Pete leaned against his car, inhaling the clean night air. It had been hot in the night club. Cigarette smoke and the odor of food must have made his sick. He started for Acapulco, and a few minutes later three policemen flagged him down.
It was a road block. Two policemen remained beside it; a third approached the Buick.
“Your name?”
Pete fumbled for his tourist permit. The policeman only glanced at it. “Norteamericano? Pass,” he said.
The new padlock was on the gate. He undressed quickly, took the Smith & Wesson from its hiding place and laid it on the bedside table. He emptied the pockets of his slacks.
Everything, as was his habit, went into the small drawer of the bedside table. Keys, a handkerchief, his wallet and some change. He tossed the slacks on the adjoining twin bed, and emptied the breast pockets of his shirt.
Cigarettes and matches, and finally his pocketknife. That should not have been in the shirt pocket; it was much too heavy. He put the knife with his other belongings, and pulled down his bedclothes. He reached for the light.
But he didn’t click it off. He stood with his hand on the light switch for a moment, then turned back to the bed. There was a stain where his hand had touched the sheet. It was a dark stain, reddish brown. He looked down at his hand. After a long while, moving very slowly, he picked up his knife. He pried open its long blade.
Both blade and handle were sticky, smeared with a brown viscous fluid. The knife fell as memory spurted into his mind. Memory came back, not in a flood, but in a thin, hard intermittent stream...
He stopped by the roadside and opened the car door. “Come on. End of the line.”
“Why for you stop, boy?”
“You’ll see. Get out.”
She climbed from the car. The underbrush was thick. His knife was in the left-hand pocket of his slacks.
“You loco, boy. What we do here?”
“You’ll see.” The blade was sharp. He could feel its sharpness, shifting the knife to his right hand...
10
Nightmare.
The sheets were wet with perspiration. He knew he’d had a terrible and vivid dream but his waking mind rejected the details. He got up and went into the bathroom. By the angle of conjoining shade and sunlight he knew it was late.
The water in the shower was tepid. He still felt sweaty when he dried himself. A glass and a bottle of whiskey were on the floor. He poured a drink and choked it down.
It made him sick. He carried the bottle to the bathroom, put it in the shower stall out of sight.
The screen door opened and Pedro came in. “A man señor. He says to give you this.”
Pete took the card. On one side had been scrawled, “Party tonight. Come on over. Please?” The last word had been underlined. On the other side were printed directions for finding Fran Garvey’s house. Pete tossed the card on his dresser. He sat on the bed and stared at the drawer of the bedside table.
He did not open it. Last night he had dreamed of putting his knife in there. It had been a confused and frightening dream, and his memory of it was vague. Let it stay that way. There was something he didn’t want to remember about the knife.
The evening came at last. He lay on his bed, staring through darkness at the ceiling. There was a lizard on the wall. It would stay as lifeless as a broken twig until a mosquito came within striking distance. Then its long tongue would flick out and the mosquito would disappear. The lizard would make a chucking sound like laughter. Another lizard on the porch would chuck, chuck back at him.
It takes time to learn to live with lizards. Mexicans like them. They say they bring good luck. But suddenly Pete couldn’t stand the chucking another minute. He had to get out. He dressed and went down to the car port.
Fran Garvey lived in a huge house overlooking the bay. He drove the Buick up a steep hill and parked among approximately thirty other cars. It was a big and noisy party. He could hear it through the house, coming from somewhere on the other side.
He entered the house, passed an improvised bar and went out on the terrace. The lawn was crowded with Fran’s guests. Waiters circulated among them, collecting and refilling glasses. Beyond a swimming pool, four men in black trousers and pink silk shirts beat energetically on a marimba. Submerged lights glowed in the kidney shaped pool. On his right was a small guest house. He looked for Karen but could not find her. He walked toward the pool.
As he neared the guest house Andy Shultz came out of it. He passed in front of Pete and went to speak to Jack Pascault who was standing a few yards away. Pascault looked up, and saw Pete.
He frowned, said something in an undertone to Andy. Then he walked over to a middleaged couple at the far end of the pool. He spoke to them and went on to whisper to several others. Pete felt his face grow hot. He walked quickly toward the fat, baldheaded man.
The first couple fell silent as he passed. The same thing happened when he neared the second group. It seemed to him that all the people on the lawn had lowered their voices to one insinuating funneled whisper. Even the marimba music was subdued. His feet slowed to a stop. Everyone was staring at him. He could catch no one actually doing it, but there was a tingling sensation up and down his spine. He turned, retreated to the terrace, went inside the house.
He stood at the bar, glass in hand, and asked himself what the hell he was doing here, at a party where people talked about him and where he was obviously unwelcome. He set the glass down and walked to the front door. Someone called him but he didn’t answer. He was going somewhere. Maybe he was going home.
“You’re not leaving, are you, Pete?” a light voice asked.
He had already started down the steps. He stopped, turned back. Karen stood in the doorway. Light streamed past her, outlining her slim figure, touching her pale hair with bronze.
She came slowly to the steps. “I’d like to talk to you,” she said. “Provided you’re not... excitable, the way you were last night.”
He smiled. “If I do get excited I promise not to let it show.” Behind Karen, he saw Andy at the bar. Andy was watching. “Too many people at this party. Let’s go for a ride.”
She went with him to his car. He helped her in and walked around to climb behind the wheel. But he didn’t start the motor. He caught the clean scent of the perfume she was wearing. A cool breeze carried the tinkle of marimba music from the pool.
He put his arms around her and she did not resist. But when his kiss became demanding she pulled away.
“They can see us from the house.”
“Who cares?”
“I do. Andy’s on the porch.”
He released her. He sat studying her profile for a full quarter of a minute. Then he pushed the starter button. The motor sounded sullen as it caught.
11
Andy returned through the noisy room and went into the library at the far end. He picked up the telephone and told the long-distance operator that he wanted to speak to a man named Stewart Winslow in Beverly Hills, California. The operator said that she would call him back. He pushed a button on the desk. The door opened after a moment, and a man in a white jacket came in.
He was young and good-looking. His complexion was dark but his hair had been bleached light brown by the sun. All except one strip across the top which was peroxide blond. He stopped abruptly when he saw who had rung the bell.