"Well," she said, "buenos noches, "buenos noches, Jeff." Jeff."
I didn"t answer. I was watching the rocks across the clearing. Carrera may have planned on sleeping the night, but I wasn"t counting on it.
She woke at about two A.M. She pushed herself to a sitting position and stared into the darkness.
"Jeff," she whispered. There was the faintest trace of an accent in her voice, and she made my name sound like "Jaif."
I pulled the .45 from my waistband and walked over to her.
"What is it?"
"My hands. They"re ... I can"t feel anything. I think the blood has stopped ... "
I knelt down beside her and reached for her hands. The strap didn"t seem too tight. "You"ll be all right," I said.
"But ... but they feel numb. It"s like ... like there is nothing below my wrists, Jeff."
Her voice broke, and I wondered if she were telling the truth. h.e.l.l, I didn"t want the poor kid to suffer. I held the .45 in my right hand and tugged at the strap with my left. I loosened it, and she pulled her hands free and began ma.s.saging the wrists.
She breathed deeply, and the moon sent silver beams dancing across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Ahhh," she said, "that"s much better."
I kept the .45 pointed at where her navel should be. She looked at the open muzzle and sighed, as if she were being patient with a precocious little boy.
She leaned back on her arms then, tilting her head to the sky, her black hair streaming down her back.
"Oh, it"s a beautiful night," she said.
"Yeah."
"Just look at the moon, Jeff."
I glanced up at the moon, taking my eyes off her for a second. That was all the time she needed.
She sprang with the litheness of a mountain lion, pushing herself up with her bound feet, her fingernails raking down the length of my arm, clawing at my gun hand. I yanked the gun back and she dove at me again, the nails slashing across my face. She threw herself onto my chest, and her hands sought the wrist of my gun hand, tightening there, the nails digging deep into my flesh.
I rolled over, slapping the muzzle of the .45 against her shoulder. She curled up like a caterpillar for a second, nursing her shoulder, and then she exploded again, teeth flashing, nails bared.
I flipped the .45 into my left hand and brought my right back across my chest. I slapped out backhanded, catching her on the side of her face. She fell backwards and then lunged forward again. I slapped her twice more, and she went into the caterpillar routine again, curling up into a soft little ball, her head bent, her chest heaving.
She looked up at me suddenly, her eyes sparking. "You lousy b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she mumbled.
"Sure," I agreed.
"Hitting a woman!"
This struck me funny somehow, and I began laughing. I saw her eyes flare, and she bit her lip as I laughed louder. She pushed herself up from the ground, murder in her eyes. She hopped forward, and I backed away from her. She kept hopping, her feet close together, the material from her skirt keeping her in check. And then she toppled forward, and she would have kissed the ground if I hadn"t caught her in my arms.
She kissed me instead.
Or I kissed her.
It was hard to tell which. She was falling, and I reached for her, and she was suddenly in my arms. I held the .45 in my right hand, and it felt like a cannon pointing out into the darkness. My left arm tightened around her waist and she lifted her head. There was a question in her eyes for a single instant, and then the question seemed to haze over. She closed her eves and lifted her mouth to mine.
There was sweetness in her kiss, and an undercurrent of danger, a pulsing emotion that knifed through me like an electric shock. She pressed against me, and her body was soft and womanly, and I forgot the marks of her nails on my arms and face, forgot that she could be as deadly as a grizzly. She was a kitten now, soft and caressing, and her breath was in my ears, and the movement of her body was quick and urgent. I lifted her, the .45 still in my hand, and carried her to the deep shadows of the rocks.
The stars blinked down in wonder, and the wind sang a high, contented song in the jagged peaks around us.
Sunlight spilled over the twisted ground like molten gold, pushing at the shadows, chasing the night.
She was still in my arms when I woke up. I stared down at her, not wanting to move, afraid to wake her.
And then her eyes popped open suddenly, and a sleepy smile tilted the corners of her mouth.
"Good morning, darling," she said. Her voice was still lined with sleep, as fuzzy as a caterpillar.
"h.e.l.lo."
She yawned, stretching her arms over her head in lazy contentment. She took a deep breath and then smiled archly, and I looked deep into her eyes, trying to read whatever emotion was hidden in their brown depths.
"Your boyfriend," I started.
"Carrera?"
"Yeah."
"He"s not my boyfriend."
Her face was serious, so serious that it startled me.
"No?"
"No."
"Well, anyway," I said, "he"s still got my ten thousand."
"I know."
"I want it back."
"I know."
"I want you to help me get it."
She was silent for a long while. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. "Why?"
"Why? Holy Jesus, that"s ten thousand bucks! You know how much work I did to get that dough ... "
"Why not forget it? Why not ... forget it?"
"Sister, you"re crazy. You"re crazier"n h.e.l.l."
"Carrera will kill you. I know him. Would you rather be dead without your money ... or would you rather be alive without it? Alive and ... with me?"
I hesitated before answering. "Ten G"s is a lot of money, baby."
"I"m a lot of woman," she answered.
"Yeah."
"Well?"
I shook my head. "If you help me, I can have both. We can do a lot with that money."
She considered this for a moment and then asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"You"ll help?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want to set a trap for Carrera."
"What kind of a trap?"
"Will you help?"
She moved closer to me and buried her head against my shoulder. Her voice tingled along my skin. "I"ll do whatever you say."
We gave the sun time to get directly overhead, laying our plan as carefully as the foundation of a cathedral. The idea was to get Carrera out into the clearing. Once he was there, I"d either get the money or put a big hole in his fat face. He could take his choice.
Linda and I crouched behind the rocks, our heads close together. The sun bore down ferociously, baking the earth, spreading heat over the surface of the land. The sky was as blue as a sapphire, streaked with spidery white clouds that trailed their delicacy across the wide wash. It was the Mexico of the picture books, bright and clear, warm, alive-and it should have been pulsating with the throb of laughter and music, wine and song, fiesta.
Instead, a funeral was being planned.
Carrera"s.
And Mexico, the willing mistress, arched her crooked backbone, thrust up a solid barrier of jagged rock behind which we plotted while the sun watched with a bland, disinterested face. There was a sheer wall behind Carrera, rising like a giant tombstone for some hundred feet, terminating there in a jumble of twisted branches and fallen rock. A few feet from the wall, jutting up like an old man"s browned, crooked teeth, was the outcropping behind which Carrera squatted with his. .45-and with my ten G"s.
Once Carrera left the protection of that natural fortress, he was in my pocket.
We got to work. My watch read 12:45, and the sun was hot, probably as hot as it would get all day. The sweat spread across the front of my shirt like a muddy ink blot, staining my armpits, rolling down my face in steady streams.
Linda screamed, just the way we"d planned it. The scream tore the heat waves into shreds and clung to the jagged rocks like a tattered piece of cloth.
"Shut up!" I shouted. "Shut your G.o.dd.a.m.n mouth."
"Jose!" she bellowed, her head turned to Carrera. There was no sound from across the clearing. I kept low behind the rocks, wondering if Carrera was listening, wondering if our little act was having any effect.
"I warned you," I shouted. "One more word ... " I cut myself short and yelled, "Hey, what the h.e.l.l ... hey, cut it out! Let go that gun!"
"You lousy filthy sc.u.m," Linda shrieked.
"Don"t! Don"t! For G.o.d"s sake ... "
I pointed the .45 over my head and fired two quick shots, the thunder echoing among the rocks like the dying beat of a horse"s hooves. I screamed as loud as I could, and then I dropped my voice into a trailing moan. I clamped my jaws shut then and allowed silence to cover the land.
It was quiet for a long time.
Linda and I crouched down behind the rocks, waiting, looking at each other, the sweat pouring from our bodies. There was still no sound from the other side of the flatland, and I began to doubt the effectiveness of our plan.
And then, softly, in a whisper that reached across the pebble-strewn clearing and climbed the rock barrier, Carrera called, "Linda?"
I put my finger to my lips.
"Linda?" he called again.
I nodded this time, and she answered, "It"s all right, Jose. It"s all right."
Carrera was quiet again, and I could picture him behind his rock barrier, his ears strained, his fat face flushed.
"The American?" he called.
"He is dead," Linda answered.
"Tell him to come over," I prompted.
She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Come over, Jose. Come."
I waited, my chest heaving, the .45 heavy in my hand.
"Throw out the American"s gun," Carrera said. His voice was cold and calculating. He wasn"t buying it. He suspected a trick, and he wanted to make sure I wasn"t forcing his woman to play along with me. I bit my lip and stared at the .45.
"Give me the gun," Linda whispered.
"What for? What good would that ... "
"I"ll stand up. When he sees me with the gun, he will no longer suspect. Give it to me."
"Throw out the gun, Linda," Carrera called again.
"Quick," she said, "give me the gun."
I hesitated for a moment, and then I pa.s.sed the gun to her, holding it by the barrel, fitting the stock into her fingers.
She took the gun gently, and then pointed it at my belly. A small smile tilted the corners of her mouth as she stood up. My eyes popped wide in astonishment.
"It"s all right now, Jose," she said. "I"ve got his gun."
"Bueno," Carrera said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. I"d been suckered, taken like a schoolboy, hook, line, and sinker. Carrera said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. I"d been suckered, taken like a schoolboy, hook, line, and sinker.