Dig A Dead Doll Page 5

  Carlos came to the front door after I knocked several times. He had straight black hair and brown eyes and his swarthy cheeks were pitted with acne scars.

  “Senor Ortega?”

  “Si.”

  “Do you speak English?”

  - “Si.” He put his hand up to shield the sun’s bright rays so he could see my face.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Si.” He smiled as if recalling something funny.

  I glanced across the fenced yard at the distant hillside where I’d heard the voice speak my name.

  “May I talk with you?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Come in.”

  The house was smartly furnished in utter contrast to the drab exterior. A white brick fireplace in a corner of the living room was flanked by two cream-colored boucle seating pieces, and a marble coffee table stood between. He offered me a chair and a cigarette, which he lighted, then seated himself at a low, mosaic-topped bar that separated the kitchen from the living room.

  “This is quite a surprise,” I said, gesturing at the furniture. “When I drove up the road this seemed like the end of the world.”

  “It was,” Carlos said, shaking his head, “until Pete came along. He bought all this and had the other things built in. Of course, the heating and cooking are still by open fire.”

  Despite its attractive decor, there was something about this place that gave me the creeps, like the slaughter house. Carlos seemed out of character here. So did an old pump faucet that still remained in the kitchen and a black kettle swinging over the modern fireplace.

  “Carlos,” I began quickly, “when was the last time you saw Pete Freckle?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “The afternoon he was struck by the bull.”

  “Was he dead when you saw him?”

  “No.” He glanced apprehensively about the room, then, “He died while I was in the dressing room.”

  “You’re sure, Carlos?”

  “His eyes closed. He did not breathe any more. Don Mano said he was muerto.”

  “But were you certain?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “Carlos, has anyone threatened you today?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t he to me, please! I want to help.”

  “No one has been here, senorita, except you.”

  I stood up and moved to one of the windows. ‘Who’s out there?”

  “Que?”

  “Someone called my name as I reached your gate.”

  “There is no one near here that I know of, senorita.”

  I turned slowly, scanning the young man’s frightened eyes. “Carlos, is it possible Pete is still alive?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he stopped quickly and swallowed. ‘Well, he could not be.”

  “Why?”

  “The holes were so big and deep you could put your fist into them. He took a horn in the belly. You do not live much after that.”

  ‘Was Pete in his room when you left?”

  “Si.”

  “Why did they remove him so quickly, Carlos?”

  “They must do this, senorita, they—” he stopped again, shooting a quick glance at the window.

  “Yes, Carlos.”

  His nostrils flared. He got up from his seat at the bar and moved across the room, the muscles in his face twitching nervously.

  “Senorita, you were a friend of Pete.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was a strange hombre,” Carlos continued. His face looked metallic, silver-plated. “He did not live here very much. He had many friends. Bad friends.” His voice lowered into a whisper as he stopped half-way across the room. “I will tell you one thing. You find Zingo and you will find Pete.”

  “Alive?”

  “That I cannot say, senorita.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.”

  “Carlos, tell me the truth!” ^

  “Senorita, you do not know what goes on at the plaza. There are many terrible things.”

  “Such as what?”

  “The toreros,* Carlos said, “they must pay and pay heavily to get the best bulls. If they do not, they may die.”

  “Who controls this, Carlos?”

  “I do not know for sure. They say it is Vicaro. I do not believe them, but they say it is he.”

  ‘What about matadors like Rafael?”

  “They say they must all pay. The banderilleros, the picadors, especially the ones who are young and who have only the experience of the county fairs and the little village corridas. They give all their pay to be able to fight.”

  “Sounds like some sort of syndicate.”

  “Si, senorita, that is what it is—a syndicate. If you do not pay you die.”

  “Carlos, did Pete pay the price?”

  “I do not know. Pedro was a very stubborn hombre. I do not think he would. He would die first.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “And I guess that’s what he did.”

  “No, senorita, the bull did not kill Pete.”

  ‘What are you saying?”

  Carlos crossed the room to a shelf in the kitchen. He lifted down a bottle of tequilla and poured himself a shot. He downed this and another before he finally answered. “It was not the bull, senorita. It was the bullet.”

  SEVEN

  “Carlos, you mean Pete was shot?”

  “Si, senorita.”

  “From the stands?”

  “Si.”

  “By whom?”

  “I do not know for certain, senorita. It must be by Zingo’s hombres. They wait all afternoon for Pete to be gored by that morucho, but it does not happen.”

  “So they made it happen.”

  “Si.”

  “Carlos, did you see the bullet wound?”

  “I did, senorita. It was very bad. High up in the stomach. Just above one of the horn wounds.”

  This explained Pete’s actions just at the bull’s charge when he dropped his muleta and staggered clumsily. “Did Don Mano see the bullet wound?” I asked. Carlos nodded, eyes flashing with panic. “Do not tell anyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Zingo would kill us. Don Mano knows this. So do I.”

  ‘Who is Zingo?”

  “I do not know. Don Mano is one of the few hombres who has met him. If you really want to know who Zingo is, go to Don Mano.”

  “I tried to talk with him, but he wouldn’t answer.”

  ‘Where were you?”

  “In a street cafe.”

  “Get him alone. He can tell you much. Perhaps he knows the answer to Pete.”

  I thanked Carlos and left the house, cautiously surveying the surrounding hills as I walked up the road to my car. A hot afternoon breeze blew my skirt, whirling it around my legs. I closed the gate behind me, then reached for the door handle on the driver’s side. I never got it in my grasp. A hand caught my arm hard and spun me around.

  “Rafael!”

  The boyish-faced matador stood along the edge of the dirt road, hands cupped defiantly on his hips, legs encased in bright tapered trousers and boots. He wore a gray jacket over a white shirt and his forehead, ridged with dust, was halved by a gaudy orange hat.

  “You make me angry, Honey West,” he spat, vehemently.

  “Why?”

  “Rafael does not like to follow and wait for any woman.”

  “You’ve been following me?”

  He removed his hat and brushed dust from the brim, glaring at me. “Si.”

  “You walked all the way out here from town?”

  He grinned, showing straight white teeth in a sensitively full-lipped mouth. “I like to walk. It is good for the legs and for the heart. A good matador needs both.”

  I leaned against the fender of my car and pursed my lips. “Why follow me?”

  “Because you will be killed if you do not stop meddling where you do not belong.”

  “Killed by whom?”

  “Zingo.”


  ‘Do you know him?” I demanded, hopefully.

  “No. Zingo would like to control me,” Rafael said, “but he can not because I am numero uno. He would not show his face to me.”

  The sky was beginning to grow dark along the eastern edge.

  Rafael wiped an unpleasant expression off his face and said. “It is growing night. I will ride with you back to town and we shall talk.”

  I nodded. The matador climbed into the car, swinging his slender legs in under the dashboard. His deep blue eyes flicked a pleased glint at me as I crawled behind the wheel.

  On the edge of town Rafael indicated for me to pull over and park in front of a building with a large sign out front. The sign read: LA TITA.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A little roadhouse. I come here often. Let me buy you a drink.”

  We went inside. Cigarette smoke was thick and blue, and a man in a sombrero sat in one corner strumming a guitar. Around the bar, which ran the length of the building on one side, was a group of attractive Mexican women with long black hair. Low-cut blouses and tiny-waisted skirts revealed their shapely young figures. Rafael pulled up two empty stools at the end of the bar and ordered tequilla.

  “Now then,” he said abruptly, “I suppose you are wondering what happened to Senor Freckle.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  Rafael had stark black hair, handsomely waved and pulled back at the nape of the neck matador fashion. He fluttered those ice blue eyes at me and smiled.

  “I, too, am wondering. What did Carlos Ortega tell you?”

  “Nothing of importance,” I lied. “Why do you ask”

  “Because Carlos was close to Pete Freckle. I thought he might know something.”

  “Rafael, why do toreros have to pay for good bulls?”

  He sipped at his tequilla, after touching his tongue to a dab of salt on the back of his hand, then glanced casually at the group of Mexican women who stood at the bar. “They do not. Who told you this?”

  “Carlos Ortega.”

  “He is crazy. There is a union in Mexico City for the protection of toreros. The union collects dues, but this is all.”

  “Why would Carlos lie?”

  “He is famous for that,” Rafael answered. ‘Wherever Carlos goes he tells people he is a torero. He is not. He is an aficionado, and that is all.”

  The sound of the guitar intensified as the man strumming it plucked gaily at the strings. One of the darkhaired women picked up the rhythm and began dancing about the room from table to table, singing, shouting, moaning weirdly through her teeth.

  “The floorshow has started,” Rafael said.

  “This—this is the floorshow?” I asked, peering through the thick smoke at the whirling woman.

  She suddenly did a high kick, arms lifting, her colorful skirt swirling away from slim legs. Her toe pointed toward the ceiling, arched high and rigid, revealing a rounded, full-fleshed thigh, tapering up into a harsh curve.

  I blinked. “Hey,” I said, “she’s not wearing—”

  “Interesting, no?” Rafael said, huskily. “Her name is Rachel. She is only sixteen, but she is a woman, no? She has a rich full body this one. And that one, too.”

  As he gestured, another of the women joined in the dance, spinning about the room. She was very buxom under her daring blouse and her breasts strained against the thin cloth. Her tongue darted out, licking over her lips hungrily.

  For the first time I noticed that women well outnumbered men in the cafe. They sat in groups, legs crossed carelessly, hands poked under rounded chins, eyes staring.

  Many of them wore slick pants and man-tailored shirts. A great majority were American tourists.

  About this time the lavender-eyed doll named Rachel came darting behind the bar, hands cupped under her well-turned blouse, heels clicking on the tile floor. She tore off Rafael’s orange hat and plunked it on her own head, then kissing him fiercely, she reached over and caressed me. I squirmed back on my stool. The matador came up smiling, wiping lipstick off with the flat of his hand. It was revoltingly red and thick. Rachel continued on with her dance.

  “Holy Geronimo,” I said. “What kind of a place is this?”

  “You watch,” Rafael suggested. “You have never seen anything like it before in your whole life. Thrilling, no?” I didn’t answer. The buxom girl was leaning over a table, shaking her shoulders, hands on her narrow waist.

  “That one is Maria,” Rafael said, simply. “She has a most interesting scar on her buttocks. I believe it was made by a branding iron.”

  “Somebody branded her?”

  The matador nodded. He removed two cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit both, handing one to me.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Honey?”

  ‘Well,” I stammered, “it’s not exactly my sort of entertainment.”

  Maria dropped to her hands and knees and began crawling around the floor on all fours. The view down the opening in her blouse must have choked every male in the place. Except Rafael. He seemed to be watching the other men I Rachel suddenly joined in the fun. She climbed atop Maria’s back and rode her around the room like she was a bucking bronco, waving the orange hat, throwing kisses. A button popped open from the action and the contour of two fleshy mounds sprang into view. She didn’t bother to close the gap. The crowd cried, “0161”

  A third woman sprang into the arena, clapping her hands, leaping into the air, throwing up the hem of her skirt.

  Rafael turned to me. “This one is Juanita,” he said, pointing at the newcomer. “She is the best of all. Look at the way she dances.”

  Jaunita did one of those special high kicks directly in front of us and I flinched. She had a picture drawn on the flesh of her stomach and it didn’t take much imagination to figure what it meant.

  “Rafael,” I said, touching his shoulder. “I’d like to get out of here if you don’t mind.”

  “Not yet, Honey. Wait just uno momento.”

  The next moment was what I was afraid of. And it came right on schedule. Maria tore off her blouse, revealing fully the heavy, pointed breasts. She also removed Rachel’s blouse and skirt. The customers began to shout and sing. The guitar player plucked wildly at his instrument.

  I looked away and grasped my drink, downing the tequilla in one throat-scratching gulp. The onlookers were pounding the tables now, screaming, “Ole! Ole!”

  I suddenly felt sick to the pit of my stomach. I put my hands to my face and slid off the stool, stumbling as I did so. My heel caught in a slat of wood and threw me sideways, and before I knew what was happening I fell clumsily to the floor. Right atop the naked women!

  A hand grasped me savagely. A roar went up. “Ole!” I felt taut fingers wrap around my waist and roll me over. I screamed, but it didn’t seem to do any good. Other screams drowned me out. “Ole!”

  I kicked for all I was worth. One of the girls gave, rolling over from the impact. Another fell back, hard. I got a foothold and staggered up, lunging for my stool. I saw Rafael reaching for me, felt my head whirling, the lights in the room whirling, the whole cafe turning upside down and I went right along with it. Kerplunk!

  The first one I recognized was Maria, prettiest and most voluptuous of the group. She was leaning over me with a cloth in her hand, placing it on my forehead. I winced and tried to sit up, but she pushed me down again. I saw that she was fully clothed now, makeup all freshened and bright.

  “You will be all right now,” she said.

  “What—where am I?” I asked, shaking my head.

  “A back room in La Tita,” she said huskily. “You fainted.”

  “I what?”

  “Too much tequilla and smoke,” Juanita suggested, bending down, smiling. “You have a very strong kick. Most powerful.” She said it in sort of an admiring way.

  I swallowed self-consciously and glanced to be sure all my clothes were still on.

  Rachel flicked her lavender eyes at me and also
smiled. She had not bothered to button her blouse. “You are very pretty.”

  I stood up. The way they kept their eyes on me was becoming embarrassing. “Do—do you have a floorshow here often?”

  “Three times a night,” Maria said, flicking the tip of a finger in the corners of her red mouth. She had high cheekbones and delicate eyes. Amber color. It seemed a crime to see such ravishing beauty wasted in this awesome manner.

  ‘We cater to the maricons,” Juanita said, arranging her dark hair, stroking the curls with her fingertips. She was the one with the naughty picture painted on her stomach.

  “You mean the—the—” I started.

  “That’s right,” Rachel said, smoothing her skirt.

  I swallowed again. The way they were looking at me answered my question. They belonged to the same set. There was no doubt.

  Rafael came into the room, grinning, walking in that boyish manner that made him look more like a young kid than a famous matador.

  “Are you all right, Honey?” He had a gleam in his eyes that I didn’t like. I still didn’t know what had happened after I fainted.

  “I—I think so,” I said. “We’d better be going.” Maria touched my arm as the others turned away. She whispered, “I have something for you.”

  The two other girls walked to the other end of the room with Rafael, chatting between them, hands entwined.

  I studied Maria suspiciously. “Something for me?”

  ‘Tour name is Honey West, is it not?”

  “Yes, but how did you—?”

  Her voice softened and she glanced toward the door. “Pedro told me about you. How blonde you are. How beautiful. He showed me your picture.”

  “Pedro?”

  “Pedro Freckle. Pete Freckle.”

  My shoulders tensed. “You know Pete?”

  “Si.” She crossed to a small desk and took out a white envelope. “Pete told me to give this to you.”

  “But how—?”

  “No more questions. They are coming back.”

  I slipped the envelope into my blouse just as Rafael turned toward me, an expectant smile etched on his pale mouth.

  “I’m waiting, Honey.”

  “Coming.”

  As we crossed through the main room past the bar, I heard a few cries of “0161” from some of the tables and I cringed.