff. From there it zigzagged down to the sea two hundred feet below. The green gate, Pete had noted coming through, was strong, and the house was surrounded on three sides by a high wall.

“The old man came with the house?” he asked.

Martin nodded. “Pedro. He is gardener. Also he sleeps here on the porch to guard. Juanita, his wife, is cook.”

Juanita came out of the tiny servants’ quarters before Pete went upstairs. She was as old and withered as her husband, and very deaf.

The second floor consisted of another porch and two bedrooms. It was a good, safe house. The only other residence of any size was halfway down the hill. Pete took it, paying three months in advance.

That night he stood on the upstairs porch and looked through darkness toward the sea. The electric bulb that was the porch’s only illumination was colored a dull orange. He turned it off.

Going back to the rail, he leaned against it and let the quiet of the night seep into him. Here, this house, was where he would start to live again. No one knew him in Mexico. There would be no more starting awake in the middle of the night, no more bad dreams—

Nice, isn’t it Dick? a woman’s voice said quietly from behind him. So peaceful. But do you think you really deserve peace?

It was Mary’s voice. He turned, almost expecting to see his wife standing there.

But of course she wasn’t. She was dead. Murdered, according to the police.

4

Mary...

He had been deeply in love with her when they had married. He’d worked hard for eight years to give her security and a home. So that today, coming home unexpectedly, he could see a familiar Cadillac on the drive, and hear Bob Cunningham talking in the living room.

He heard his partner’s voice the instant he opened the kitchen door. “Damn it, Mary — I don’t want to go! You know that. But what excuse could I give Ethel?”

He stood motionless and listened to her more softly voiced reply. “Is that important? Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I’ll be left here for six months — alone with Dick?” Silence, followed by a penetrating whisper. “Oh, for God’s sake — there’s his car!”

Maybe he still loved her, in a way. She could hurt him, certainly, if that is any proof. He opened the kitchen door again, and slammed it shut. He walked into the big front room that stretched the full length of the house. Mary sat in a window seat and Bob Cunningham stood facing her. They both turned.

“Forget something, darling?” Mary jumped up and came toward him. She was blonde with a complexion so clear it seemed translucent. She looked delicate and pliable, but so does a blacksnake whip.

“That’s right. Forgot the specifications for the new drive-in.” He crossed to the liquor cabinet. “Drink, Bob?”

“Why not?” His partner was a big man, an ex-athlete who had put on weight. He had a booming voice.

Mary frowned. “Liquor at ten in the morning?”

He looked at her expressionlessly, poured two drinks and handed one to Cunningham. “To you and Ethel, and your trip.”

Bob choked on the straight whiskey. “Doesn’t seem right, going off to Europe while you stay here and do my work. Well!” He shrugged, reaching into his pocket for an envelope. “Here’s that power of attorney. That’s why I came by — to drop it off.”

He opened the envelope and glanced at the paper it contained. “Looks okay.”

“What’s this power of attorney business?” Mary asked.

“Let Bob tell you.” Stairs led up to a narrow landing where the bedrooms were. He climbed them as Cunningham fumblingly explained.

“Well, I won’t be here to sign contracts and such for this new restaurant, so now Dick can do it for me. It’s legal and—”

Dick Hammet closed his bedroom door and leaned against it. Anger, too long repressed, tore loose in him. Oddly, it was triggered less by this evidence of Mary’s cheating than by Cunningham’s bungling explanation. The man was nothing but a stupid slob. It had been Dick’s brains and work that had prodded the firm of Cunningham & Hammet to success. Cunningham only shared in the profits and, it now appeared, in the favors of Dick’s wife.

He got a bottle from his dressing table, went into the bathroom, poured a drink. Swallowing, he remembered that Mary had once called him a bathroom drinker. Mary was right. She always was.

She had been right eight years ago when, before their marriage, she had introduced him to Cunningham and urged the two to go into partnership. It was a good deal, for her. Bob had just married an enormously wealthy woman. This business arrangement had kept him handy. Dick knew the restaurant business. She’d figured he would make out all right. He had. Cunningham & Hammet owned six drive-ins now.

His glass was empty. He slammed it against the wall. It broke and the pieces tinkled to the floor. Unconsciously he must have known of this affair between his partner and his wife for a long time, and unconsciously he had prepared for it. He had Cunningham’s power of attorney and knew exactly what he was going to do.

His headaches had always been bad, but they were getting worse. He had found a buyer for the drive-ins but negotiations were slow. A doctor told him that he was suffering from a walking nervous breakdown, gave him some pills and advised a long rest. Well, he would be taking a vacation soon.

The chain was finally bought by a man named Wallace for a hundred and fifty thousand. Wallace knew there was something shady about the deal, but he also knew that he was getting a bargain. Once he had assured himself that the sale would stand up in court, and that any repercussions might hurt Dick Hammet but not him, he handed over the money.

The night for leaving California was chosen carefully. Mary was having dinner in Pasadena. The house was empty when he got home at six o’clock. He put five thousand dollars in the wall safe of her bedroom, went to his own room and packed. He didn’t hear Mary when she came in. He didn’t know she was in the house until she spoke.

“Going somewhere, Dick?”

She was standing in the doorway. Behind her he could see the railing of the balcony. Frustration rose in him. He gagged on it, bitter, greenish-yellow, in his throat.

“Yes, I am — permanently,” he said. “I’ve left some money in the safe. With your talents, and a little help from Cunningham, you’ll get by.”

She ignored his reference to Cunningham. “How much did you leave?”

“Five thousand.”

“Five thousand,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder how many thousands you’re taking with you. And where you got it.”

Her voice was a painful, gradually increasing pressure on his ear drums. He turned to face her. “I sold the business. I built it, and I’m entitled to anything that I can get.”

“You don’t call that stealing?”

He shook his head. “I figured the same way Cunningham did when he started sleeping with my wife.”

She winced as though he’d slapped her. Then she caught hold of his arms. “Don’t do it, Dick. You’re making a terrible mistake. Don’t leave me!”

“Why not?”

“Bob means nothing to me; he never did. They’ll arrest you. What will happen to me then?”

“You may find it hard to believe, but I don’t care. Now, shut up and get out!”

He pushed her from the room, knowing that he’d lied — knowing that he did care — and locked the door. She pounded on it, but he paid no attention. He went on packing — frantically.

The pounding had stopped but she was still outside the door. He could hear her talking, partly to him and partly to herself. The words came in disjointed phrases. He tried to stop his ears.

“What can I do? What can I do? If only you hadn’t been so hard! They’re sure to catch you, and it will be too late—”

He heard a far-off roar that rapidly came nearer. Her voice grew louder and had an hysterical undertone.

“The police will stop you. I’m going to call the police—!”

The roar was deafening. He unlocked the door and ran out on the balcony. She came back from the stairs, held out her arms.

“Oh, darling — please!”

He pushed her. She fell against the flimsy railing. There was a splintering sound. She screamed once as she fell.

It was an accident. That’s what he told himself as he went down the stairs. She lay on the tiled floor, her neck flung back at an impossible angle. He looked at her, and knew what had happened — and somewhere, something burst...

5

It was morning. Juanita brought him fruit juice, and he dressed in swimming trunks and a sports shirt. The padlock had been removed from the green gate when he went down to the car port. He backed out the convertible.

The road ran downhill toward the boulevard. Halfway down was the house he had noticed the day before. A man ran out of it and waved him to a stop.

“You’re an American, aren’t you? For God’s sake, keep your gate locked. Last night I was robbed for the third time in a month!”

He was like an excited, mammoth baby, fat and pink and bald. The infantile appearance was heightened by his lack of clothes. He was barefoot and wore only a pair of brief white shorts.

“Thieves everywhere! The lousy ladrones can steal the tongue out of your mouth!” His naked torso was half-inside the car. A horn tooted. A beer truck wanted to get by. The bald man called, “Un momentito!” and turned back.

“Where you from?”

“Arizona. That truck’s going to blast me off the road.” Pete nervously let in the clutch.

“How long you going to be in Acapulco?”

He stepped on the accelerator in reply. At the foot of the hill he turned right into the boulevard. He left the car in a parking lot at Caleta Beach. There was a line of cafes on the ocean side of the lot. He sat at a rickety table under a palm tree, and three waitresses in flowing skirts converged on him.

The first to reach the table was pretty in a bosomy, broad-hipped sort of way. “I talk you inglés, boy,” she said, and shrieked at the other waitresses. “Is mine! Largo de aqui! Go ’way!”

“Black coffee and toast, please.”

“No tostados, boy. You like tortillas?”

“Just coffee.”

“Okay, boy.” She left him alone with a swarm of flies.

The mosquitos were bad, too. He was ready to leave when the waitress returned with a thick cup. She put it in front of him and sat down herself. The day was hot and she did not use a deodorant.

“Chucha, me. Who you, boy?”

“Pete.” He sipped the coffee.

“Pete. Is pretty name. You think me pretty?”

“Gorgeous.”

“You talk me inglés so I talk good?”

“Sometime.” He put the money on the table and got up.

Chucha was surprised. “You no like coffee?”

“Changed my mind,” he said, and walked away.

Crossing the parking lot he looked back. Chucha still sat at the table. She was drinking the rejected coffee and staring moodily out to sea.

Then he noticed a cafe he had overlooked before. The walls were of bamboo, the roof was thatched. The interior looked dark and cool. A sign above the entrance read Tahiti Bar. He opened a half-door and stepped inside. Directly ahead was a flagged terrace. It was spotted with low tables around which only a few people lounged. Beyond the tables was an azure cove reached by a stretch of clean, white sand. More people were on the sand. Surfboards and kayaks were sprinkled over the water, and far out he saw the sails of a white yacht. There were no mosquitos and no flies.

He sat as close to the beach as he could get, and ordered toast and coffee. Both were hot and good. He killed time for an hour and watched the place fill up.

A man sat down beside him. “See you found my hangout.” It was the baldheaded man who had been robbed. “Bohemia,” he told the waiter, and looked at Pete. “Have one? Better beer than we get in the states.”

“No, thanks.” Pete braced himself against the questions sure to come.

They came and he answered them consistently. His home was in Yuma and he expected to be in Acapulco about three months. He was in the trucking business. That last, he thought, was a neat touch.

The fat man introduced himself as Jack Pascault. He knew everyone in town and was a self-admitted gossip. Pete listened to his mildly ribald stories for a while, then suddenly lost interest. His attention had been caught by a girl who was coming up the beach. She carried a straw mat and wore a dark blue swimming suit. She spread the mat on the sand and sat down not more than fifteen feet away.

Pete had never seen the girl before, but there was something familiar about her. She was slender, with lovely, long, brown legs. Her features were delicate and her fair hair, swept straight back from her forehead, was secured by a fillet of black ribbon.

Pascault was grinning. “Nice, isn’t she?” he said, and Pete found that he disliked him intensely. On the other hand, nothing so stamps a vacationing businessman as an amatory interest in a pretty girl.

“Very nice. Who is she?” he asked.

“Karen Brewer. That’s her aunt, the one with the musclebound Adonis in red trunks.”

He indicated a woman who had followed the blonde girl at a more leisurely pace. She had a forty-year-old face and an eighteen-year-old body, and she wore a yellow play suit puffed out at the hips. Her hair was short and unnaturally bronze. Her hand rested on the forearm of a sullen young man, but with no effect of clinging. She seemed to be steering him as though he were a rather stupid horse.

The young man was decorative, but not much else. He had a deep chest, small hips and thick, sloping shoulders. His light, curly hair looked as though it had been carefully set in the morning and expected to stay in place all day.

She dismissed him as they neared the terrace. “You’re still hungover, Andy. Go take a nap.” The young man scowled at her and went back the way that he had come. The woman saw Jack Pascault, climbed to the table and sat down.

“Hi, folks.” Her accent placed her as having come from Texas. “Scotch,” she told the waiter. She smiled at Pete. “Hello.” She had an unexpectedly youthful and attractive smile.

“Pete Welles, Fran Garvey.” Pascault called the waiter back. “Make that two Scotches.”

“Make it three,” Pete said.

Karen Brewer came up from the beach. She stood beside her aunt. “Do I rate a chair?”

Pete rose quickly and pulled one out for her.

6

Karen lay on a surfboard and studied the man she had just met. He was smiling up at her, his compact body half-in, half-out of the water. He was attractive, all right. A little nervous, perhaps. He had a funny twitch in his cheek and seemed to be under some kind of strain, but so are lots of men when they first come to Acapulco. They get cured. The sun baked the strain out of them, the sea washed it away.

Pete Welles. He was a widower; that had been one of the first things he had told her about himself. She had filed the information for possible future references. She smiled. It was amusing — the thought of keeping a file on eligible males.

“It’s not polite to laugh at a man who’s pushing you,” he told her. “Furthermore, you’re getting lazy. Time you had a swim.”

She lay on her side, one hand in the water. Shaking her head, — “Too tired” — she flicked a little water in his face.

“That’s disrespectful.” He tilted the board, let her slide into the sea. His arms encircled her as she went under the water. She let him hold her, let him lift her up...

All morning he had been troubled by a headache. He remembered it now, saying goodbye to her, and was surprised to find that it had gone. She walked away, and he watched until she’d disappeared.

Chucha called to him as he crossed the parking lot. “You come back mañana, boy? Talk me inglé?” He pretended not to hear.

On the way home he stopped to lay in a supply of Scotch. Four fifths and, for more immediate consumption, an extra pint. He had lunch when he got back to the house. Then he lay down for a nap.

He awoke refreshed and thinking of Karen Brewer, remembering the curve of her full lips when she laughed. He walked over to a window and looked down at the road.

A car was coming up the hill. Its paint job was light khaki, the official color of the Acapulco police. He backed quickly to the center of the room, and stood there listening to the approaching motor. It grew louder until it was directly below the window — and then it passed. The car had gone on up the hill.

The pint bottle was on his dresser. He took a drink.

The bottle was empty when he went to bed that night. About midnight he was roused from sleep by the sound of a closing door. There were footsteps in the car port down below. He got his revolver, took a flashlight and tiptoed down the stairs.

The moon was bright. He could clearly see Pedro sleeping on his cot, the handle of a machete projecting from under his pillow. No one was in the kitchen. Moonlight flooded the area around the dining table. No one was on the porch. He went to the car port.

A bicycle leaned against the open gate. A slight figure was putting something in the basket strapped to the handlebars. Pete raised the flashlight, clicked it on. The beam fell on a boy’s frightened face.

It was Martin, his landlord’s son.

Pete let out his pent-up breath. “What’s going on?”

Martin was frightened. “It is my father, señor. He forget. He leave things here in kitchen closet. He say to me, when you finish work, go get them. You are sleeping and I don’t like waking you. I have key.”

“Okay,” Pete said. “You get the stuff?”

“You want to see these things I take?”

“Of course not. Sorry I scared you.”

“I am not scared. Good night, señor.”

Pete watched him lock the gate and push his bicycle down the road. He was wide awake now, and went into the kitchen for a drink. He opened the closet and felt on the shelf for the four bottles of Scotch he had bought that afternoon. The bottles were gone.

He ran to the gate. Down the road he saw a moving shadow. “Come back here!” he yelled.

The shadow hesitated, then kept on moving down the hill.

“You little thief! I ought to beat the hell out of you. Tell your father I said so. Tell your father—!”

The shadow mingled with other shadows and was lost. Pete went angrily to the stairs. Pedro was sitting on his cot. He spoke to the old man.

“Tomorrow I will buy a new padlock for the gate. You will have one key and I the other. No one — understand me? — absolutely no one is to enter this house without my permission.”

“Si, señor. I understand.”

7

Jack Pascault’s lower lip projected like a segment of ripe orange. It was late afternoon, and he sat with Pete on a stone wall above the bay. Below them some of the world’s most expert swimmers and water skiers were putting on an exhibition. Jack paid no attention. A girl had promised to meet him here, and had failed to keep her date.

Pete had watched impossible jumps, astounding acrobatics and a graceful water ballet. Now the feature attraction of the afternoon was coming up. It was a man who started off on a single ski. Pulled by a speed boat, he gingerly lifted his left foot from the ski and put it in the water. He was drawn for fifty yards like that; then, so quickly that it was impossible to see how it was done, he kicked the ski away and dropped his right foot, too. The crowd rose to applaud as he sped past, skiing on the soles of his bare feet. Pete rose with the others.

Jack got up, too, and stretched. “Let’s get some beer,” he said.

They made their way through the crowd and climbed to the clubhouse. There were tables on the veranda, and Fran Garvey was at one of them. She tried to catch Pete’s attention but he was purposely looking the other way.

Jack caught the small by-play. He got bottles from the bar and drew Pete inside out of sight. “That’s using your head. There are times when Fran’s a little too rich for the ordinary palate.”

“Thought she was a friend of yours.”

“I like her. I like butter, too, but a steady diet would harden my arteries.” Jack sucked at his bottle. “Got too much money, for one thing. She spends it collecting beautiful boy friends.”

“Such as the guy who was with her yesterday?”

Pascault nodded. “Andy Shultz. He’s about due to be replaced. Poor fellow’ll be on the beach without so much as a swan’s-down pillow on which to lay his curly head.”

“Tough.”

“Tougher than you know. Fran likes you. She’s got her eye on you for next in line.”

“Not in the market, thanks.” Pete drank his beer. “Where does Karen fit into that kind of set-up?”

“She’s just visiting. And looking for a husband, incidentally.”

Pete shrugged. “A husband should be easy for her to find.”

“Not in Acapulco. The men here, myself included, think in terms of less permanent arrangements. But Karen’s a romantic.” Pascault gave him a knowing grin. “Given to moonlight strolls along the beach. I’m fair. I tell you that much so we can get off to an even start.”

Pete stiffened. “Devoted a lot of study to her, haven’t you?”

“Why not? She’s worth a little spade work.” Pascault finished his bottle. “More beer?”

“No.”

“How about some Scotch?”

“No.” He said it brusquely.

“Hey!” The fat man frowned at him, surprised. “I didn’t know you were serious about the girl. Don’t get sore.”

“I’m not sore. I have a headache. For Christ’s sake, is that a crime?”

It was Pascault who was sore now. “It’s your head. I don’t give a damn if it falls off.”

He turned away, and Pete went out to his car. He drove to the Zocalo. Sitting outside a cafe he watched the sun go down. It was dark when the waiter brought his check. Paying it left him short of cash. His money, with only a small part of it converted into pesos, was hidden in an olla hanging on his bedroom wall. He returned to the house, took three hundred pesos from the olla and drove down the hill again. Passing the parking lot behind the Tahiti, he impulsively turned in.

The Tahiti was primarily a swimming club and closed at sunset, although the second-class cafe next door stayed open all night. Pete walked around to the ocean side. A full moon lay on the horizon like an ivory cue ball on a pool table. He sat on the sand and listened to jukebox music coming faintly from far away.

Presently a girl walked between him and the moon. It was Karen. She moved slowly, and after she had passed he could still make out her figure on the beach. She went to the end of it and turned back, walking higher on the sand. When she came near enough he saw that she was carrying her straw mat.

She spread the mat on the edge of the terrace and sat down. He didn’t move, and for a full half-minute she did not move either. Then she raised her hand to smooth a straying lock of hair, and it was a gesture he had often seen Mary make when he’d first loved her and been watchful of the slightest of her gestures. Mary was dead, but this girl—

He rose silently, and stepped around to stand in front of her. She looked up, startled. He caught her wrists, pulled her up and kissed her on the mouth. He did not mean to frighten or to hurt her. She fought him savagely, and he let her go.

“Karen,” he said, “I only—”

“What’s the matter with you? I think you must be crazy!”

“Now, wait!” He tried to catch her wrists again. “Wait a minute!”

But she was no longer there. She was down near the water, running, stumbling away from him across the sand.

He was running after her. She heard him and went faster. “Wait, damn it!” he shouted. “Stop!” She did not stop. They ran past stacked deck chairs and piled-up beach umbrellas. The lights of a hotel were coming near. He saw her push inside.

8

His head was pounding when he returned to the Tahiti. She had left her beach mat on the terrace. He carried it to his car. He opened the luggage compartment, tossed in the mat and started to lower the top again. When it was halfway down he stopped, abruptly pushed it up. The moon lit up the interior of the compartment. He was shocked by what he saw inside.

A paper bag from which the necks of four whiskey bottles protruded. It was the Scotch he had accused Martin of stealing, and which he was sure he remembered putting in the closet of his kitchen. He did nothing for a count of five.

Then he carefully withdrew one bottle, opened it with the corkscrew which was an attachment of his pocketknife, and took a deep, long drink. He waited a quarter of a minute, then lifted the bottle to his lips again.

Pain thudded through his forehead at regular, short intervals. It was blinding. He took another drink and climbed behind the wheel.

Footsteps approached the car. “No work tonight, boy. Is Domingo — Sunday. Is pretty, no — the automóvil?”

It was Chucha. He didn’t look at her. He held the bottle on his lap.

“You got whiskey? I like whiskey. Is more better as tequila. We go for ride in automóvil, drink whiskey, have good time?”

“No.”

“No? You loco. Good girl, me.”

He turned his head. He saw her foggily, as through a reddish mist.

“Loco?”

“Oh, yes! Why we no go for ride?”

Someone said, “Get in the car.” It sounded like his voice.

The beach lobby was deserted when Karen entered the hotel. Already she had recovered from the shock that Pete had given her, and which, now that she’d had time to consider it, turned out not to have been such a great shock after all.

She wondered why she had reacted so violently. Pete Welles had kissed her but, after all, she had clowned around with him on the surfboard, and he probably had thought—

It made no difference what he thought. Next time she saw him she would be polite but, at first, a little distant. What might develop later would depend on how he took the arms-length treatment.

She took the elevator to the lobby at street level. The wide entrance to the bar was on the right. Fran was in there with her usual crowd of free-loaders. Andy stood on the outskirts of the group. His eyes met Karen’s, and she quickly turned away. She went outside and stood under the porte-cochere, facing the boulevard.

A Buick convertible drove past. Pete Welles was at the wheel. A woman sat beside him, but Karen couldn’t see her face. The convertible passed under a street lamp, went on into the darkness on the other side.

For no reason she could understand, Karen suddenly felt shaken and alone. She went back thoughtfully into the crowded lobby of the hotel.

The moon was no longer an ivory cue ball. It looked more like a shrunken lemon hung by invisible wires up in the sky. He lay on sand, and the lights of Acapulco glittered across water at least five miles away. He must have circled the bay and gone to sleep here on the beach. He had no recollection of anything that had happened since he’d found the whiskey. There was a bottle by his side.

His headache was gone, and he felt alert and hungry. He got lightly to his feet, brushed sand from his clothes and looked back at the road. The Buick was there. His ability to drive quite normally when he had been drinking had always amazed him. Carrying the bottle, he walked back to the car. The clock on the dashboard showed ten minutes after twelve.

At twenty-five to one he parked in front of a low, blue building loud with dance music. He left the convertible and went inside. In the crowded bar he found a vacant stool. He ordered Scotch and asked to see a menu.

A waiter came and Pete described the steak he wanted — very rare. Waiting for it, he sipped his whiskey and wondered what had happened to Chucha. It was curious, he thought, that until this moment he had forgotten having been with the waitress earlier that evening. Even now he couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, if they had talked...

9

A man at the end of the bar was staring at him with an odd expression. Pete recognized him: Andy Shultz. Andy’s expression was more difficult to place. It was too detached to be called hatred, but it was deeper than the instinctive dislike one human being might feel for another at first sight. Andy must have seen him at the Tahiti with Fran Garvey. The damn fool probably thought he was interested in Fran.

The waiter served his steak. It looked delicious, red under a thin layer of charred black. He cut off a corner and tasted it. Perfectly seasoned. He started to take another bite.

Then he noticed that the noisy chatter at the bar had suddenly been silenced. Everyone was looking toward the door. Four heavily armed policemen had come in. The head waiter was talking to them; he shrugged and spread his hands. It was an expressive gesture, indicating that he was helpless if the police insisted on coming further but that it would do no good and that he would appreciate it if they went away.

To Pete’s intense relief they nodded and backed out. He took a drink and listened to the exited murmur that swelled up.

A man said, “Same damn cops stopped me on the road a while ago.”

The woman beside him lit a cigarette. “What do you expect? When there’s a murder—”

“So what? Another Mexican girl gets knifed by her boy friend.”

“But this was a particularly brutal murder. They say the blood—”

The woman’s voice fell to an inaudible whisper. Pete stared at his plate of meat. It was nauseating. He pushed himself to his feet. Andy grinned at him as he went out.

Pete leaned against his car, inhaling the clean night air. It had been hot in the night club. Cigarette smoke and the odor of food must have made his sick. He started for Acapulco, and a few minutes later three policemen flagged him down.

It was a road block. Two policemen remained beside it; a third approached the Buick.

“Your name?”

Pete fumbled for his tourist permit. The policeman only glanced at it. “Norteamericano? Pass,” he said.

The new padlock was on the gate. He undressed quickly, took the Smith & Wesson from its hiding place and laid it on the bedside table. He emptied the pockets of his slacks.

Everything, as was his habit, went into the small drawer of the bedside table. Keys, a handkerchief, his wallet and some change. He tossed the slacks on the adjoining twin bed, and emptied the breast pockets of his shirt.

Cigarettes and matches, and finally his pocketknife. That should not have been in the shirt pocket; it was much too heavy. He put the knife with his other belongings, and pulled down his bedclothes. He reached for the light.

But he didn’t click it off. He stood with his hand on the light switch for a moment, then turned back to the bed. There was a stain where his hand had touched the sheet. It was a dark stain, reddish brown. He looked down at his hand. After a long while, moving very slowly, he picked up his knife. He pried open its long blade.

Both blade and handle were sticky, smeared with a brown viscous fluid. The knife fell as memory spurted into his mind. Memory came back, not in a flood, but in a thin, hard intermittent stream...

He stopped by the roadside and opened the car door. “Come on. End of the line.”

“Why for you stop, boy?”

“You’ll see. Get out.”

She climbed from the car. The underbrush was thick. His knife was in the left-hand pocket of his slacks.

“You loco, boy. What we do here?”

“You’ll see.” The blade was sharp. He could feel its sharpness, shifting the knife to his right hand...

10

Nightmare.

The sheets were wet with perspiration. He knew he’d had a terrible and vivid dream but his waking mind rejected the details. He got up and went into the bathroom. By the angle of conjoining shade and sunlight he knew it was late.

The water in the shower was tepid. He still felt sweaty when he dried himself. A glass and a bottle of whiskey were on the floor. He poured a drink and choked it down.

It made him sick. He carried the bottle to the bathroom, put it in the shower stall out of sight.

The screen door opened and Pedro came in. “A man señor. He says to give you this.”

Pete took the card. On one side had been scrawled, “Party tonight. Come on over. Please?” The last word had been underlined. On the other side were printed directions for finding Fran Garvey’s house. Pete tossed the card on his dresser. He sat on the bed and stared at the drawer of the bedside table.

He did not open it. Last night he had dreamed of putting his knife in there. It had been a confused and frightening dream, and his memory of it was vague. Let it stay that way. There was something he didn’t want to remember about the knife.

The evening came at last. He lay on his bed, staring through darkness at the ceiling. There was a lizard on the wall. It would stay as lifeless as a broken twig until a mosquito came within striking distance. Then its long tongue would flick out and the mosquito would disappear. The lizard would make a chucking sound like laughter. Another lizard on the porch would chuck, chuck back at him.

It takes time to learn to live with lizards. Mexicans like them. They say they bring good luck. But suddenly Pete couldn’t stand the chucking another minute. He had to get out. He dressed and went down to the car port.

Fran Garvey lived in a huge house overlooking the bay. He drove the Buick up a steep hill and parked among approximately thirty other cars. It was a big and noisy party. He could hear it through the house, coming from somewhere on the other side.

He entered the house, passed an improvised bar and went out on the terrace. The lawn was crowded with Fran’s guests. Waiters circulated among them, collecting and refilling glasses. Beyond a swimming pool, four men in black trousers and pink silk shirts beat energetically on a marimba. Submerged lights glowed in the kidney shaped pool. On his right was a small guest house. He looked for Karen but could not find her. He walked toward the pool.

As he neared the guest house Andy Shultz came out of it. He passed in front of Pete and went to speak to Jack Pascault who was standing a few yards away. Pascault looked up, and saw Pete.

He frowned, said something in an undertone to Andy. Then he walked over to a middleaged couple at the far end of the pool. He spoke to them and went on to whisper to several others. Pete felt his face grow hot. He walked quickly toward the fat, baldheaded man.

The first couple fell silent as he passed. The same thing happened when he neared the second group. It seemed to him that all the people on the lawn had lowered their voices to one insinuating funneled whisper. Even the marimba music was subdued. His feet slowed to a stop. Everyone was staring at him. He could catch no one actually doing it, but there was a tingling sensation up and down his spine. He turned, retreated to the terrace, went inside the house.

He stood at the bar, glass in hand, and asked himself what the hell he was doing here, at a party where people talked about him and where he was obviously unwelcome. He set the glass down and walked to the front door. Someone called him but he didn’t answer. He was going somewhere. Maybe he was going home.

“You’re not leaving, are you, Pete?” a light voice asked.

He had already started down the steps. He stopped, turned back. Karen stood in the doorway. Light streamed past her, outlining her slim figure, touching her pale hair with bronze.

She came slowly to the steps. “I’d like to talk to you,” she said. “Provided you’re not... excitable, the way you were last night.”

He smiled. “If I do get excited I promise not to let it show.” Behind Karen, he saw Andy at the bar. Andy was watching. “Too many people at this party. Let’s go for a ride.”

She went with him to his car. He helped her in and walked around to climb behind the wheel. But he didn’t start the motor. He caught the clean scent of the perfume she was wearing. A cool breeze carried the tinkle of marimba music from the pool.

He put his arms around her and she did not resist. But when his kiss became demanding she pulled away.

“They can see us from the house.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. Andy’s on the porch.”

He released her. He sat studying her profile for a full quarter of a minute. Then he pushed the starter button. The motor sounded sullen as it caught.

11

Andy returned through the noisy room and went into the library at the far end. He picked up the telephone and told the long-distance operator that he wanted to speak to a man named Stewart Winslow in Beverly Hills, California. The operator said that she would call him back. He pushed a button on the desk. The door opened after a moment, and a man in a white jacket came in.

He was young and good-looking. His complexion was dark but his hair had been bleached light brown by the sun. All except one strip across the top which was peroxide blond. He stopped abruptly when he saw who had rung the bell.

Andy grinned. “Get me a drink, Eddie. Bourbon on the rocks.”

Eduardo nodded and went out. The door slammed, and Andy shrugged. He didn’t blame Eddie for hating him. If the circumstances had been reversed he would have been hated the young Mexican. But at present he was on the comfortable inside looking out. Looking out and back to what he had been in Beverly Hills less than a year before.

Broke. Things were so tough that he’d been forced to take a job as night counterman in one of the Cunningham & Hammet drive-ins. The manager was an easy-going sort. As long as Andy did his work he was left pretty much alone.

Cunningham never showed up in the place. The only time the going was likely to get rough was when Hammet would unexpectedly make the rounds. Then everybody had to look bright and eager and super-efficient, particularly when, as often happened, the boss was carrying a load.

Then there was no telling what might happen. Hammet got funny ideas when he was drinking. Like the night Andy had saved him from being run in by the cops...

Andy saw him when he parked, and sent a car hop back to warn the kitchen gang. Everything was going nice and smooth when Hammet came in and sat down at the counter, playing that worn-out incognito routine. The dipso thought that, because he didn’t know the people on his payroll they couldn’t possibly know him.

Andy brought the special hamburger that the cook had fixed, and served it with a little flourish. Hammet was potted, all right, but the only way you could tell it was by his eyes. The girl on the next stool was talking to him, and he was nodding and occasionally saying a word or two, the way you’d treat anybody who was trying to start a conversation, but he didn’t know what she was saying. He didn’t really know that she was there.

When it happened, it came so fast that seconds passed before Andy could piece it together. All of a sudden the boss looked hard at the girl. Then he hit her in the face. After that he took a sip of coffee. He went on eating his hamburger as though everything was perfectly all right.

The girl sat staring at him, her mouth open and her left eye getting red. Everybody else was staring at him, too. The cook came out of the kitchen to see what was going on. The girl got up and ran to the phone booth in the corner. She put in a dime and dialed, “O.”

Andy leaned over the counter. “Better get out of here,” he whispered. “Get out fast!”

“What are you talking about?” There was a stupid frown on the boss’s face.

“That girl you hit is calling the cops.”

“I hit—?” Hammet looked at the phone booth. “Why should I hit her? I never even saw—”

“Don’t ask me why. You only got a couple of minutes, Mr. Hammet. I’d go out through the window in the men’s room if I was you.”

Most of the crowd had vanished before the police arrived. The cops asked Andy what had happened. He told them that he hadn’t seen anything personally but that the guy they were looking for was probably in the men’s room. They looked in there but the room was empty and the window open.

The manager spoke to Andy as he was going to work the following night. “Sorry, fellow, but the head office called this afternoon. They’re cutting down expenses. You’re the last hired, so you’re the first to go.”

Andy’s smile was humorless. “And they tell you that hard work and loyalty to the boss is the way to get ahead.”

“Did he know you recognized him?”

“He couldn’t help but know it. I called him by name.”

The manager sighed. “Well, there’s your answer. Wouldn’t surprise me if we all got fired now, one by one...”

The telephone rang. Andy picked it up. “Bueno,” he said to the operator. Then, “Stew? Andy Shultz... I’m fine, but listen. Remember that drive-in I used to work for? Well, one of the guys that owned it was named Ham-met. I was wondering—”

An excited squawking came out of the telephone. Andy smiled. “Yeah?... You don’t say I... Well, what do you know. What do you know!” he said.

12

They called it Brewer’s Guided Tour, and laughed because that sounded funny. They laughed at a lot of things that night. They went to three night clubs, and danced and drank champagne. They had precisely the right amount of champagne to impart a glow to everything they saw and a febrile excitement to everything they heard. And some time after midnight they found themselves in the parking lot behind the Tahiti. The cafe next to it was open, but they passed it and pushed open the half-door of the Tahiti, and went inside. They sat on the terrace, their feet resting on the sand.

“Remember last night? I must have given you a bad scare,” he said. “Where did you go?”

“Into the hotel. And I wasn’t really scared. I saw you again.”

He frowned. “You did?”

“You drove past.” Their shoulders were touching and she felt him suddenly grow rigid. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He lay back on the terrace, using his forearm as a pillow.

“Nothing?” She turned to face him. “Was she attractive?”

“Who?”

“The woman you were with?”

“I don’t remember any woman. I must have been drunk.”

There was silence between them. The tide was on the ebb. “You know what I’m thinking?” Karen said.

“Maybe.”

“About liquor.”

“Yeah.”

“We all drink too much. It isn’t a method of relaxing any more. It’s a way of life. And the next day we don’t remember half of what happened. Look at all the fun we lose.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s one of the reasons I’m going to cut it out.”

“You are? I’m glad,” she said.

He sat up and pulled her to him. “I’m going to tell you the truth.” His voice was low and utterly sincere. “There was a time when I needed liquor. It blunted all the jagged edges, and I used to be full of those. But I don’t need it any more. That’s finished. See—?” He kissed her. “Finished as of now.”

They lay back on the terrace, and Karen’s fingers were gentle on his cheek. A jukebox started to play next door. She shook her head and sat up straight.

“Know what I’d like to do? I’d like to take a swim.”

He laughed. “There’s a little village south of here — Emancipación. Wonderful beach, a few fishing boats — that’s all. If we leave now we can get there for breakfast.”

She looked away, said nothing for a moment. Then quietly she turned back. “All right.”

He got to his feet, elated. “I’ve never been there, but I feel as though I were going home. It’s where I was headed when I got side-tracked here in Acapulco.”

“I’ll have to change my clothes.”

“Of course. And get a swimming suit.” He took his money out and counted it. “Only a hundred and ten pesos. Have to get some more. We’ll pick up your stuff first.”

“And have you roped in by Fran?” She put her hands on his shoulders, pulled herself up. “I’d never pry you loose. I’ll take a taxi and meet you here.”

“Make it next door. Don’t want you waiting in the dark.”

They went through the half-door and back across the parking lot. Pete hailed a taxi on the boulevard. He helped her in.

“Half an hour be time enough?”

“Plenty.”

“Something I want to tell you, Karen.” He lowered his voice, leaning into the cab. “I’ve had a rough time lately. Give you the whole story one of these days. But I’m coming out of it now, thanks to you. I’m very grateful.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

The taxi made a U-turn on the boulevard. He got in his car and started up the hill. Coming in sight of his house, he saw that all the lights were burning, both upstairs and down. The green gate was standing open. He parked beside it, walked rapidly through the car port. He went even faster when he heard Juanita’s high-pitched voice. He rounded the corner near the stairs.

Pedro sat on his cot. Juanita stood above him, putting a bandage on his head. There was blood on the bandage and more blood on a towel on the floor. The old man saw Pete and tried to rise.

“Bandits, señor! They come when I am sleeping. Call the police!”

Juanita pushed him down. “Be still, viejo verde! Three ladrones, all giants,” she told Pete. “They hit my brave Pedro on the head.”

“Let me see.” He examined the cut. It was clean and not too deep. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No hospital! Hospitals are where people go to die!”

Pete let it pass. The wound wasn’t serious; Juanita could attend to it. He ran upstairs and went into his bedroom. It was a wreck. Both beds were torn apart. Clothes had been removed from the dresser and the closet, and what had not been stolen was scattered on the floor. The broken remnants of the olla in which his money had been hidden were at his feet.

He thought dully that this had been the pattern of his life. A little happiness followed immediately by violent disruption. He stepped on a fragment of the olla, ground it into powder, turned away.

13

In the bathroom he found something the thieves had overlooked: the bottle of whiskey he had put in the shower stall. He took it back to the bedroom, drew the cork. But before he drank he went inside the closet, ran his fingers along the ledge above the door. The Smith & Wesson was in its hiding place. He stood with the revolver in one hand and the whiskey in the other. He took a drink and tried to plan what he should do.

The strong liquor ran screaming through his blood stream, reawakening all the alcohol he’d had before. He would have to meet Karen. If he scrimped like hell they could still make the trip. Tomorrow he would wire for money. Karen mustn’t be disappointed, but already he was disappointing her. He was drinking, although he hadn’t meant to drink. He would have to go now, keep his date.

He drank again. The ladrones had done a thorough job, all right. He wished he’d been here and that he’d had a chance to use the thirty-eight. Damned gun wasn’t much use now. Tossing it on the bed, he started for the door.

He stopped, and slowly turned around. He stared at the bedside table, walked to it and deliberately took hold of the handle of the drawer. He pulled it open, looked inside.

The drawer was empty but there were dark brown stains on the wood. He looked at the brown stains, and sat down on the bed.

The bottle was half-full. He held it for a long time to his lips.

The bottle was empty. He opened his hand and let it fall. It smashed on the floor but that didn’t make much difference. The floor was already littered with broken trash. He looked at his watch. More than an hour had passed. He got up, lurched out the door.

Five minutes later the Buick raced into the Tahiti parking lot. He jumped from the car, ran into the Mexican cafe. Karen wasn’t there. He hurried through the cafe and scanned the tables under the palm trees on the other side. He didn’t see her. He went back inside. Leaning against the bar, he ordered Scotch.

Someone put a fifty-centavo piece in the jukebox. The jangling music grated on his nerves. He slammed his empty glass down on the bar and told the barkeep that he wanted another drink but that it was too damned noisy here. He wanted it outside.

He lost his balance going through the door, and saved himself from a fall by catching at a chair. A girl was sitting in the chair, and he saw that it was Karen. He sat down heavily.

“Where you been? Looked all over. Came out here,” he said.

“I know. I spoke to you.”

“Didn’t hear you. Terrible thing happened. House was robbed.”

She was silent.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything? I was robbed! Ladrones cleaned me out.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “What did they take?”

“Everything. Took my money. Took my knife.”

“Your what?”

“Knife!” He was shouting at her. “Bastards stole it. Stole it out of drawer. What’s the matter? Can’t you understand?”

A shapely brown arm came before his eyes. Attached to it was a woman’s hand. In the hand was a shot glass of Scotch. He looked up at the waitress. She smiled down at him.

You think me pretty, boy? We go for ride, drink whiskey, have good time?

He knocked over his chair as he got up. He fell against the table, spilled the Scotch. Chucha backed away, and with each step she changed a little. At a distance of two yards she was no longer Chucha. She was a waitress he had never seen before.

Karen had risen, too. She was staring at him. There was a beach bag on the table. She picked it up and walked away.

14

Last night he had reached dead end. He put his clothes on slowly, his fingers nervous with the buttons of his shirt. Fully dressed, he tried to reconstruct as much as he could of what had happened. The house had been burglarized. He had gone back to the beach cafe and talked to Karen. After that, a blank. He went down to the car port.

The Buick was parked nearly in the center. The gate was still open, and he saw that the padlock had been forced. With no preliminary warning, he began to shake. He went into the kitchen, got a bottle from the closet and carried it upstairs.

But he did not drink. He stood with the bottle in his hand, and after a moment put it in the bedroom closet on the shelf. It was eleven-thirty, the time when Karen was usually at the beach. He did not feel up to facing a lot of people, but there was a chance that she might be at home. He returned to the car port and drove to the nearest public phone.

Fran Garvey answered. “You as corpselike as I am?”

“I’m pretty dead. Is Karen there?”

“Hear you got took last night. Need any cash?”

“I’ll get by. Is Karen—?”

“She’s at Caleta. Just getting by’s no fun. Come on over?”

“I can’t right now.”

“Look, Pete,” she said. “Let’s stop this horsing around. I like you — know what I mean? Come on over, and let’s talk.”

“Sorry. I’ve got a lot of things to do.”

He hung up, drove to the post office to send a telegram, then went straight home. A police car was parked at the green gate. Pedro stood beside it talking to the driver. The driver hadn’t seen him yet, and Pete slammed on the brakes. His hands grew wet with perspiration as he tried desperately to think. His mind was frozen. He needed a drink to thaw it, start it functioning again...

Once when he was eight years old he had been awakened by the soft click of a closing latch. He was lying on the couch in the living room of his parents’ house. His father was asleep in the big chair across the room. He could see his father, and the bottle on the floor beside him, by the light of a street lamp through the window. His mother—

His mother was in the room, too. It was she who had clicked the latch shut and awakened him. She was not alone.

“Dead to the world,” he heard her whisper. “Didn’t I tell you, honey? Didn’t I tell you it’d be okay?”

The shadow of a man, a stranger with his hat on, showed against the dimly lighted window. “I ain’t so sure. Maybe we better—”

“He’s passed out, hon. Nothing to be scared of. Come on.”

“How about the kid?”

“Slept right through an earthquake once. Door’s over here, hon. Anyhow, the kid’s too young to know—”

He was not too young. He lay on the couch after they had gone into the bedroom, shivering. He stared through down-pressing gloom, telling himself it hadn’t happened, that what he’d seen and heard had been a dream. Across the room his father muttered in his sleep. The bottle beside him reflected the light from the street.

He got out of bed, tiptoed to the big chair. When he returned he had the bottle. It was sherry. He lay in bed and sucked the strong, sweet wine. It made him warm and comfortable. His body was so light it seemed to float. He giggled quietly.

In the morning everything was as it had been before. His mother was in the kitchen, his father in the bathroom. The bad things he had dreamed had been just that, parts of a bad dream. Everything was exactly as it had always been except that under his bedclothes he found an empty sherry bottle.

He got rid of that by putting it in the trash. Then the memory of it, too, assumed a misty quality. It had never happened...

Pete started the convertible and ran it into the car port. He climbed out, nodded stiffly to the police lieutenant on the porch. “Just a minute, please.” He went upstairs. When he came back he was smiling and at ease.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Mr. Welles, my name is Gomez. I must ask you a few questions.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

Gomez sat on the far side of the table. He was about thirty, slender and with thin hands. “I have come to inquire why you did not report the robbery of last night.”

Pete took a chair opposite him. “How did you hear about it?”

“One learns these things. Is it true your house was robbed?”

“It’s true. My gardener—”

“Pedro was asleep when these men came. His identification would be worthless. His wife describes ten giants. And you?”

“They’d cleared out by the time I got home.”

“What did they steal?”

“A little money,” Pete said. “Some clothes. That’s all.”

“How much money?”

“Approximately five hundred pesos. Not a great deal.”

The policeman shrugged. “Not to you, perhaps. To many of my countrymen it represents two months hard work. This money was in pesos?”

“All pesos. Why?”

“A man was arrested this morning,” Gomez said. “A known thief. In his possession we found money. Hundred and five-hundred dollar United States bills. But that, of course, could not be yours.”

There was only the slightest hesitation before Pete shook his head. “Afraid not.”

Gomez produced a manila envelope. He held it upside down above the table. A pocket knife dropped out. “Did you ever see this before?”

Pete quietly said, “No.”

Without touching the knife the policeman scooped it back into the envelope. He got up briskly. “I thank you for your help.” He started for the car port, stopped, turned back.

“It now occurs to me that there is one thing more. It is in connection with the murder of a waitress.” “Yes?”

“Road blocks were established immediately after the body was discovered. All cars were stopped and their license numbers taken. One of them had an Arizona license, as yours does. I do not have the list—”

“As far as I know,” Pete said, “mine is the only Arizona car in town. And I was stopped by a road block.”

Gomez made a little bow. “You save me the trouble of a second visit. Where had you been before you were stopped?”

“Some night club. Couldn’t tell you its name. A blue building on the other side of town—”

“I know it well. How long had you been there?”

Pete frowned. “Quite some time. Long enough to order and eat dinner. This tied up in some way with that knife?”

“Who knows? The knife was found in the pocket of the thief. If the blood on it is of the same type as that of the young woman — then we have learned a little something, yes? Also there may be fingerprints.” Gomez bowed again. “Muchas gracias.”

“Por nada.” Pete watched him walk toward his car, hoping that the policeman would not look back. He was breathing heavily, and was in no condition to answer further questions. A shadow fell across the road. He looked up. A dark cloud had obscured the sun. Far away to the west, the sky was black. There was a rumble of distant thunder. The rainy season had begun.

15

The rain fell almost vertically at first, but at half-past two the wind rose and the heavy drops came slanting out of the Pacific and across Acapulco Bay from the southwest. The zócalo at three o’clock was an island in the middle of a lake. There were few cars on the streets. Pete jumped from the Buick and ran into a cafe. He called Karen from the telephone on the bar. It was the fourth time he had called.

A servant answered. “The señorita is no here.”

“Will she be there for dinner?”

“I don’t know. Tonight is dinner party at the house of Señor Pascault. You talk with the señora?”

He banged the telephone into its cradle. Two American women were sitting near him at the bar. As he walked toward the door, one of them let her handbag slip down on the floor. Pete stopped, looked at the bag and at the woman. Then he deliberately brushed it aside with his foot and went out in the rain.

He walked to the boulevard, entered a small cantina and ordered Scotch. “Bring the bottle.” An hour later, he was wandering up and down the sidewalk. His clothes were soaked and he couldn’t find his car. He stopped looking after a while, went into a grocery store and used the telephone.

He opened his eyes on a world of whispers that he could almost, but not quite understand. Wind and rain beat against the window. It was night. Getting up, he felt along the wall until he found a light switch, flicked it on.

He was naked and in a strange, elaborately furnished room. Women’s clothes were scattered about. He found his own clothes and put them on.

A woman’s slip was lying across a chair. He finished buttoning his shirt, not taking his eyes off the undergarment. He picked it up, methodically twisted it into a nylon rope. He looked at his watch before he went out into the storm. It was twenty after seven.

Passing the kidney-shaped pool, the wind blew him to a stop. He had to take shelter behind a palm. It was then that he realized that he was still holding the slip. He had meant, he thought, to leave it on the chair.

Thirty yards away a light flashed on. He looked through a window, and saw the woman. She came to the window, peered out, and disappeared. Lightning flashed as he took a forward step — and he saw with no particular surprise that he had left the palm tree far behind. He was crossing the terrace; french windows were directly ahead. There was a crack of thunder as he pushed them open and went in.

She was in the library. She was reading, and her back was turned. He crossed the room and raised the twisted slip. A rug muffled any sound he might have made. He took the final, cautious step—

And stopped, knowing with sudden certainty that he was being watched. He looked up. A young man with blondined hair and a white jacket stood in an open doorway.

“You want something, señor?”

Pete shook his head.

“On your feet again?” The woman looked over her shoulder, put down her magazine. “Eddie, get us a drink.”

The white jacketed young man backed out reluctantly.

She chuckled. “Still carrying a load, aren’t you? Thought you’d have slept it off by now.”

“How did I get here?”

“You telephoned me. Anyway, I got the call. I picked you up in the zócalo. Passed up a dinner date to do it, too. Hey—!” she said. “You’re twisting hell out of my slip.”

He looked down at his hands and saw the nylon rope. He threw it in her lap. The blond Mexican came back with a loaded tray. He left immediately, and the woman mixed two drinks. She offered one to Pete. He shook his head.

“Go on. You picked me up. What happened after that?”

She grinned. “Forgotten? Gallantry’s certainly not your strong point, dear.” Still grinning, she got up and strolled toward him. “This storm will wear itself out by morning. You might as well stay here. Take Andy’s house.” She pressed against him, put her arms around his neck. “He’s moving out.”

“I’m going now.” He pushed her away.

She looked uncertainly into his eyes. For an instant she seemed puzzled. Then she gasped. “Yes,” she said quickly. “You get out of here!”

He turned and walked out of the room.

The young Mexican was standing within two feet of the front door. He made no move to open it. Pete did that himself. Until the door had been firmly closed behind him he felt the servant’s eyes penetratingly on his back.

Rain stung his face as he followed the driveway to the gate. On the boulevard he hailed a taxi. His car was where he had parked it in the afternoon.

He walked past the car and into the cantina where he had been earlier. He had two quick drinks and used the telephone.

16

Karen caught Jack Pascault’s signal. She broke away from the people she was talking to and went toward him.

“It’s that weird friend of yours, Pete Welles.” He indicated the phone.

“Thanks.” Frowning, she crossed to it and picked it up. “Yes?”

“That’s impossible,” she said, a moment later. “I can’t just leave—” She lowered her voice. “That’s an odd way of putting it. Why so melodramatic?” She shrugged, presently. “Oh, all right — if you insist.”

She hung up. No one was looking at her. She got her raincoat, let herself out and waited on the porch. The storm had grown more violent, and she wondered if she were doing the right thing. Right thing or not, she was doing what she had to do. Something in Pete’s voice had told her that he needed help.

The headlights of a car came up the road. She ran out and climbed into the Buick. The windshield was a solid sheet of rain.

“Know someplace where it’s dry?” she asked. “Let’s go there fast.”

He didn’t look at her. “We’re going home.” The Buick jumped ahead. He drove carefully and stopped before a gate. An old man came running to prop it open. Pete drove into a car port.

“Wait here,” he said. He left the car and spoke in an undertone to the servant. Karen moved over on the seat.

“Tell Juanita to bring two breakfasts in the morning,” she heard Pete saying. “You sleep in your own quarters tonight.”

He returned to the car. “Come on.” Karen got out and found herself standing on an open, unprotected porch. The wind had torn the awning into shreds. He guided her to a partly sheltered stairway.

“Up here.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she told him. “About those breakfasts—”

He wasn’t listening. “Upstairs, my dear.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face the steps.

She climbed reluctantly. She had the feeling that, if she’d refused, he would have forced her to do it anyway. He seemed sober, but there was something wrong. The awning on the upstairs porch was still intact, bulging in like a full sail. Wind and rain spilled through at the corners. He steered her to a door. It banged open when he turned the knob. He steadied her through the doorway and pushed the door shut. She heard him grope along the wall.

Light flashed on, disclosing a bedroom with twin beds. It had the look of a room not currently in use. Karen leaned against the wall, raincoat dripping, hair tumbled over her forehead.

He touched her hair. “You’re wet, Mary. I’ll get a towel.”

“Oh, that’s all right—”

“It’s not. I must take care of you,” he said.

He went into a bathroom, came back with a towel. She let him unzip the raincoat, slip it off. She sat on one of the beds and dried her hair. He stood above her, silent and motionless. She put the towel aside, smiled up at him. The smile faded. Panic gripped her like steel claw when she saw his face.

Before she could speak, a gust of wind tore the awning loose out on the porch. Its wooden frame crashed through a nearby window. There was a tinkling fall of glass.

He said softly, “It was in the other bedroom, Mary. We’re safe. Nothing can hurt us here.”

She was still staring at his face. Something had happened to it. It seemed shrunken and had turned a leaden gray — and it was unnaturally calm, expressionless. She saw all this before she reacted to the name that he had called her.

“Who is Mary?” She got up nervously. “Is this a joke of some kind? I don’t think it’s funny. Frankly, I don’t understand—”

He smiled, but it was less smile than mechanical grimace. “Of course you don’t.” He came toward her slowly. “You’re tired. I’ll explain it later. After you’ve rested for a while.”

“I don’t want to rest! I want to get out of here!” She backed away, between the beds. “I’m not Mary, Pete. I’m Karen. Please don’t touch me. Please—!”

His hands closed on her arms. His lifeless face swooped down on her. It was the only thing that she could see.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he muttered. “For your own sake — don’t!”

“I won’t. I promise.” She looked over his shoulder. She turned her eyes anywhere except straight ahead.

His hands relaxed a little. “You’re shivering, dear.”

“I’m cold. I’m very cold. Get me — get me a blanket.”

He stripped the cover from a bed. Under the cover there was nothing but a mattress. He looked at the mattress as though he didn’t understand. “No blankets here,” he said.

“Then get me one. Get something. Don’t you see how cold I am?”

He studied her. The pupils in his eyes had shrunk to mesmerizing points. “I couldn’t do that.” His voice was high and crafty. “You might go away.”

“Why should I?” She forced a smile. She willed her hand to reach out and touch his.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why you went away before. Don’t make me look for you again. I’d find you, Mary. You know that.”

She nodded. “Yes. Now please get me a coat.”

“All right.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “There’s nothing to be afraid of any more. You’ve had a hard time, but you’re home.” Again his lips made that mechanical grimace. “I’ll get my bathrobe. It’s in the other room.”

17

Wind plastered him against the wall as he made his way along the porch. He left the door of his bedroom open. Rain came through it and through the broken window. He turned on the light.

The bathrobe was in his closet. There was a bottle of whiskey on the shelf. He got a glass and poured a drink. He was raising the glass when all the lights went out.

The voice spoke to him from the darkness. For why you kill me, boy?

“Go away,” he said aloud.

You talk me pretty. You say we go for ride.

“Go away. Go away!”

I no do nothings, boy. For why I’m dead?

“Mary!” he shouted, and ran out on the porch.

The other bedroom door was open. The lights flashed on for an instant as he ran in. Just long enough for him to see that there was no one in the room. He stumbled down the stairs. He got in the Buick, backed up and raced downhill.

The lights gave him a wide radius for searching. Halfway to Pascault’s house, he thought he saw her running far ahead. The convertible’s reckless speed increased. It hit a chuckhole, bounced, and something cracked. The side of the road moved over in slow motion. It seemed minutes between the time when he saw the concrete wall and knew that he was going to crash, and the time when he actually did.

Consciousness returned slowly. He thought at first that he had gone to sleep one night and awakened on another, entirely different period of darkness. He did not know where he was or in what way this particular night was different. It came back to him in snatches.

The storm had passed. Trees dripped wetness but otherwise the night was still. He rested a few minutes before climbing out. Reflected light burned steadily in the sky. The city’s generator had been repaired. As he climbed back toward his house a taxi jolted past. It was headed for the boulevard. Then he saw lights ahead, and saw a shadow cross the window of his second bedroom. He started to run. She hadn’t left him, after all.

He ran through the gate and up the stairs. He started calling from the bottom step. His heart was pounding when he reached the top. He had to lean for an instant against the wall.

A hard object jabbed him in the back. “It’s a gun,” a man said. “Walk ahead of me into the bedroom, Hammet. Make it slow.”

He looked back over his shoulder as he walked to the second bedroom. The man was tall and handsome with light curly hair. He had seen him before. Vaguely he even remembered his name.

It was Andy... something. Andy Shultz.

He wore a blue shirt open at the neck, sandals and beige slacks. He held the gun in his right hand, more relaxed now than he had been at first, and sat on the bed where Karen had sat earlier that night.

Karen? Dick Hammet frowned. Mary? He wasn’t sure. There were a lot of things about which he was confused. On the floor between them was a bottle and two glasses. There wasn’t much left in the bottle. That was all right; there was another one downstairs. He picked it up.

“Drink?”

Andy nodded. “But take it easy.” He waited until both drinks were poured. “So about it, Hammet? Let’s get this over with.”

“Let’s do that.” He listened to his own voice, surprised that it should sound so high and thin.

“Fifty thousand. I could ask for more and get it, but I’d rather play it safe. Give me the fifty and you won’t see me again.”

He was silent, thinking. The rain had stopped. It would be pleasant in the morning, in Emancipación.

Andy was talking again. He seemed angry. “...pay attention or you’ll force me to get tough. You want me to tell the cops your right name, and what happened to your wife?”

Dislike for the handsome man was growing in him rapidly. “Have you noticed how still it is after the rain?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

“It’s more than still. It’s deathlike.” The bottle was beside him on the floor. His right hand closed around its neck.

“Okay, okay.” Andy leaned forward. He sat on the edge of the bed, the gun held negligently. “Come off it, will you? Now listen. I’m going to tell—”

Maybe he didn’t realize what Dick was doing. Maybe he thought that Dick was only going to pour another drink. The bottle splintered over his head before he finished the sentence. He continued leaning forward for a moment before crumpling to the floor.

18

The sunshine streaming through the window was golden bright. There was a churchbell ringing and music was playing somewhere, as it always was. The bottle on the bedside table was still half-full, and he was warm and comfortable. He swung his feet to the floor and wondered why his Smith & Wesson was lying beside the bottle. He did not remember having put it there. He didn’t need a gun. The night’s bad dreams had ended with the night, and it was day.

It was a day like any other day. Downstairs he could hear Juanita in the kitchen. The lizard was on the wall again and chuckling. Mexicans say that lizards bring good luck.

“Wish me luck,” he said aloud. “Wish Karen and me the best of luck.”

The lizard shot its long tongue out and wished him luck.

Nothing had happened. Everything was as it had been before, would always be. Juanita would bring up Karen’s breakfast pretty soon, and then bring his. He would carry his tray to Karen’s room. They would have breakfast together. Afterwards they would drive south to Emancipación. He hoped the road wouldn’t be too bad after the storm. If there had been a storm.

Juanita was coming up the stairs. He must remember to leave her a little something extra when they went. For her and Pedro. He could hear her on the porch now, plodding toward Karen’s bedroom. She was opening the door.

The car needed a grease job, but that wouldn’t take too long. They ought to make Emancipación in time for lunch. Why had he put the revolver on the bedside table? He picked it up. He was looking at it when Juanita screamed.

A few seconds later her continued screams were drowned out by a loud explosion. He heard it only faintly. It was as though a door had been closed in a remote section of the house. His body was so light. It seemed to him that he was floating even as he fell.