Dig A Dead Doll Read online

  “Hi, sailor,” I said, nibbling on a pencil’s eraser. “Care for a game of ninety-four proof gin?”

  “Hi, Honey,” he answered softly. “It’s good to hear your voice. When are we going to do it again?”

  “Do what?”

  “Take another boat ride”

  “Not until you’re patched up.”

  “They removed the bullets last night,” he protested. “I’ll be okay in a couple of days.”

  “I’ll be available.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Of course.” I rubbed the pencil against the tip of my nose. “Link, I meant to ask you yesterday, are there many boats around San Diego harbor with the word Joy as part of their name?”

  I could hear the rhythmic sound of his breath in the earpiece as he stopped to think. “Let’s see. There’s one I’ve noticed that anchors in the basin. The Joy Time.”

  “How big?”

  “About sixty-eight feet. A two-masted schooner.”

  “No good.”

  ,rWhat are you after, Honey?”

  “Something about half that big. Without sail. A Chris Craft maybe.”

  He coughed. “Afraid I can’t help you. Listen, the nurse says I have to hang up now. Will you call me tomorrow?”

  “I’ll try to, Link. Bye.”

  I replaced the receiver, got up and stretched. Right now, I knew, my chances of locating either the power launch or Beechcraft were slim. A call to Newport Harbor might uncover fifty boats with Joy in their names, any number fitting the basic description of the attacking craft. As for the airplane, without a serial number, locating it would be like digging for a grain of rice in the Sahara desert. Blue wings and red-striped tails were popular marks of identification.

  The phone jarred shrilly. On the other end was Charley April, a bashful, rotund guy with a broken-down switchboard and a million-dollar heart. He ran a part-time bookie operation, answering service and advice-to-anyone-who-needs-it service. The last two he provided free to a select list of friends, one of which I found myself. The other business was wide open. He’d even take a bet from a police commissioner, if he was sure he’d pay off. Charley once wagered five thousand dollars that I had nine freckles on my right knee, a situation that I was not even aware of until I bent over and counted. The man who lost swore there were ten, but the tenth proved to be an elusive dimple.

  “Springtime,” Charley barked through the receiver. That was his affectionate tag for me. “I been reading where sea air is bad for you. You’d better head for the hills.”

  “Not a bad idea, Charley. What’s with you?”

  “Your line has been hotter than a two-dollar pistol for the past twelve hours. Every newspaperman in town’s been trying to reach you.”

  “Any other calls?”

  “Yeah, one this morning from a Dr. Jay Hook in Pasadena. Citron five, six-eight-oh-nine.”

  “Thanks, Charley.”

  I dialed the operator and in a few seconds was connected to Jay’s office.

  “Hook-Summit Medical Center,” a curt female voice announced.

  “May I speak with Dr. Hook, please?”

  “I’m sorry he’s busy on another line. Would you like to speak with someone else?”

  Bass Summit’s huge raw-boned face came into my mind’s eye bent over that red-hot skillet, the cowboy hat squeezed down over his massive scalp, a can of beer clutched in his thick fingers. “Dr. Summit, please.”

  The husky dentist came on the line in his roaringly happy manner. “Yes, ma’am!”

  “This is a lady who doesn’t have any cavities, but you filled her needs a couple of days ago with a skirt and blouse. When are you going to send your bill?”

  “Honey?” he blurted. “Gee, it’s good to hear your voice. We were worried. Jay called your office this morning.”

  “So I understand.” I reached in one of my desk drawers and removed a spare garter holster.

  “Wait, let me get the good doctor on the extension,” Bass said. “He’s been busting to hear from you.”

  Jay came on in an instant. His voice was charged with expectancy. “Honey, are you all right? When Bass and I read about you getting shot at again we nearly flipped. We understand you didn’t leave Mexico until yesterday morning. What happened?”

  “Something unexpected came up, Jay.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a package of heroin stashed under the hood of my car.” The garter slipped up over my knee and up onto my thigh. “I nearly wound up in the hoosegow for that.” Bass broke in. “Honey, you’d better take a long vacation or something—and make it quick. Your life doesn’t seem to be worth a plugged nickel.”

  “Bass isn’t kidding, Honey,” Jay urged. “Why don’t you take a cruise to Hawaii or the Orient for a few months. Until this thing blows over.”

  “Fellas,” I said, adjusting the holster on my leg, “if I knew what was supposed to blow over I might take your advice. As it stands now I’m going back to Tijuana this afternoon.”

  “What?”

  “Besides having a client who’s also interested,” I continued, “I still want to find Pete Freckle. There are a few new leads and I’m planning to follow them up.”

  “Honey, you’re downright crazy,” Bass said.

  “Please, Honey,” Jay begged.

  “I just called to thank you again for your help Sunday night, and to say I hope we see each other soon.”

  “Honey,” Jay broke, “you’re never going to see anybody, don’t you understand? I was in the water with you when that boat came in. I saw what happened. They were going to cut you to pieces. Please, don’t go back.”

  “I told you, Jay, I have a client now and—”

  “Okay, okay, then do us a favor, will you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Use our trailer. It’s still parked near Rosarito Beach where we were before. They key is under a big stone near the front door. We’ll be down day after tomorrow to help any way we can.”

  I couldn’t help smiling, the offer was so deeply genuine. “Thanks, Jay. I’ll take you up on that. See you both on Friday. Bye.”

  I’d just hung up when the phone rang again. It was Charley.

  “Springtime, I couldn’t help listening in—”

  “Why, you old eavesdropper.” I could picture him bent over his switchboard, a bottle of beer jammed under my key.

  “You need any money?”

  “No. Hold down the fort, will you, Charley?”

  “Will do. Be careful, Springtime, and don’t fight any bulls.”

  I smiled, recalling my nightmare. “Charley, I already did that.”

  “What?”

  “See you soon—I hope.”

  It was blazingly bright and sunny as Fred and I drove through San Clemente, Oceanside and Del Mar. A few white puffs hung over the ocean like balls of cotton in a sterile jar. We stopped on the way into San Diego at Shelter Island where I picked up my convertible at Lang-don’s Dock. Rising wind billowed a few sails in the outer harbor and the icy blue water began to chop and white-cap. Fred followed me around Harbor Drive and onto the route south to Tijuana. It was growing dark by the time we reached the border. Fred pulled alongside and I suggested he park downtown and take a room at Las Tunas Hotel.

  “Then we’ll have a bite to eat at La Tita,” I said. Fred’s eyes lit up. “I’ve always wanted to eat at that establishment. Lead on.”

  I waited while he registered with the fat smiling little proprietor of Las Tunas. Then we took my car and drove to the edge of town to Zingo’s “nightclub.”

  The vivacious Juanita greeted us at the door in her low-cut blouse and knee-length skirt.

  “Well, look who is here,” she said, running a thick red tongue over her lips. “How are you, Miss West?”

  ‘Tine,” I said, noticing the place was packed as usual. “We thought we’d sample your food. Is Maria here?”

  “St. She is getting ready to go on with the act. May I show yo
u to a table?”

  “Please.”

  She put us at a small table, well away from the area where the three women did their performing.

  I studied Juanita. “Is Punta Punta in this evening?”

  “Si,” she answered quickly. “He is in his office. Do you want me to tell him you are here?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” I said, noticing a narrow corridor running off to the right. “Is his office down there?”

  “Si.” She moved away toward the bar.

  I patted my right thigh and glanced around. “You wait here, Fred. If I’m not back in five minutes, bring your cane and come arunning.”

  He nodded. “Don’t make me miss the floorshow.”

  ‘Don’t worry.”

  I walked down the corridor to a door at the end marked Oficina, and knocked. A greasy voice told me to come in. A lop-eared Mexican with a scrawny neck and thin shoulders sat at a desk with his back toward me. I lifted my .22 out of its holster and pressed the snout against his head.

  “Okay, Senor Punta Punta, stand up—slowly.”

  “Que!” -He followed my directions, his shoulders and body trembling, legs quaking like he was standing in a vat of ice water.

  “Now turn around.”

  He did, eyes nearly popping out of his skull-shaped face. “Senorita, what—what is this—a holdup?”

  “Don’t be coy, pal,” I said. “You recognize me.”

  His head shook. “No—no, I don’t.”

  I placed the barrel of the gun under his chin and exerted a little pressure. He choked.

  “You’ve got an awfully bad memory, P-P. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the night at the slaughter house when you and your pal Zingo slipped me a little nighty-night and then stripped me raw.”

  “Senorita, I know nothing about such a night, believe me.”

  ‘Don’t lie! After you hung me from that tree I heard Zingo call you by name. I couldn’t see your face, but Punta Punta I won’t forget. Where’s Zingo?”

  He gasped from the force of the revolver’s snout. “I—I do not know, senorita. He contacts me only once in a while.”

  “What have you done with Pete Freckle?”

  “Nothing.” Sweat poured down his neck and chest, running over a gold medallion that dangled in his shirt’s opening.

  I looped my revolver in the medallion’s chain and twisted. He gagged, falling back in his chair.

  “Tell me,” I said, through my teeth, “or so help me I’ll split you open like the bull split open Pete Freckle.”

  His mouth fluttered, eyes bulging. “He—he is muy muerto”

  “How do you know?” I demanded.

  “The bull killed him—”

  “You lie!” I spat, twisting the chain more. “Where is he?”

  “There—there is a place,” Punta Punta managed, face turning bone white.

  “What place?”

  “Near the slaughter house, he—”

  The door opened behind me and a voice broke, “Hey, Honey, you’re missing the floorshow and—”

  “Fred, get out of here—” I turned a step too far, releasing the chain.

  Punta Punta’s hand leaped inside a drawer and extracted a .45. He raised it toward my head. I was able to get my elbow around, but that was all. He took the blow on his cheekbone, toppled over a chair and rolled to the floor. The gun came around in his spidery Angers and he squeezed the trigger as he rolled. A bullet sizzled by my ear, grinding into the ceiling. He squeezed again. This time it was too close for comfort, practically clipping my eyelashes. I ducked, whirled, pulling my own trigger. A slug tore past Punta Punta’s head, hitting a tin waste basket and sending up a whirl of noise as the piece of lead lifted the can into the air. It bounced against the wall, clattering and banging as it fell.

  Fred dodged through the door, grabbing my arm and yanking me with him. I struck the sill, heard another bullet splatter against a steel lock, and found myself in the corridor, running pell-mell toward the front of the nightclub.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Fred yelled, his cane clanking on the tile floor.

  I didn’t bother to holster my revolver, but kept my legs flying until the corridor was gone and we were inside the main room of La Tita. The little old man was seated in the corner strumming at his guitar, and people were shouting and yelling at the contortions of the three lissome ladies. Apparently nobody had heard the shots coming from the back office.

  We were halfway across the main floor, dodging around the naked performers, when Punta Punta came out of the corridor. He issued one loud scathing oath and aimed his .45 at us. I dodged, stumbled and nearly fell atop the squirming ladies again. The bullet hit a hanging lamp and glass exploded into a frenzy of fragments, splintering in all directions.

  Now people leaped to their feet and pandemonium raged. Screams, shouts, cries pierced the room as Fred and I hurried toward the front door. Another bullet rammed into a wall near our heads. That’s when I turned to take another shot at Punta Punta. But he got his off first. Only this time he didn’t miss. A scream rent the air.

  I looked back. Beautiful Maria, her white body silhouetted in the bright lights, stumbled forward, clutching her stomach. She turned toward me, mouth open, teeth clenched and then crumpled to the floor.

  For a long instant nobody in the nightclub moved. All eyes were on the dark-haired woman, a bubble of dark red welling up over her navel. Then, everybody sprang into action, screams welled, figures jerked.

  Fred and I wound up outside the front door, still half-running, my arm around the newsman’s shoulder. We reached my convertible and crawled inside, both out of breath. I backed out of the parking lot and onto the highway. We drove for several miles before either of us spoke.

  “That poor girl,” Fred murmured. “He must have killed her.”

  I nodded. “We’re in big trouble now, Fred.”

  ‘Why?”

  “Didn’t you notice the way she fell?”

  “What do you mean, Honey?”

  I could hardly get the words out. “It looked like I did it, Fred. It appeared that I was the one who shot Maria.”

  We stopped at a bar in downtown Tijuana and gulped a shot of whiskey to steady our nerves. The shooting at La Tita had come so quickly and explosively it was hard to believe.

  “Do you really think they’ll blame you, Honey?” Fred asked, sipping at his second drink.

  “Of course, they will,” I said. “Punta Punta will tell the police I tried to hold him up. Everybody saw I was carrying a gun. In fact, I’d just aimed at Punta Punta when Maria was hit.”

  “Ballistics could prove—”

  “Ballistics my foot. You know how the police operate down here, Fred. An American doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Carlos Ortega came into the bar, head lowered, eyes downcast. He looked like he was about ready to cry.

  “Hey, Carlos,” I called.

  He walked over to us solemnly, jaw set into a hard ridge. “Senorita,” he said, “you wanted to talk with Don Mano, no?”

  “That’s right. Do you have any idea where I can find him?”

  “Si, I can take you to him now.”

  We followed Carlos out of the cafe.

  “Have you a car?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  I knew from the way Carlos was acting that something was wrong even before we arrived at Don Mano’s house. The old man lived in a little adobe house off the Ensenada Road about a half-mile out of town. We parked and walked up onto a rickety wood porch. Don Mano was seated in a rocking chair, an old dog in his lap, weaving back and forth mechanically. He did not acknowledge our arrival, not even so much as a nod of his head.

  “There he is,” Carlos said. ‘Talk to him. Ask him about Zingo.”

  “Don Mano,” I said, leaning toward his chair, “it is very important for us to know who this man Zingo really is. If Pete Freckle’s dead, Zingo no doubt is responsible in some way. He has tried to kill me twice in
a very violent manner. I understand you have met him. That you know his true identity. Please, will you tell us? I promise no harm will come to you.”

  Carlos suddenly laughed. “That is funny, senorita,” he said, unable to stop his laughter. It was the kind of sound that makes you hurt just to hear it. It was that pathetic. “You promise no harm shall come to the old man. He does not care. Now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ask him all you want to, he will not answer,” Carlos rasped.

  “But you said—”

  “Senorita, ask him to open his mouth.”

  “What?”

  “Ask him to open his mouth!”

  I didn’t have to ask. In the next moment, the old man’s jaws parted. In the yawning dark chasm of decayed gums and rotted teeth there was a hideous void. A dark unbroken hole.

  I couldn’t help the cry that slammed up into my throat.

  Don Mano had no tongue. It had been cut out.

  ELEVEN

  I stayed the night in Jay and Bass’s trailer parked near Rosarito Beach. I didn’t sleep well again. The nightmares came back. Only this time they were worse. Don Mano’s wrinkled old face kept appearing, jaws parting slowly, breaking into wild maniacal laughter that kept ringing and ringing and ringing… .

  I woke up on the floor, struggling with my pillow, hair snarled about my face. After a quick breakfast, which didn’t go down too easily, I went into town and picked up Fred at Las Tunas Hotel.

  “Where we going?” he .asked.

  ‘First to the slaughter house, and then, if you’re still breathing, out to Vicaro’s ranch.”

  “Who’s Vicaro?”

  “He’s the impresario of the bull ring. Big shot. Former mayor of Tijuana. Suspicious as hell.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “You will—after the slaughter house.”

  We took the old bumpy road south of town until we reached the cut-off. It was a hot morning and with the top down on my convertible, odors began to waft in before we even climbed the hill.

  The place hadn’t changed much from Sunday night. We parked in front of the main building and walked up the ramp, Fred’s cane rattling on stone.