Dig A Dead Doll Read online

  “You are very pretty, Miss West,” Rafael added, after a moment.“Golden hair, eyes like the blue of a warm mountain lake. Take my advice and get out of Mexico. Now!”

  The matador winked at me, slapped Vicaro on the shoulder and quickly disappeared down the passageway.

  “What was that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Vicaro shrugged. “He is a strange man, Rafael. No one is his true friend. He does not confide in anyone. He lives alone, dines alone, dresses alone. They say he sleeps only with Death.”

  I looked at Pete’s door again as another man came out, shaking his head, eyes downcast. He was an old man with white hair and trembling shoulders. Tears had dried on his withered dark cheeks. When he saw Vicaro he lowered his head further, squashing a dirty sombrero over his forehead, and vanishing in the odor of sweat and stale air that filled the tunnel.

  A Herculean roar burst from the arena, rattling the beams above our heads.

  Vicaro smiled thinly. “The bull that killed Senor Pete is finally dead. They will drag him around the ring for fully an hour. The crowd will not go home until he is gone.”

  “Who was the old fellow who came out of Pete’s room— the one with the hat?” I asked. “He had been crying.”

  “Don Mano. He is a teacher. He, too, once fought the bulls. He taught Pete many things. Perhaps he now wishes he had never met the matador. That is how one feels when a torero dies. You wish you did not know him because then it would not hurt so much.”

  He motioned for us to walk back up to the arena, but I held my ground. Something warned me that all was not right inside that dressing room. Two men had come out, both shooting ugly looks at Vicaro. Pete’s actions proceeding the bull’s charge rattled in my brain. His performance throughout the afternoon had been superb. Why should he suddenly drop his muleta and stagger the way he did? Was this why his phone call had sounded so dire?

  I asked Vicaro what he thought about Pete’s maneuver just before the bull’s charge.

  The impresario cleared his throat, then wiped his thin mouth with a lace-edged cloth. “It is simple, senorita. Fear got him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes the new ones, they freeze,” he continued, keeping his eyes on the dressing room door. “As he exposes his body more and more to the attack of the horns, the fear mounts. Sometimes, as with Senor Freckle, it kills them. Fear, not the bull, is the horn in us all.”

  I examined his small, deep-set eyes, then said, “I would like to see Pete before notifying his mother of his death. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

  “I am sorry, senorita,” Vicaro insisted, shaking his scrawny head. “It is impossible. Perhaps later after he is cleaned up. Even the sight of the room would make you sick, believe me.”

  I fired another glance down at the group of young men standing in the tunnel. One of them, a well-built youth wearing a brown cashmere jacket, smiled at me.

  Then his expression faded as Senor Vicaro followed my gaze. Everyone seemed afraid of Vicaro!

  I took a cigarette from my purse. “Do you happen to have a-light, Senor?”

  He quickly extracted a lighter from his coat pocket and flicked out a tongue of blue flame. As he touched the tip of the cigarette, I leaned forward so the Are seemed to brush my face. Then I screamed. Long and loud. Vicaro dropped his lighter, eyes widening. The young men whirled in their tracks. But no one came from behind the dressing room door.

  I screamed again. This time it must have been heard even in the arena because footsteps began to rattle above us on the heavy timbers.

  “Senorita!” Vicaro cried. “Please!”

  “You burned me]”

  “No!”

  The young man who had smiled ran up to us, his shoes clattering in the tunnel. ,rWhat is the matter?”

  I screamed again, throwing my hands to my face.

  “She is hysterical!” Vicaro yelled. “Stop her!”

  The young man was unable to tell whether my face was hurt or not, and he seemed in a quandary over what to do.

  On the fourth scream I hurled myself at Pete’s dressing room door, seizing the handle and throwing open the worn panel. A candle burned in one corner of the small space. Above it was a gold crucifix and a sword fastened to the wall. Across from this I saw a dressing table where a photograph of Pete’s mother was propped against a matador’s hat. On the floor, staining a hooked rug, was a great smear of blood. It ran across into one corner where it had pooled and dried. This was the only evidence that Pete had been in the room. There was a small door to the rear. I crossed to it quickly and threw it open. Another passageway curved around on the other side. Vicaro came up behind me quickly, eyes lit furiously. He realized he’d been duped.

  “Where is he?” I demanded.

  “Miss West, you have broken our rules, and unhappily I must ask you to leave the plaza at once.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  “That’s perfectly apparent, Senor Vicaro. And just how did he manage to leave?”

  “Not on his own two feet, I assure you.” Vicaro gestured at the other door. “Now if you would be so kind.”

  Something was definitely wrong. Exactly what, still eluded me. Had Pete really died in the bull ring? Why had he faltered? Could he be alive? The questions jarred me.

  I explained to Vicaro that I was a private investigator, working out of my own office in Long Beach, California. He said nothing, but touched the lace-edged handkerchief to his lips lightly. The fact that he didn’t register surprise at my occupation aroused new suspicions.

  I gestured at the rear door. “Where are they usually taken from here?”

  “To a cemetery,” Vicaro said.

  “What?”

  “We bury our dead quickly,” he added. “The flies become a problem.”

  “But you can’t bury Pete,” I protested. “He’s an American citizen. His mother will want the body shipped home.”

  “I am sorry, Miss West, but this is our custom. A matador as brave as Pete Freckle must be buried in Villa de Hablo where others of his rank now rest.” He nodded his head sadly. “Now since you do not wish to accompany me, I shall bid you adios. Return to Tijuana again. Soon.” He turned and vanished from the dressing room, leaving only the cloying fragrance of his perfume behind.

  The young man in the cashmere coat peeked around the corner at me. I wiggled my finger at him and he entered the room slowly.

  ‘Did you see them bring the matador down from the arena?” I asked.

  “Si, senorita.”

  “What did he look like?”

  The young man scratched his swarthy forehead. “He was covered with a blanket. I could not see the wounds.”

  ‘Did you see his face?”

  “Si.”

  ‘Was he dead?”

  “I think so, senorita.” He stopped and looked around behind him, then swallowed deeply. “I would not believe what Vicaro tells you.”

  ‘Why not?”

  “He is a maricon.”

  My forehead ridged. “A what?”

  The young man’s eyes lowered and he swallowed again. “Maricon. You know, one who comes to watch the matadors from the waist down.”

  “Oh,” I said, coloring.

  “The matador Freckle and Vicaro were very close,” the young man said.

  My mouth fell open. “You don’t mean that Pete was a—”

  His face reddened. “Senorita, down here some men must do things they would never do elsewhere. The Americano wanted to fight the hulls. He could not do it without Vicaro.”

  “How do you know all this?” I demanded.

  He smiled wearily. “I know, that is all. Adios.”

  I stopped him in the doorway. “What’s your name?”

  “Luis.”

  “Where’d they take him, Luis? Where’d they take the matador?”

  He studied my face for a moment, then said, “Senorita, if you have a car you should get into it and dri
ve away from Tijuana now. And I would not come back. I saw Vicaro’s face when he left this room. He will not be kind to you if you stay here long.”

  Luis jogged down the tunnel to where the other young men stood talking. They laughed as he joined them, eyes shifting to me, intent stares fixed on my dress and on the V-shaped shaft of white that tapered down from my throat. One of them whistled loudly, cupping his hands in front of him. They laughed again. A vulgar laugh that rang in the tunnel.

  THREE

  It was already growing dark by the time I located a hotel room off the main street in downtown Tijuana. Neon lights were beginning to blink on cabarets and solicitous cab drivers prowled for their evening roundup of tourists to be tempted by dope, prostitutes and dirty movies.

  The hotel owner seemed surprised to see me enter alone and without luggage. “You are very pretty to be in this business,” he said.

  “What business?” I asked, paying him for the room. Then realizing what he meant, I laughed. “Oh, no. You’ve got it all wrong, pops. I’m not one of those girls.”

  He was a pleasant looking Mexican with a round face and twinkling eyes. “Then why are you alone here in Tijuana?”

  “I—I’m interested in bull fighting,” I said.

  His eyes lighted. “Oh, you are a torera, no? A woman bullfighter?”

  The idea had possibilities. I nodded. “Yes, sort of. You see I’ve just arrived from Los Angeles and I’m looking for some of the people who fight in the local ring.”

  “Oh, they are easy to find, senorita. Especially on Sunday night after the matches. They go to Los Toros and get very drunk. The matadors they get so drunk they forget everything, including the bulls.”

  I thanked him and walked down to the main street.

  I hadn’t gone half a block before a slimy looking Mexican stopped me. He chewed on a thin cigar and tobacco drooled from the comers of his mouth.

  “Hey lady,” he said, “You want to buy a pair of pants?”

  “No.”

  “You got nice hips, lady,” he continued. “This pair of pants just right for you.”

  I tried to push him aside, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “Real sexy, lady. Here, take a look!”

  He extracted a wisp of black lace from his coat pocket and held it up. They were as brief a pair of panties as anyone could manufacture and still stay in business.

  “They don’t cover much, lady,” he said, winking, “but it is what they uncover that counts, eh?”

  For some crazy unexplainable reason the panties appealed to me. I guess it was my “next to nature” self crying out. “How much?” I asked.

  “For you, lady,” he said, grinning, eyes glued to the top of my dress, “only three bucks.”

  “I’ll give you fifty cents.”

  “Sold,” he said, jubilantly.

  I gave him a half-dollar and slipped the panties into my purse, then resumed my course along the main street. But my friend wasn’t quite finished with his sale.

  “Hey, lady, I got an hombre to go along with the pants.”

  “A what?”

  “Hombre. He comes very cheap. Very clean. He likes those pants very much. He likes also the way you wiggle in the back when you walk. He likes that very much.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Because I am the hombre.”

  The street peddler was abruptly pushed aside by another man. I recognized tall, husky Luis, now dressed in a gray sports coat and slacks. He took my arm and shoved me into the doorway of a shop that was closed.

  “You didn’t take my advice, did you?” he said, in a hushed voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you check in at the Las Tunas Hotel. I warned you to get out of Tijuana.”

  “Look, Luis,” I said, “Pete Freckle was a very old friend of mine. I saw him die this afternoon—or at least I think I did. I’ve got to be sure before I leave Mexico, do you understand?”

  He shook his head futilely, brushing a shock of black hair from his eyes. He had ruggedly handsome features, powerful jaws and a narrow slit of a mouth. His eyes were the color of burnt umber under thick, fleshy lids. He was the Tyrone Power type. Sensitive, but made of steel. I guessed his height as just under six feet. Weight around a hundred and eighty pounds.

  “All right,” he said, finally. “I think I know where they took him, but it won’t be easy, understand?”

  I nodded. “Is he alive, Luis?”

  He grimaced. “I do not know. One of the picadors, Pedro Valente, said he thought he heard the matador Say something as they carried him into the dressing room, but he is not sure.”

  ‘What’s going on, Luis? Why are they hiding him?”

  He wrinkled his nose, but didn’t answer my question. “Have you got a gun?”

  “Yes. How’d you know?”

  “I heard Vicaro talking to one of his maricons. He said you were an American private detective. The ones I read about, they carry guns.” He reached for my purse and started to open it. “You’d better give it to me.”

  “Not there, Luis.”

  His forehead furrowed. “You did not leave it in your room?”

  “No. Don’t worry. My revolver’ll be available if we need one. Where’s Pete Freckle?”

  Luis flicked his gaze down the street, studying the mute shapes of people milling along the sidewalk. “Do you have a strong stomach?”

  I said, “That depends.”

  He took my hand and we crossed the street, half running in the pale light cast by the neon signs. At the corner a taxi cab was waiting for us.

  The drive took about twenty minutes over bumpy, unpaved roads southeast of downtown Tijuana. The cab driver, a surly, bitter-faced youth with a duck-tail haircut and dirty fingernails, never .looked around at us once during the entire trip, but he kept his eyes trained on the rear view mirror. I began to feel uneasy when we passed the last remnants of shacks and buildings and were in open, dark country, bouncing and jostling along at a dangerous speed considering the condition of the road.

  Luis leaned against me heavily as we took a curve, slipping his arm around my waist and drawing his face close to mine.

  He whispered, “One of the picadors told me your name is Honey. Honey West.” He pronounced Honey like Boney. West came out Waist.

  I laughed a little. “The way you say it makes me sound like some sort of reducing parlor.”

  “Nothing about you is reduced,” he said “You are like that Americano advertisement we used to get on radio, ‘so round, firm, fully packed.’”

  We skidded around a corner and started up a steep incline. High on a hill above I could make out the dim outline of buildings.

  “Luis, what’s up there?”

  He grimaced. “The slaughter house.”

  “What?”

  “It is where they take the bulls after they are killed in the ring. This is where they are cut up.”

  I felt a chill run up my spine. “Why are we going there?”

  “You wanted to see the matador.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Trico, a boy who sells flowers outside the plaza said he saw them carry someone out on a stretcher. They put him in the same truck with the already killed bulls.”

  I winced. “They—they wouldn’t do that—”

  He laughed in his teeth. “That is what you think.”

  The taxi jolted to a stop outside a big wood building set back from the edge of the hill and separated from other buildings by fences and corrals. As I stepped from the car the odor that pierced my nostrils was so putrid that I almost retched.

  “Holy mackerel!” I gasped.

  “Breathe through your mouth,” Luis directed. “Pinch your nose closed if you have to.

  The driver handed Luis a flashlight, still not uttering a word, and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Luis flicked a switch, throwing a yellowish cone of light to the ground, and gestured for me to follow. We wa
lked up a cement ramp to a door in the side of the building.

  “Luis, this is crazy—”

  “Don’t talk!” he spat.

  He pushed the door open and entered slowly, indicating that I follow. Even with my nasal passages squeezed closed the terrible odor came through. It was in my mouth and nose and eyes. I gagged.

  “Luis!”

  “Silencio!”

  He shined the light onto a large table in the center of the room. My eyes bugged. Hunks of raw meat were cut in all assorted sizes and stacked on one end of the counter. Flies swarmed all over them. Above hung the carcasses of two hulls already beheaded and skinned. Blood dripped and pooled on the tile floor. Along one wall were more hooks supporting dead bulls stripped of their hide, flesh coated with insects. Some of them looked half human, legs dangling in the light.

  “Luis, this is too much,” I pleaded.

  “I asked if you had a strong stomach.”

  “Pete couldn’t possibly be here.”

  Luis moved around the slaughter table to another one at the rear of the room. In the gleam of yellow a white sheet appeared in the comer, spread out over something. I caught my breath.

  Under the sheet was a pile of bright, blood-spattered clothing: pink silk stockings, black slippers, heavily embroidered silk fighting pants, a fine linen shirt and a silken sash and tie. Under these garments lay a brightly appointed gold and white jacket. Unmistakably this was the suit of lights worn earlier in the day by Pete Freckle. The initials P.F. were stitched inside the shirt collar.

  I whirled, glancing at the center table where the awesome sight of flesh stabbed into view again from Luis’s flashlight.

  “It—it isn’t possible—” I whispered.

  Luis moved forward to the table, picked up a piece of the freshly cut meat and examined it closely. Then he said, “Too dark for a human. This is a bull.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Si.”

  “Then—where—?”

  He brushed a horde of insects onto the floor and laughed. “That is something you will have to ask Zingo.”

  “Who?”

  He took my arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”