Authors: Kathleen Creighton
Julie smiled back and held out her hand. "
Yo hablo español
," she said, and was rewarded by a broad smile of relief.
"That’s good—my English is terrible. But you speak Spanish very well for a Norteamericana. How did you learn such good Spanish?"
Julie murmured evasively, "I need it in my job," and turned to the table. So Rita, at least, had not been told who or what she was.
"Of course," Rita went on with a shrug, bustling ahead of Julie to pull out a chair, "Señor Chayne speaks Spanish like a native." She threw Julie a swift look full of the curiosity she was too reserved to voice.
"I hope it isn’t too late for some breakfast," Julie said apologetically, changing the subject. "I went exploring this morning and lost track of the time. Anything will be fine— some tortillas, coffee…"
Rita made a clicking noise with her tongue and sternly pushed Julie into the chair. "No, no, no. I will fix you a real Norteamericano breakfast. I have eggs—fresh eggs from Sebastien."
"Sebastien?"
"Sí, the old one, you know, with the beard?" Rita made a gesture as if to stroke invisible whiskers on her own chin. "You haven’t met him yet? He and his wife, Juanita, live here all year. They have some chickens, goats—"
Julie interrupted cautiously. "You don’t live here?"
"Oh, no. Geraldo and Carlos and I—"
"Carlos? Your little boy?"
Rita nodded, smiling. "Yes, my little rascal, you mean. We live in Guadalajara. We are only here for the summer. But here—" She clapped her hands together "—I stand here talking, and you must be very hungry, Señorita. Please, I do not even know your name."
Julie told her her name, and Rita repeated it, making an effort to give the J the English pronunciation rather than the Spanish H. The result was a soft sound somewhere in between.
"Please," Julie said as Rita stood repeating her name in an experimental way, "I don’t want you to go to any trouble for me. I know it’s late."
"No, no, it is no trouble! I cook breakfast for Señor Chayne all the time, and I have gotten good at it. For a friend of Señor Chayne," she said with earnest sincerity, "it is no trouble!"
"Then at least let me help you."
"No, no, no. Sit down. I will bring you some coffee."
Rita hurried to suit her action to her words, placing a thick mug of fragrantly steaming liquid before Julie, who inhaled, sipped and murmured a heartfelt "Gracias." As she watched the dark–haired woman through the rising steam, she was more than ever sure that this was the person she had to thank for the gift of the belt. Rita seemed a little nervous, but it was the nervousness of a shy but lonely person attempting to make friends.
"I really do want to help while I’m staying here," Julie said when Rita seemed at a loss for conversation. "You must tell me what I can do."
Rita threw her a smile as she lit the gas flame under a large cast–iron frying pan. "When the men return from fishing, there will be work to do. We will be glad for your help."
"What kind of fish will they bring back?" Julie asked, visualizing a noxious afternoon cleaning the catch.
Rita shrugged. "Quién sabe? Who knows? Totuava, grouper, perhaps even lobster—"
"Lobster!"
"Oh, sí—it is always so when the men return from the north. There will be a feast—a
fiesta
!" Rita’s dark eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief. "You will be sorry you asked to help; Juanita will teach you to make tortillas."
They laughed companionably, and then Julie asked casually, forestalling the questions she knew the other woman was trying to summon the courage to ask, "Are you here on vacation?"
"Well, yes and no. I suppose it is a vacation for Carlito and me, but for Geraldo it is a job."
"Job?"
"Yes, of course." Rita glanced up from the stove in surprise. "He works with Señor Chayne and Pepe—you know, helping Sebastien with the tourists."
"Um…tourists?" At a complete loss, Julie took a stab in the dark. "Fishing?"
A shadow of confusion crossed Rita’s face. "Well, yes, that too, but Sebastien usually takes care of that part of it. Geraldo and the others take those who want to explore inland. Into the deserts and mountains—hunting and so on. But didn’t you know what Señor Chayne does here?"
"Not really," Julie said faintly. "I haven’t known him very long."
Rita smiled gently and nodded, then said surprisingly, "You don’t have to know Señor Chayne very long, do you?" And then, looking embarrassed at herself for having presumed to say such a thing, she hurried on. "They are guides for the tourists, do you understand? Gabriel brings them here in the seaplane. A few stay to fish with Sebastien, but most go into the interior with Geraldo and Pepe and Senior Chayne."
"I see," Julie murmured, blowing on her coffee. "They take them hunting or exploring, and then bring them back here?"
"Oh, no—this is only a stopover. They are taken on to the west coast, to the next stop. Comprende?"
Julie nodded thoughtfully. "So, it is like a guided tour?"
"Yes, exactly!" Rita said happily. Julie thought she seemed relieved, as if she needed reassurance that it all made sense. She was not a stupid woman. What vague doubts and fears must color her nightmares?
"And the travel arrangements are handled through this Gabriel?" Julie prodded, keeping her voice bland, her face full of polite interest. "Does he have an agency of some kind?"
"Yes, yes—at least—" Rita frowned, her busy hands slowing for a moment. "I don’t really know. But I think—"
She was interrupted by a rapid burst of Spanish from the doorway. Both women jumped like guilty children and jerked around to stare at the woman silhouetted there. She had struck a pose, one hip jutting, one hand on the curve of her waist, and though Julie couldn’t quite make out the expression on her face, she was certain there had been a note of warning in her voice. In any case, the colloquialism she had used was the crude equivalent of "Shut up!"
Rita’s full mouth tightened with dislike. "Linda," she murmured. "Why don’t you come in? I don’t think you’ve met Señor Chayne’s friend Julie."
The newcomer undulated into the hut, exaggerating her body movements deliberately in a way that could have been either comical or insulting. Julie watched her with impassive interest. She had a small, triangular face, full lips, large dark eyes, a rather frowzy mass of curls left in purposeful disarray, and a voluptuous body in tight white pants and a striped halter top that left her midriff bare. She was at once younger than Rita and much, much older. Julie had encountered her type before—in the streets of Tijuana.
"Linda," Rita said with careful courtesy, "is a friend of Pepe’s."
As Julie nodded her acknowledgment of the introduction, Linda gave a throaty chuckle and lowered herself into a chair. She shook a cigarette out of a pack she carried in her hand, leaned over to light it at the gas flame of a stove burner, then settled back, exhaling smoke and regarding Julie with narrowed eyes through the cloud.
"Sure—like you are a
friend
of Señor Chayne’s," she murmured.
Julie returned the stare calmly, and after a moment Linda gave a husky gurgle of laughter and leaned forward to tap her arm. "You know, I think it’s going to be nice, having somebody around here I can talk to, comprende? Now, Rita here is too good to associate with us—a real nice lady, with her husband and her little boy and her nice house in Guadalajara. Ha!"
Linda made a rude noise and settled back, breasts jutting, eyes narrowed against the smoke. Rita tightened her lips as she turned wordlessly to the stove, and Julie caught a bleak look in her dark eyes. She felt a surge of pity for the woman stuck in this place so far from her safe suburban home, friendless and alone with her vague and frightening suspicions.
Just as she was. Except that Rita had her husband, and Julie had only a coyote—no, a
terrorist
—to protect her.
What would Rita, this nice lady with a little son to think of, do if she knew what was going on? Would she help me get away? Or is her first loyalty to her husband? She is afraid for him, but if I could convince her that stopping him is the best thing for him, maybe she would give me food and water…help me launch the boat.
Julie jerked herself out of her musings as Rita set a plate of bacon and eggs before her. She caught Linda’s eyes on her, glittering with speculation, and wondered whether her thoughts had been mirrored on her face.
"Señor Chayne es mucho
hombre
," Linda murmured, smiling a lazy, sensuous smile and letting her eyes slide downward to rest disparagingly on Julie’s small bosom, completely shrouded in the loose–fitting shirt.
Quite a man
. The girl’s insolent gaze said plainly she considered Julie, with her neat little body and baby–fluff hair, an inadequate consort for the incomparable Señor Chayne.
The disdain in Linda’s eyes was replaced once again by speculation as she sat quietly smoking, watching Julie eat. Julie, trying to think in character for the role she was playing, ate with self–conscious concentration, steeling herself for the questions she sensed were perking just behind those ageless black eyes.
"Where did
El Demonio
pick you up?"
Julie heard Rita’s soft intake of breath. Linda’s question was deliberately insulting, thrown out abruptly in the hope of catching her off guard. Julie raised her eyes, wide and candid, and said, "
El Demonio?"
Linda smiled, her little pointed face catlike. "Señor Chayne, of course. The demon with blue eyes—it is a good name for him, don’t you think? Tell me, is he a demon in bed, too?"
Julie felt Rita wince. She chewed slowly on a bite of tortilla and met the challenge in Linda’s eyes with a long, thoughtful gaze. She knew from experience that she was being tested, and that the only way to deal with a street fighter like Linda was to meet her on her own terms. Pushing back her plate, she said with a sweet smile, "Now, that’s something
you’ll
never know."
Linda’s drawl was equally honeyed. "How do you know I don’t already know?"
"Because if you already knew, it wouldn’t be necessary to ask. And, dear, if you have any ideas about the future, I think it only fair to warn you…"
"Yes?"
Julie lowered her lashes and broadened her smile. "That if you ever try to come close to El Demonio I will…" The phrase she used brought a shocked gasp from Rita and a burst of laughter from Linda.
Julie was just surprised and relieved that she had been able to remember it correctly. Illegal aliens, those who were very young and female, were as often to be found working the streets of San Diego as the tomato fields of the San Joaquin Valley. Julie had had her share of epithets and threats hurled at her by both pimps and madams in the course of her job, and she’d chosen the coarsest one she could remember.
It had served its purpose; Linda was looking at her with new respect, still chuckling. Rita was clearing away dishes, avoiding her eyes. Julie thought she had probably spoiled her chance of a friendship there, but it had seemed important that she establish her cover with the far more dangerous Linda. It was with mixed feelings of victory and regret that she thanked a silent Rita for the meal and left the hut.
Outside, she wasn’t surprised when Linda fell into step beside her. The woman offered her a cigarette, and when she refused, lit one for herself and tucked the pack into the waistband of her trousers.
"That is some mouth you got, for a
gringa
," she said on her first exhalation. "Where did you learn to talk like that?"
"Tijuana," Julie said shortly.
Linda nodded, eyeing her sideways. "You work in Tijuana, huh? I bet you do okay, with that hair." They walked in silence for a few paces, and then Linda, in another of her blunt thrusts, asked, "What happened to your clothes?"
Julie said with equal rudeness, "You ask too many questions." Then, surprised by a look of vulnerability in the woman’s eyes, she relented. "Stolen," she said with a shrug, and looked away, across the water. That, at least, was the truth.
Linda nodded and made a sympathetic sound with her tongue. This was something she could understand. "A bad trick, huh? Did he beat you up, too?"
Julie looked at her in surprise, then followed the direction of the sad, sharp eyes and rubbed the bruise on her chin ruefully. She shrugged, not quite trusting herself to reply. Linda had used the term meaning roughly "bad hombre." It was certainly true that the same person who had stolen her clothes had given her that bruise; and it was also true he was a "bad hombre."
"And Señor Chayne took you away and gave you clothes," Linda said with certainty, providing her own answers. Julie stifled a snort. She was beginning to wonder how "Señor Chayne" had come to be called El Demonio when he was obviously one step away from canonization in the eyes of both Linda and Rita.
A small brown hand, curiously childlike, touched Julie’s sleeve. She stopped and turned.
"Hey, if you want, I have some clothes you could borrow," the tough street girl said gruffly. When Julie didn’t answer immediately, she withdrew her hand and struck a pose, defiantly hipshot, breasts and chin thrust forward, hair cascading over smoldering eyes. "Look, gringa—I don’t care if you want to go around in a nun’s habit. Maybe you feel safer looking like a little sister. You know what I think? You got a tough mouth, but I think you are afraid of El Demonio after all. I bet you don’t have the guts to put on some sexy clothes and wake him up a little bit. You wouldn’t know what to do with him, gringa!"
Julie studied the triangular face, set now in hard, derisive lines but betrayed by that elusive vulnerability. "You may be right," she said slowly, smiling. "It seems like a very dangerous thing to do—wake up a sleeping demon."
Linda’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of an answering grin. Julie shrugged offhandedly. "Hey, sure, I’d like to have something prettier than this thing to wear. Gracias. Can I get something to wear to the fiesta tonight?"
"Okay, sure." The Americanism was tossed off in English, in tandem with a carefully noncommittal shrug.