The Aztec Avenger

CHAPTER SEVEN

Consuela dropped me off at the hotel and went on her way, clashing the gears of the Volkswagen as she drove off. The lobby was deserted. I made my way through it out onto the broad terrace, that faced the town across the bay. I found a chair and sat down, wanting to enjoy a last cigarette before I turned in for the night.

When I finished the cigarette, I flipped it over the railing, the glowing coal making a tiny red arc in the darkness. As I was about to get to my feet, I heard someone come out onto the terrace.

Henry came up beside me, peering at me in the dark, trying to recognize me.

“Hi. You were at the pool this morning, weren’t you?” he asked, tentatively.

“Yes.”

He let his heavy body sink down into a chair facing me. “They never did show up,” he complained, his voice petulant with disappointment

“What’re you talking about?”

“Those chicks,” said Henry, in disgust “None of them. It’s one-thirty and not one of those dumb broads ever showed up to go skinny-dipping.”

“You really thought they’d go skinny-dipping?”

“Sure. At least the two that I was with. They probably found some goddamned Mexican beachboys instead!”

He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The flare of the match lit up his heavy, sun-reddened face before he blew out the flame.

“That English chick is the one Yd like to latch onto,” he said, morosely. “The skinny one. The other’s stacked, but it’s Margaret who’s got all the bread. Her old man’s loaded. The only trouble is that she’s so damn cold she’d probably give you frostbite!”

Ignoring my dislike for him, I asked as casually as I could, “What do you do?”

“Do? I don’t get you, man.”

“What kind of work are you in?”

Henry laughed. “Hey, man, that’s not for me! I live! I don’t get tied down to a job. I stay loose, you know?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“I have connections. I know the right guys. I do a few favors for them, now and then. Like if they want me to lean on someone. I’m pretty good at that.”

“Muscle?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“You ever lean on anyone seriously? You ever take on a contract?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to talk about something like that,” Henry said. “I mean, it wouldn’t be smart to sound off, would it?” He paused, letting the words sink in, and then he said, “I’d sure like to latch on to that little Limey chick. I could teach her a few tricks!”

“And take her back to Las Vegas with you?”

“You got the idea.”

“Or would it be San Francisco? Just where do you come from?”

There was a slight pause, and then Henry said, in a tight, unfriendly voice, “What business is it of yours?”

“I get curious about people who aren’t sure where they’re from. It makes me uneasy about them.”

“Keep your goddamned nose out of my business,” Henry growled. “It’ll be a lot healthier for you.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Henry,” I persisted, gently, surprising him by saying his name.

He swore and got to his feet, a hulking shadow in the darkness, his big hands closing into rocklike fists.

“Get up!” he said, angrily, waiting for me to stand. He took a threatening step closer. “Get up, I said!”

I reached into my pocket, took out a gold-tipped cigarette, and lit it, easily. As I snapped the lighter shut, I said, “Henry, why don’t you just sit down and answer my question?”

“Goddamn you!” Henry said, menacingly. “Get on your feet, you son-of-a-bitch.”

I took the cigarette from my mouth and in one continuous movement, I snapped it into Henry’s face, the ashes breaking, sparks flying into his eyes.

His hands went up to protect his face instinctively, his eyelids flicking shut in reflex; and in that second I launched myself out of the chair, my forearm snapping out, my whole body behind the blow as my stiffened, flat-knuckled fist drove deeply into Henry’s midriff just below his ribcage.

He gave an explosive grunt and doubled over in agony. I chopped at his face as it came down, the blow catching him on the bridge of his nose, breaking the cartilage. Henry gagged, his knees buckling as he slid to the terrace flagstones. Blood poured out of his nostrils onto his chin and onto the tiles.

“Oh, Jesus!” he gasped, painfully. Tin going to be sick.” He put a protective hand to his smashed nose. “No more!”

I stepped back, looking down at the big, helpless, crouching figure in front of me.

“Where are you from, Henry?” I asked him, quietly.

The big man drew in a shuddering breath.

“Vegas,” he said, pain distorting his voice. “The last couple of years, I been in Vegas. Before that, it was San Francisco.”

“What do you do in Vegas?”

Henry shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said. “I used to be a bouncer in a club there. I got fired last month.”

“Get up.”

Henry climbed slowly to his feet, one arm crossed in front of his stomach, the other hand held to his nose, oblivious of the blood that poured down onto his wrist

“Who are your connections?”

Henry shook his head. “I don’t have any,” he mumbled. “It was just talk.” He caught my look. “Honest to god! I’m telling you the truth!” He tried to draw a deep breath. “Jesus, it feels like you broke a rib.”

“I think you ought to move out of here,” I suggested.

“Huh?”

“Tonight,” I said, almost conversationally. “I think it would be best for you.”

“Hey, listen—” Henry began, and then he stopped and stared at me, trying to read my expression in the darkness and failing. He gave in.

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve leaned on enough guys in my time. I guess it’s my turn now, huh?” He shook his head. “Me and my big mouth.”

Slowly, he backed away from me until he was near the lobby doors and then he turned quickly and went inside.

I sat down in the chair again and took out another cigarette.

“You smoke too much,” said the voice from the far, darker-shadowed end of the terrace. “I’m surprised that a man who smokes as much as you can move so fast. I thought for a certainty that you were going to be hurt That Henry, he is a big man, n’est ce pas?”

“Hello, Jean-Paul,” I said without surprise. “How long have you been out here?”

“Long enough. You expose yourself to too many dangers, my friend.”

“He’s no danger. He’s a punk.”

“He almost got himself killed,” said Jean-Paul. “If he knew how close he came, I think he would have dirtied his underwear.”

“I made a mistake about him,” I said soberly. “I thought he was after Stocelli. I should have known better. He’s a nobody.”

“It happens. Better to be wrong and sorry if you can’t be right. By the way, who was that Mexican who came up to you this afternoon?”

“He said his name was Luis Aparicio. He tried to sell me his services as a guide, assistant or pimp— whatever I wanted. I thought your friends might have sent him.”

“Possibly. What makes you think so?”

“My suspicious nature,” I said drily. “On the other hand, Consuela says she never heard of him before.”

Jean-Paul was silent for a moment. Then, almost as an afterthought he said, “By the way, I have a message for you. Apparently, whatever it was you told them tonight got you a quick response. Tomorrow afternoon, please plan on going out to El Cortijo to see a bullfight. It starts at four o’clock.”

“When did you get this message?” I asked suspiciously.

“Shortly before you returned to the hotel. I was coming out to deliver it when your friend Henry showed up. I decided to wait until we were alone.”

“Who’s it from?”

“He said his name was Bickford. He said he passed the word on to his boss. You’ll be talking to the top men.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s enough, isn’t it?”

“If you talked to Bickford,” I said, “then you know what I told them. I want you to lay off Stocelli.”

“So he said. He also told me of the threat you made.”

“Well?”

Even in the darkness, I could see Jean-Paul’s face turn serious. “My people in Marseille want Stocelli punished. We can’t push our Mexican friends any more than we have already. It’s their decision.”

“And you?”

He shrugged. “If we have to, we can wait. Stocelli will never leave this hotel alive. However,” he added, “if they decide not to agree to what you’ve suggested, if they decide to go after Stocelli in spite of your threats, then, in all likelihood, you won’t be alive much longer, either. Had you thought about that?”

“It’s something to think about, isn’t it?” I said, easily, and went into the lobby by myself.

In my room, I unpacked the Xerox Telecopier 400 from its case and moved it next to the telephone. My call to Denver went through with no lengthy delay.

“Have you come up with anything?”

“We hit it,” said Denver. “We don’t have all the passenger manifest lists in yet, but we found it on Air France, Air Canada, and Eastern. Can we talk openly, or do you want it on the Telecopier?”

“On the machine,” I said. “There are complications down here. Michaud’s organization has gotten into the act. And they brought their local friends in on the action.”

Denver whistled. “You’ve got your hands full, haven’t you?”

“I can handle it.”

Denver said, “All right, we’ll put it on the Telecopier. We ran into some luck, by the way. We have a file on the subject. Came through our credit checking bureau. They did a report on his company a few years back. We’ve included some of the highlights in our report We don’t have all the information about him yet, but he sure doesn’t fit into Stocelli’s group of friends in any way we can see.”

“Put it on the wire,” I told Denver and placed the phone handset in the Telecopier cradle and turned on the equipment.

When the machine was through, I picked up the phone and said, “Let me have whatever else you find out as soon as possible.”

“Did you read the last line of the report?” asked Denver.

“Not yet.”

“Read it,” said Denver. “It should scare the hell out of Stocelli if he finds out about it.”

I packed away the equipment and settled back to read the few paragraphs of the facsimile report

I turned my attention to the second sheet:

I put down the two sheets of paper, then undressed and got into bed. As I lay in the dark, in the short time before I fell asleep, my mind went over the last line of the first page of the reports:

Who the hell is Herbert Dietrich, I wondered, and what possible connection could he have with criminals like Stocelli, Michaud, Duttoit, Torregrossa, Vignale, Webber, and Klien?