Manuel stepped up to the end of the table and stroked her trembling thighs. Each touch of his hand was an electric shock that made her twitch.
Eagerly she spread her legs, inviting him.
Hurry, she thought. Hurry.
Manuel was moving toward her spread crotch. She could see him between the warm, dark mounds of her breasts. Hesitantly she licked her suddenly dry lips with her tongue. Already, her hips were slithering her ass around, working her cunt lips in soundless words.
He was placing his prick against her. She felt the steady pressure on her twat and her hips started jerking faster, rubbing against it with more and more friction until she thought if it wouldn't go in she would go crazy.
There was a knock at the door. A firm knock.
Manuel stepped away from Renee and looked at the door in irritation. He opened it a crack and said, "Como?"
Through the narrow crack, Renee saw the outline of a woman's hair, a bleached blonde, and heard her whispered conversation, but couldn't make out the words.
Manuel shut the door and hastily put on his clothes. Not saying a word, he stepped outside and slammed the door behind him, leaving Renee and Fran alone in the room.
Renee stared at the ceiling again. She wanted to scream. She was going to scream.
Manuel Ramos followed Esperanza to the top of the stairs where they could stand behind a blanket hung there to keep the upstairs light out.
His eyes followed where her finger was pointing and he stiffened. The American, wearing a sport coat and slacks this time instead of a suit, was the same one who had been with Fran and Renee the night he "acquired" them. "Send Jose up," he hissed.
Hurriedly the girl scurried down the stairs and out the front where the doorman kept watch.
The American worried Manuel. He walked around and seemed to be talking with everyone. He was behaving all right. And yet, Esperanza said he had been looking specifically for him for a reason he wouldn't tell to her. Manuel frowned. This was no time for complications like a nosy Americano prying around. A week more and he would be rid of the two women, anyway. They would be too hot to keep this close to the border. Besides, the market in Uruguay already agreed to take them.
Sometimes, Manuel thought, his contacts in South America were in good with the Communists because they always paid him with heroin. Not that he was complaining. It was always good H. He never had any trouble selling heroin. It was just that heroin did not come from South America in the quantity and quality that he knew was passing through there. More likely it came from China.
Jose burst through the blanket and stood waiting for Manuel to tell him what to do. He was built square, like a chimney. Even his broad, Mexican peon face was angular with flat slabs of bone for his cheeks and a heavy ridge over his eyes.
Pointing the American out, Manuel whispered to Jose and explained what he was to do, along with Antonio. Jose nodded slowly, memorizing every word of Manuel's instructions. Then he slipped quietly down the stairs, for such a big man.
Flitting around the room, Jose gave every girl her orders. They began getting demanding with the American who was slowly working his way toward the stairs. He had his foot on the bottom step when Jose materialized in front of him and slowly shook his head.
The American tried to argue with Jose. But before he got anywhere, the big Mexican had him by the collar and was hustling him out of the building.
Manuel sighed and turned back to the corridor. Jose had his orders. He wouldn't be bothered by the Americano any more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alex reeled across the curb, slamming into the side of an old abandoned car.
He caught himself and crouched to defend himself against the huge doorman, but there was no need. He had re-entered the building with a backward look.
Tugging at his jacket to straighten it, Alex sighed. There wasn't a cab in sight. He'd have to walk into town.
The suspicion that he was being followed began with vague noises in the darkness behind him. He would see no one, yet the feeling persisted.
Climbing a steep street, he was suddenly boxed in by two men. One was heavy, squat, powerful. He reminded Alex of the doorman at the La Casa de Los Angeles. His companion was short and skinny, dressed in a loud check suit. He was the dangerous one.
It was almost over so fast, Alex nearly missed the whole scene. The heavy-set man moved forward, grabbed him by one arm and flipped him to the ground. At the same time the skinny man lunged in and his knife seared along Alex's ribs like a red-hot razor blade.
Quickly the squat man knocked the little man's knife arm up and yelled, "No muerte, Antonio!"
The little man's ferrety eyes glared and he wavered, half-determined to charge again, this time with his big companion as his target.
It wasn't much, but it was a chance. Alex rolled free and then kept rolling and sliding down the steep street as fast as he could in a shower of stones and loose dirt.
The little man was first after him. His pointed Italian shoes plowed paths in the loose trash as he literally skiied down the slope on his heels. He held the knife ready and when he was close enough, set his feet and lunged.
Alex rolled away. This was no game. The little man was playing for keeps.
He followed Alex relentlessly, holding his knife ready for the taste of blood.
Alex scuttled along on his back trying to get away, but the killer had him cornered and was closing in for the finish. He held his knife low, blade up. When he lunged, he came in low trying to make a horizontal stab into Alex's body.
Rolling again, Alex evaded the knife for the second time. But just barely.
He was breathing hard and the stones on the street bit into him as he slid along on his back.
Suddenly, one hand encountered a round object that turned under pressure. A rock! Perhaps half as big as his head. He caught it in his hand, mothered it and scuttled away from the little man, again.
Behind Antonio, the big man was coming to his aid, huffing and pulling on the raw slope.
It was now or never, Alex told himself grimly. And if he waited too much longer it was going to be never.
His body was taut in preparation. His will was concentrating on preparing for Antonio's next charge.
The little man was eager, now. He was hurrying. He could hear his larger companion rapidly shortening the distance between them threatening to end the game before he tasted the blood he sought, needed.
He dove forward, his knife-blade eager for the salty taste of gringo blood dripping from it.
Time seemed to stand still for Alex. The little Mexican paused, then plunged forward in what seemed like slow motion to Alex.
He was sure he was going to get away. So sure! And the knife tore into his side leaving a trail of pain.
It was only reflexes, reflexes and determination that drove his hand up and out, ramming that rock into the side of Antonio's head with all the force left in him.
Blood splattered in thin drops. The knifeman shuddered and then collapsed as if the strings holding him up were cut. As he fell he dragged the knife out of Alex.
Alex noticed with a passing surprise that there was almost no pain. Not enough to stop or hinder him, anyway.
Alex stood, shakily. And the squat man seized him around the chest and hugged him to him, squeezing the air and life out of his lungs.
Wiggling desperately, Alex wrenched free of the squeezing arms and dropped to the ground next to the still figure of Antonio. His squat attacker paused for a moment, sensing the kill. Then he dove for Alex, spreading his body out in a cloak to catch and trap his body.
His look of anticipation changed to horror at the last moment, as he descended on Alex, whose hands held the silvery blade erect to catch the massive weight.