Pattern for Panic (5 page)

He glowered at me for a moment, then released my arm. “O.K., but you will be back.” He was glowering at my teeth. I'm sure he didn't realize it, but his right hand was so tight around his club that the knuckles were white; he was wiggling the club, rapidly, nervously, as he stared at my mouth. I had a pretty good idea what would happen to my chops late some night if I wound up back in Emilio's clink.

Amador and I left the Captain standing there wiggling his club. At the desk everything was smooth enough until just before I was ready to leave. I had all my stuff back except my cigarettes and matches which were on the desk in front of the portly sergeant. I put my belt on and began to breathe more easily, then reached for the cigarettes. I picked them up just before the sergeant grabbed my wrist. Gently, with two fingers, he took the pack out of my hand.

What the hell, I thought. I looked at the pack between his two fingers. The way the light fell, I could see the almost invisible smudge of my big thumbprint on the cellophane; did the guy want prints? A couple of bulky, loosely packed cigarettes were sticking up out of the pack. Maybe he just wanted a smoke.

“Give me my damn cigarettes,” I said. I'd already been shoved around so much I didn't intend to leave even a five-centavo piece here.

The sergeant grinned, even chuckled a little, then spoke to Amador in Spanish. The Señora, on my right, quickly turned her head and looked at me.

“What's he mumbling?” I asked Amador.

“He says that is comical—is what you call an exhibit. He got to keep the marijuana. He doesn't want you getting high again and hitting more people."

“The what? The
what
? Tell the comic to give me my Belmonts.” I looked at the pack again. It was the bright red Belmont package with the little horse and jockey in the corner, but those cigarettes sticking out of it did look too bulky; the tobacco seemed to be bigger and more loosely packed than it should have been.

“Amador,” I said, “ask him to let me look at those. Tell him I won't eat the exhibit or run away with it."

Amador talked a moment in Spanish, the sergeant looked from him to Señora Lopez, then shoved the pack toward me. The stuff was marijuana. I'd seen and handled and smelled enough of it so there was no doubt.

“These aren't mine,” I said. “These are damn well not the cigarettes I came in here with. Somebody—” I stopped. I'd been groggy when brought here, but I tried to remember who had searched me and emptied my pockets—Toothless. I leaned across the desk and started spitting words at the sergeant. “These are not mine. Somebody shoved them off on you as mine. Captain Emilio searched—"

Señora Lopez had said something to Amador and he nudged me. “She says we must go quickly. We have little time. And ... it is better to be away from here."

“Yeah, but—"

“Is true. What you care so long as you get out? I have more to tell you, anyway, and time is short.” I started to protest, then stopped. “O.K., Amador. But I still want to know about that weed."

“You have plenty of time if you don't get busy and—you know."

I knew. We left the desk. As we headed toward the door, somebody said, “Shell—Shell."

I turned. Monique was getting up from a chair against the wall. Her sensual face looked tired and drawn as she walked toward me.

“Monique, honey,” I said. “Have you been here all the time? Ever since you phoned Amador?"

“Yes, I was worried,” she said simply. “What is it, Shell? Can you leave?"

“Yeah. I'll tell you about it in a minute.” Amador and Señora Lopez were at the door. Amador wiggled a finger at me and when I walked over to them the Countess said softly, “Mr. Scott, I have just phoned my husband, and because of his influence you are free for now. But the General was very curious to know why I wished a man removed from jail. He asked many questions, but I merely told him you were a friend, unjustly accused, and he accepted that. At least for a while. However, if he should learn the truth—the real reason, there is no question that his influence would be withdrawn."

She added, “And of course you understand that I could not help you. I have not enough influence of my own, and I would be in—great difficulty myself. It perhaps seems cruel that I cannot help you unless you help me—but I am sure you understand."

I nodded. I understood entirely too well.

Amador took me aside. “I got to drive the Countess home,” he said. “Take me maybe twenty minutes to get to my place—and you come there quick, huh? We talk, and I show you the blackmail stuff, the pictures. The guy is in them too, and maybe that help you."

“Yeah, but listen, Amador. What's this about the General seeing that fancy movie tonight? You didn't finish."

“Looks like he sees it, all right. I learn already from the Countess that the General goes to another of his meetings tonight, and I learn from other people, it is no business there, except maybe monkey. This I know. So you better work rapidly. Could happen at this monkey-business party, you know."

“Where is this party?"

“I dunno yet. I don't even know how to find out. His wife doesn't know either, naturally. Hell, you're supposed to find out. Well, I see you at my place.” He left with the Countess.

I watched them go, feeling as if the walls were closing in on me. Then I called Monique over and we went outside onto Londres Street. The rain was still coming down as we flagged a
libre,
a new Ford, and climbed in. Lightning flashed in the distance and thunder rumbled softly. I told the driver to take us to the Hotel del Prado, then leaned back against the cushions thinking about the last couple of hours, wondering what had happened to the Latin Hemingway type, what those marijuana cigarettes meant, and why suddenly this whole mess smelled to high heaven.

Chapter Four

“That's about it, Monique,” I said. I'd told her the story, leaving out the part about the General and the Countess. We were just turning right, off Florencia into the wide Paseo de la Reforma. That is, we were trying to.

The Reforma is one of the world's truly beautiful avenues, lined with impressive statues and monuments, green trees, and some magnificent examples of modern architecture, but getting on and off the damn thing is often a bit trying. While it is true that more than half the cars in Mexico are in Mexico City, it sometimes seems that half the cars in the whole bloody world are there, all on the Reforma, the drivers with one hand on the wheel and the other on the blaring horn, speeding suicidally around the circular
glorietas,
or traffic circles smack in the middle of the avenues, and noisily past the signs which say
"No use claxon"—
don't use the horn.

Finally, though, we made it safely into the traffic stream and headed uptown toward Avenida Juarez and the Prado. I still didn't feel too chipper, and I rolled the window down on my side, letting the cool moist air wash over my face.

Monique said, “How did you wiggle out, Shell?"

“I've got pull.” I grinned at her. “Incidentally, thanks for phoning Amador. I'd still be in stir if you hadn't. Probably gumming my food. Hey, what about the Doc?"

“What about him? What do you mean?"

“Yeah, you wouldn't know. Amador phoned Buff, and she said Doc hadn't shown up yet."

She frowned. “That's funny. When you didn't come back right away at the Cassino, I went out just as the police dumped you in a car. I almost died. I got a cab as soon as I could and came to the jail. I don't know what Buff and her dad did."

“Well, Doc's probably with Buff by now. You got a cigarette?"

We lit up and I leaned back in the seat, smoking and thinking. The rain was really coming down now, the way it often does during the rainy season; one moment everything dry, and half a minute later it's like being under a waterfall. I couldn't see much through the windshield, the way the huge raindrops were beating down on it, but it didn't seem to bother the
libre
driver. Nothing bothers
libre
drivers.

I pressed my feet against the floorboards. Straight ahead of us, centered in the
glorieta
in the middle of the road, was the Cuahtemoc statue around which the Reforma circles. No less than nine streets empty their cars into and around that traffic circle like huge bullets, and our driver was another bullet who ripped down the highway and slammed on the brakes at the precise moment I had decided we were going to bleed on Cuahtemoc.

Most of the traffic signals in Mexico City used to be cops who waved lanterns, waved their arms, turned around, scratched their fannies, and blew whistles. But no more. I guess it's progress, but now traffic on the Reforma is controlled by automation, mechanical signals. Controlled—hah. There is some sort of secret communication between those signals and Mexican drivers. They know the exact instant when the light is going to change, and on that split second—or sometimes just a little bit ahead of it—the whole jammed fender-scraping mass of cars will take off like an exploding used-car lot, occasionally leaving a bewildered tourist behind blocking traffic and wondering what happened. The cab drivers don't care whether you get there alive or dead, just so you get there
first.

There were three lanes on our side of the Reforma and we were in the middle one. There was a good two inches between our
libre
and the cars on our right and left—and an empty half lane on the right of the street next to the curb. At least I thought it was only half an empty lane, but it must have been wider because a big black Cadillac roared into the narrow space and crept up to the head of the line where we were. The Cad kept creeping forward and, not to be outdone, our driver crept forward a bit. It is one of the Mexico City games: never let anybody else in a car get ahead of you, or make you slow down, or make you turn; if he's coming at you from an angle, you keep going—bluff the other guy. Pedestrians don't count.

Lightning suddenly flashed and sizzled overhead and thunder crackled after it—and we were off and away!

Our
libre
man was an old hand at this sort of thing and the tires screeched as the car leaped forward, pressing me hard against the seat. I thought I heard a little
crack,
as if a vertebra had snapped. There was a stinging sensation alongside my neck at the same time, so it was probably a neck vertebra. I looked around to see if we were beating the Cadillac, or if we were going to hit it, but the Cad wasn't in sight—a couple of cars on our right were trying to turn and scream into one of the nine streets and they'd probably crowded the Cad. There was some more thunder, or the sound of cars crashing into each other, and then we were zooming around the
glorieta
in a mad hot-rod race with a car on our left and another one trying to squeeze in between us.

“I will never get accustomed to this,” I said to Monique. “This is chaos in tin cans. I'd walk, only I'm afraid to cross the streets."

She laughed. “Well, I guess we win."

We had outdistanced the amateurs and were around the circle, flying down the Reforma again through the rain, our pilot obviously navigating by instruments. My neck still burned and I put up my hand and rubbed it, then let out an involuntary yelp. It stung like hell. I pulled my hand down and looked at it. There was thick red blood on my fingers.

I stared at it. I must have looked at my wet fingers for five seconds wondering how the blood got there. Lightning flashed in the distance, and suddenly I remembered that little crack I'd heard back at the intersection ... the stinging sensation on my neck ... the black Cadillac edging ahead of us. I felt my neck again; there was a small, shallow furrow in the skin.

I put a handkerchief against my neck, felt the cushions behind me. In seconds I found the small hole in the seat.

“Monique,” I said slowly, “somebody just took a shot at me."

“Took a what?"

“Shot at me."

“Oh, Shell, stop—"

“I mean it. Somebody just tried to kill me."

I turned and looked behind us. There were a few cars, but no black Cad. Everything looked normal enough. We were almost at the Prado, so I tapped the driver on the shoulder and made him understand he was to drive once around the block. He did, while I kept my eyes busy trying to spot anything out of the ordinary; then the driver let us out at the side entrance of the hotel on Calle Revillagigedo.

I sent Monique inside while I paid the driver, looked around some more, then ran through the rain and up the stairs into the carpeted lobby. Monique stared at me when I walked up to her, concern in her green eyes. I was still holding the stained handkerchief to my neck.

She said, “I can't believe it. Are you sure?"

“Positive. That bullet sliced my neck. I don't get it—but I believe it."

We took the elevator to the fourth floor and I left Monique at her room, then went up to six and into my own room. After washing up and putting on a clean shirt, I pasted a Band-Aid over the small furrow on my neck, then got the .38 Colt Special and my spring shoulder holster out of my suitcase. I hadn't been wearing the gun, because there'd seemed no need for it. So I can be wrong. I strapped the gun and holster on, then went down to four again and to Buff's room, which adjoined the doctor's.

Buff opened the door almost immediately, took my hand and pulled me inside. The blonde hair was tangled and she'd eaten most of her lipstick off. “Shell,” she said, “I'm so glad to see you. For God's sake tell me what's going on."

“I got in a beef with that mustachioed slob and wound up in the clink temporarily. Where's the Doc?” Her gray eyes widened and her mouth went a little more slack. “Isn't he with you? Wasn't he with you? Shell—"

Her voice was rising, and I broke in, “Wait a minute. Don't get excited. I haven't seen him, but there's nothing to worry about. I thought he'd be here by now."

She swallowed and walked to a divan against the wall. I pulled a chair over near her and said, “What happened after I left the three of you at Monte Cassino? How come you didn't leave there with the Doc?"