Deadly Weapon (9 page)

“Most of it. As much as you did. Except the number. It was long distance, wasn’t it?”

Walter James pulled a scrap of paper out of his wallet and scribbled on it. “Not so long. Here. Clapp will be interested in this, but don’t get him out of bed to tell him about it.”

The detective held the paper up and squinted at it. “It’s a Tijuana number!”

“That’s the answer. Have a good night’s rest.”

“But what was that ‘shut it off, Steve, shut it off’ talk?”

“Steve was playing his radio too loud.”

“In Tijuana?” puzzled the heavy man, but Walter James had started off down the sidewalk.

K
EVIN WAVED TO HIM
madly from where she stood in front of the college’s Moorish-type administration building. As she scrambled into the Buick, she asked, “Where we going?”

“South of the border,” said Walter James. He wore a lightweight powder blue suit and a Panama hat. “I took your tip about the weather and got this yesterday afternoon.”

“You look good,” she said critically. He spun the car around on the visitors’ parking area and headed away from the school out College Way.

“At least I won’t feel like I’ve been jerking weights all day. I think Clapp believes I have a guilty conscience because of the beads of perspiration on my forehead. He doesn’t know it’s my East Coast wraparounds.”

“I don’t know why I’m holding these in my lap!” Kevin said suddenly and tossed her books in the back seat. “But why are we going to Mexico? And why me along, Walter?”

“You ask more questions than I do, redhead,” he observed.

“I know. But why?”

“I have to see a man in Tijuana. You have to get me there.”

“Turn right on El Cajon and go down to Jackson Grammar School. Turn left there to National City. From there on we can’t miss. Now why am I really along?”

“Maybe I just wanted to have you here.” She tucked her feet under her and pushed across the seat until she was close enough to put her arms around his elbow. With one ear on his shoulder pad, Kevin exhaled a long and artificial sigh. “And then again, maybe I need you to drive back.”

The girl looked up at him. “Are you going to stay down there?”

“I don’t intend to settle. But talking to your guardian angel last night, he told me about this big operator in Tijuana — a guy that knows pretty much about everything that goes on in both towns. I thought I’d drop in and see what he has to say.” He paused a moment. “He may not care for me.”

“Ooh!” she murmured and wiggled excitedly. “Walter, darling.”

“What?”

“This is my first adventure.”

Walter James laughed. “I was hoping you’d count last night.”

She chuckled and squeezed his arm.

It was high noon when he rolled the Buick over the ram-shackled bridge that led into the sweltering border town. Waves of heat hula-ed up from the hard dirt streets. A few people sauntered along the porched sidewalks but only a few. Most of the souvenir shops were closed. One or two of the bigger nineteenth-century firms, pregnable sheet-glass fortresses, condescended to leave their doors propped open.

“It looks like Tuesday isn’t the big day here,” said Walter James. “Know where the Devil’s Bar is?”

“I think I’ve been there. Turn at the Foreign Club. It’s down that street, to the right. Oh, I hope you find out something, Walter!”

“It’s about time,” he said flatly. “Hal will start thinking I’m a washout as a partner.”

Kevin patted his wrist. “I keep forgetting that your two best friends have been killed,” she said softly. “I’ve never told you how sorry I am. I really am.”

The slight detective pressed his lips together. “Ethel may not be completely lost — there are other answers. Amnesia. They may be holding her. She may be running away from them and not able to get in touch with me. She may have learned whatever Hal knew and is afraid to come out of hiding. She doesn’t have to be dead.”

“There it is!” she pointed. “That blue and red sign!”

Walter James spurted the car past the tan adobe front of the target. He slowed down again as he drove round the block, scanning the other buildings. Three quarters around, he wheeled the Buick into a parking place by an alley.

“This must lead back of the place,” he murmured. He unstrapped his shoulder holster, locking it and the .32 in the glove compartment.

“Mightn’t there be trouble?” asked Kevin innocently. “Please don’t let anything happen to you.”

He smiled. “I think this is a spot where I’ll be welcomed without it.” He pushed a kiss against the end of her nose. “Kevin, tell me something. I’m going to mention Shasta Lynn in my interview here — just on the last mad chance she’s got a finger in this. I’ll need to know which nights your father was away from home. Then at least I’ll know which nights she was clear.”

Kevin clamped her teeth on her lower lip.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he added as he saw her jumbled expression. “Your father’s absolutely safe. It’s just that I have to know everything. Trust me.”

“I trust you, darling. It was Tuesday night last week. Wednesday night the week before that — and — and Friday before that. That’s all the farther back I go.”

“Thanks, redhead. That’ll be enough. I probably won’t get a chance to even use it.”

They crawled out of the car and walked arm in arm to the Devil’s Bar. The cocktail lounge was circular, plainly edged with square dark booths. From behind the oval bar in the center of the room, the two relaxed bartenders could keep an eye on the needs of every table. The cycloramic walls of the room were raw adobe muraled with an American artist’s idea of a Mexican Hades. Virile devils roasted half-stripped senoritas over strangely frozen flames. Other, more functional, devils wrestled with other, more fortunate, senoritas. There was one voluptuous female devil pursuing a wildly fleeing peon boy.

“You and me,” Kevin giggled, as they took seats at the bar.

“I wonder if you have to be a Mexican citizen to die and go there?” Walter James murmured.

There were four other people at the bar. Two roundfaced sailors and a young girl, whose fresh expressions contrasted with the sly leers of the mural, and a tired-looking brunette behind a half-empty Manhattan. The sailors and the girl were huddled in a low-laugh conversation. The brunette contemplated puddles around her glass, stirring them idly with a crimson nail. Walter James noted that the painted devils had identical faces — the same tip-tilted brows, the same hairline mustaches, the same pointed chins. He was about to comment to Kevin when one swarthy bartender stirred and glided toward them.

“Two tequila stingers,” he said instead.

“Are the pictures supposed to increase the body temperature so we’ll buy more drinks?” Kevin whispered wickedly.

“Maybe the owner doesn’t realize it, but he has the makings of a fine Chamber of Commerce here,” he answered. The waiter was back already. “They must have this stuff ready-mixed.”

Walter James laid the money on the counter and flattened his hand over it. “My name is Walter James. I want to see Steve,” he said.

The bartender regarded him steadily. “Big or Little?”

“Big.”

The swarthy man turned to his lounging partner. “Walter James. Senor Luz.” The other bartender disappeared to the rear. The swarthy man took the bills and stood flapping them against the edge of the bar until the other man returned. They murmured together for a moment. Kevin sucked in her breath.

Walter James muttered in her ear, “In the car — twenty minutes,” then the swarthy man said, “Come with me.” He slid obediently off his stool and followed the man to a velour curtain at the rear. In the small corridor behind it, the bartender ran light fingers up and down his sides.

“Never use them,” Walter James said. The bartender grunted and motioned him toward a door. He walked through it unattended.

It was a long office of more raw adobe, hung here and there with small Spanish tapestries. Two men sat in straight-backed chairs along the wall — a beefy American and a dapper, florid Mexican youth. Behind a carved desk at the other end of the room, an older man toyed with a salad in a wooden bowl. The older man rose.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Walter James. I have been expecting you.”

Walter James advanced to the desk and put his forefingers on it. It seemed as though he had seen this man before. The mural in the bar. The man before him had the same features as all the identical devils: tip-tilted brows, hairline mustache, pointed chin. His complexion was satiny tan and he lacked horns — that was the only difference.

“You have the advantage,” said Walter James.

“I am sorry,” said Big Steve, inclining his head. “My name is Esteban Luz.” Slender fingers gripped the proffered olive hand. “The young gentleman is Esteban Luz, my son. This is Mr. Darmer, my executive manager.”

The men traded nods.

“Will you sit down, Mr. James? If you will excuse me, I will continue with my luncheon.”

Walter James stayed on his feet. “I suppose Dr. Boone told you I was coming?”

“Hardly.” Luz sucked in a strand of lettuce. “I had heard you had come to San Diego and were working with the police there.”

“Shall we say involved instead of working?”

“Very well. Involved.”

Darmer spoke weightily. “I’m sorry to hear that, James, It’s safer to stay on the right side of the law.”

“I’ve been trying,” smiled Walter James.

“Did you think we could help you with your trouble?” asked the young Luz softly.

“My son means that in my years in Tijuana I have acquired a slight reputation as a local philanthropist. Many people come to me with their needs.” Luz added white teeth to his satanic features. The slim man smiled back.

“I’m hardly a charity case,” he said. “But the man in Atlanta recommended you highly. He said you were an excellent source.”

“Atlanta?” Luz lifted an eyebrow. “I was not aware I had any friends in Atlanta.”

“It was one of my friends. And Dr. Boone has passed through Atlanta a great many times.”

“Dr. Boone,” considered Luz. He pushed the salad bowl aside and placed the fork in it. “It has been quite some time since we have had the pleasure of Dr. Boone’s company. How long was it, John?”

Darmer said, “Quite some time.”

“Yes. It must have been at least six weeks since he was last here. I hope nothing has happened to him. I doubt that anything could, however — he was such a large, healthy man.”

“But so hurried to do business with,” said Little Steve. “That was his one and only fault.”

“Perhaps his mind was uneasy,” suggested Walter James.

“Not from a disturbed conscience,” smiled Luz.

“It will be hard on business for a while. The Filipino’s dead.”

“So I have heard. So many odd bits float across the border and my foolish mind insists on retaining some of the most unrelated. The Filipino
is
dead. However, he is not alone. There are many dead people, Mr. James.”

“They’ve been stockpiling for years,” Darmer added dryly.

Luz raised a hand. “And I should note here that I cannot see the connection between the Filipino and your visit.”

“I thought perhaps I could help you,” said Walter James courteously. “My own woes are many and my burden is heavy, but Allah be willing, I might furnish a new contact. A less fallible contact. The mail must go through, Luz.”

“I still fail to see — ” began the elder man.

Walter James picked up the telephone receiver. “Let me make a connection,” he said flatly. He placed a call to XEGC and hummed as he waited. “Advertising, please,” he asked and hummed some more. A voice crackled in the earpiece.

“This is Walter James of Southwest Advertising. I’m interested in finding which three days of the past three weeks the Devil’s Bar plugs have been run. It’s an all-day run, I believe, on a specified day each week. No, that’s all right. You may call me back anytime on Senor Luz’s private phone. Thank you.”

The receiver clicked down in a deep stillness. Young Esteban Luz rose slowly. Darmer stroked the cleft in his chin.

Luz’s chest moved, the only indication that he was laughing. “Very interesting,” he said. “And how much further can you follow that connection?”

Walter James spread his fingers modestly. “No further — yet. I haven’t been in town a week.”

“I don’t think you should stay in town a full week, Mr. James. Let me point out a few facts. I see no reason for my co-operating with you — no possible advantage. Again, I am on my side of the border; the San Diego police are on theirs. It would require virtually an act of your Congress for them to take issue with me.”

“I may take issue with you.” The slender man’s eyes began to fade. Luz held up one finger.

“That is my point. You are not in Atlanta where you should be.”

“He’s right,” said Darmer. “This is Tijuana, this year. This is not Atlanta in 1942, ‘44 or ‘45.”

Walter James turned. “I’m glad to see the Atlanta report has arrived.”

Luz revealed his teeth. “John is outspoken but that is our argument. We have knowledge of your brutality, Mr. James. Should it come to such an uncivilized result as open warfare — ” He shook his devil’s head sadly. “I am in my country surrounded by business associates. You are alone, unsupported. I am afraid the contrast in firepower would prove too much — even for a man with your record.”

“You may be right.”

“I have never been more positive. You may return to San Diego now.”

“And pack your suitcase,” added Darmer.

“There are two things you must not do, Mr. James. One is to pay another call on Lieutenant Clapp. Another is to visit a private residence in San Diego — your discretion will tell you which one. Now I must ask you to leave by the patio gate. I hope you will absorb today’s lesson.
Una lección de silencio
.”

Somehow, the native phrase seemed odd on the elder man’s tongue. Walter James nodded without speaking and moved toward the indicated door. He could sense Darmer and Little Steve coming up behind him. He opened the door and stepped into the vibrating heat of the patio.

A flash of reflected sunlight bit the corner of his eye and he twisted. The haft of the knife clipped the side of his neck instead of the back. He threw a fist into young Luz’s soft belt line and the Mexican staggered against the door jamb.

Walter James turned to run toward the gate in the high stucco wall, but Darmer’s foot caught him in the small of the back. He fell, rolled over a stubby bush and staggered to his feet. His forearm stopped two of the beefy man’s short jabs. The third blow got through — a long right that grazed metal knuckles across his cheek. The left side of his face went numb.

“Little different without a gun?” grunted Darmer. The Mexican was coming up again. He had left his knife in the doorway. Walter James ducked and pistoned both fists against Darmer’s heart. The beefy American gasped. In the pause, the slight detective broke and whirled. The narrow edge of his hand sliced into Little Steve’s throat and the Mexican sank to his knees. He put both palms on the grass and began to vomit.