“All right,” he said, “prove it.”
“Just a few facts,” I said. “Your people are running heroin into the States. Up until a year or so ago, you’ve been involved only with the Mexican-grown stuff. But the authorities have been clamping down on the poppy growers, and that cut into your source of supply, so you turned to Marseille. Your organization has become part of the pipeline from Marseille to the States. You run the stuff into the States through Matamoros into Brownsville, Juarez into El Paso, Nuevo Laredo into Laredo, Tijuana into L.A. A lot of it goes directly from here to San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle, usually by tuna boat or freighter. A lot of it goes by private aircraft across the border into Texas, Arizona and New Mexico. Do you want the names of some of the ships you use? I can supply them, Mr. Bickford. Push me hard enough, and I’ll supply them to the authorities.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Bickford, slowly and softly as though he’d gone into shock. “What you know is enough to get you killed, Carter!”
“I know a lot of things that can get me killed,” I replied, coldly. “Now, how about it? Will you lay off Stocelli?”
Bickford was still stunned by what he’d heard. He shook his head. “I–I can’t do that I’m not in a position to make a decision like that.”
“Why?”
There was a pause, and then he confessed, “Because Tm just a guy in the middle.”
“Then pass the word on,” I told him, pressing him hard. “Tell your boss”—I saw Bickford wince at my use of the word—”that I want him to leave Stocelli alone.”
I saw the two women come out of the house toward us. I got to my feet
“I think we’ll have to be running along,” I said, taking Consuela by the arm as she came up to me.
Bickford stood up, a big, rangy man, his hair gleaming whitely in the moonlight, a troubled look on his battered face, and I knew I’d been right in my estimate of him. He’d dropped out of the fight game because he lacked the guts to take a hard punch and come back swinging. He was all show. His toughness was all on the outside.
“You’ll have to come around again,” Doris said brightly, looking at me, her eyes filled with invitation. “Both of you,” she added.
“We’ll do that,” I said, not smiling back at her. I turned to Bickford. “It’s been nice talking to you.”
“You’ll hear from us soon,” said Bickford, making no effort to keep up the pretense. Doris threw him a sharp, warning glance.
The four of us walked out to Consuela’s little car and said goodnight.
Consuela was quiet on the ride back to my hotel. We were almost there when I suddenly asked, “Who’s Luis Aparicio? Is he one of your men?”
“Who?”
“Luis Aparicio.” I described the young Mexican I’d met that afternoon on the malecon.
After a pause, she said, “I don’t know him. Why?”
“Just wondered. Are you sure?”
“I’ve never heard of him.” Then she added, “I don’t know everyone in the organization.”
“And the less you know the better off you are?”
Consuela made no answer for a long time. Finally, she said, in a voice devoid of all warmth, “I’m still alive, Mr. Carter. And, in my own way, I do quite well.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Consuela dropped me off at the hotel and went on her way, clashing the gears of the Volkswagen as she drove off. The lobby was deserted. I made my way through it out onto the broad terrace, that faced the town across the bay. I found a chair and sat down, wanting to enjoy a last cigarette before I turned in for the night.
When I finished the cigarette, I flipped it over the railing, the glowing coal making a tiny red arc in the darkness. As I was about to get to my feet, I heard someone come out onto the terrace.
Henry came up beside me, peering at me in the dark, trying to recognize me.
“Hi. You were at the pool this morning, weren’t you?” he asked, tentatively.
“Yes.”
He let his heavy body sink down into a chair facing me. “They never did show up,” he complained, his voice petulant with disappointment
“What’re you talking about?”
“Those chicks,” said Henry, in disgust “None of them. It’s one-thirty and not one of those dumb broads ever showed up to go skinny-dipping.”
“You really thought they’d go skinny-dipping?”
“Sure. At least the two that I was with. They probably found some goddamned Mexican beachboys instead!”
He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The flare of the match lit up his heavy, sun-reddened face before he blew out the flame.
“That English chick is the one Yd like to latch onto,” he said, morosely. “The skinny one. The other’s stacked, but it’s Margaret who’s got all the bread. Her old man’s loaded. The only trouble is that she’s so damn cold she’d probably give you frostbite!”
Ignoring my dislike for him, I asked as casually as I could, “What do you do?”
“Do? I don’t get you, man.”
“What kind of work are you in?”
Henry laughed. “Hey, man, that’s not for me! I live! I don’t get tied down to a job. I stay loose, you know?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
“I have connections. I know the right guys. I do a few favors for them, now and then. Like if they want me to lean on someone. I’m pretty good at that.”
“Muscle?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“You ever lean on anyone seriously? You ever take on a contract?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to talk about something like that,” Henry said. “I mean, it wouldn’t be smart to sound off, would it?” He paused, letting the words sink in, and then he said, “I’d sure like to latch on to that little Limey chick. I could teach her a few tricks!”
“And take her back to Las Vegas with you?”
“You got the idea.”
“Or would it be San Francisco? Just where do you come from?”
There was a slight pause, and then Henry said, in a tight, unfriendly voice, “What business is it of yours?”
“I get curious about people who aren’t sure where they’re from. It makes me uneasy about them.”
“Keep your goddamned nose out of my business,” Henry growled. “It’ll be a lot healthier for you.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Henry,” I persisted, gently, surprising him by saying his name.
He swore and got to his feet, a hulking shadow in the darkness, his big hands closing into rocklike fists.
“Get up!” he said, angrily, waiting for me to stand. He took a threatening step closer. “Get up, I said!”
I reached into my pocket, took out a gold-tipped cigarette, and lit it, easily. As I snapped the lighter shut, I said, “Henry, why don’t you just sit down and answer my question?”
“Goddamn you!” Henry said, menacingly. “Get on your feet, you son-of-a-bitch.”
I took the cigarette from my mouth and in one continuous movement, I snapped it into Henry’s face, the ashes breaking, sparks flying into his eyes.
His hands went up to protect his face instinctively, his eyelids flicking shut in reflex; and in that second I launched myself out of the chair, my forearm snapping out, my whole body behind the blow as my stiffened, flat-knuckled fist drove deeply into Henry’s midriff just below his ribcage.
He gave an explosive grunt and doubled over in agony. I chopped at his face as it came down, the blow catching him on the bridge of his nose, breaking the cartilage. Henry gagged, his knees buckling as he slid to the terrace flagstones. Blood poured out of his nostrils onto his chin and onto the tiles.
“Oh, Jesus!” he gasped, painfully. Tin going to be sick.” He put a protective hand to his smashed nose. “No more!”