"Like hell it will. I'm not going to take this shit from you anymore."
Chris turned to face her squarely. "Audrey, you don't have to take anything. Our return tickets to Los Angeles are in the top of my suitcase. You can use yours any time you want to."
Audrey caught her breath. She moved in quickly and wrapped her arms around him.
"I'm sorry, Chris. I didn't mean all that. I'm just hung over. I miss you, that's all. I want to be with you."
He held her for a moment. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't intend it to be this way. Things have come up that I don't have any control over."
"Can't you tell me about it?"
"Not now." He pulled away from her gently. "I've got to go."
Audrey released him. He kissed her lightly and went out.
Chris walked along in front of the hotel, where the driveway was crowded with vehicles bringing sightseers from Mazatlan. Halfway down the line he spotted the battered Plymouth of Luis Zarate. He hurried over and leaned down at the open window on the driver's side.
"Luis, can you take me into town?"
The cab driver looked up, startled. "Oh, Senor, buenas dias. I was, ah, waiting for a passenger."
"I'm a passenger." Chris opened the back door and got in. "Let's go."
Luis sighed heavily and started the noisy engine. He turned the Plymouth around with some difficulty and headed back toward Mazatlan. Chris noted the stiff set of his shoulders.
"Is anything the matter, Luis?"
"Matter, Senor?"
"You seem, well, uncomfortable."
"I have my worries."
"Yes, well, I guess we all do."
"Where do you want to go, Senor?"
"I want someone who deals in silver?"
Luis swung around in the seat and looked at him. "Silver?"
"Yes. I think you know what I need it for."
"Mazatlan is not a good place for silver. Taxco is much better."
Chris began to lose patience. "Well, I'm not in Taxco, I'm in Mazatlan. I need a knife made of silver, and I need it now. So take me to a silversmith, or let me get out and I'll find somebody who will."
Luis turned back to the road. His heavy shoulders rose and fell with another sigh. "Si, Senor."
They drove on into the city of Mazatlan and along Olas Altas Boulevard, where most of the big hotels and expensive restaurants were built. Luis pulled off on a side street, made another turn, and rolled slowly along a narrow avenue of crowded tourist shops and street vendors. There were art stores with bright bullfight paintings stacked out in front, guitar stores, shops stacked to the roof with wickerware, souvenir stands with red plaster bulls and painted maracas. Along the sidewalk, men and women displayed trays of turquoise jewelry and watches, stacks of sombreros and armloads of serapes.
Chris muttered to himself as he searched the storefronts for a likely looking sign.
"You see, Senor," said Luis, "In Mazatlan it is not easy to find somebody to make you something of silver."
"I can't believe that," Chris said. "Keep driving. In the next block he spotted a narrow shop with a neatly lettered sign in the window that read: JEWELRY MADE TO ORDER. "Stop here," he said.
Luis double-parked in front of the shop and Chris got out.
"Wait for me," he said.
On the sidewalk in front of the shop two little boys rushed up to Chris offering to sell him gum or plastic flowers. An old woman huddled under blankets shuffled along the pavement carrying a basket of withered fruit. She held out a blackened banana toward Chris. He brushed past the old woman and the boys and entered the jewelry store.
A salesman dressed in a neat dark suit hurried forward to greet him. "Good morning, sir. May I help you?"
"Possibly." Chris glanced down at the display case. It contained pieces of jewelry that looked to be of good quality. "Do you do work in silver?"
"Yes, sir. We have a fine craftsman here who will make up any piece to your order. Is it for a gentleman or a lady?"
"I'm not looking for jewelry," Chris said.
"Oh?"
"What I want is a knife. A knife with a blade of silver."
The man's eyes clouded. The smile gradually faded away. "A knife," he repeated flatly.
"That's right. I don't care what kind of a handle it has, but I want the blade to be silver, and I want it about six inches long."
"That is impossible."
"Why? If your man is as good as you say working with jewelry, surely he can make a knife blade and fit it to a handle."
"I am sorry, he does not do that kind of work."
"Can I talk to him myself?"
"He is not here. He is sick. He will not be in today. Probably not the rest of the week."
Chris looked into the eyes of the jewelry salesman. The man's gaze slid away and darted around the room.
"I'm sure you can buy a knife in any of the souvenir stores along this street."
"Not the kind I want," Chris said.
The salesman moved back behind the display case. "I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do for you."
Chris hesitated for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode out of the store. He marched across the sidewalk to Luis' taxi, and did not see how closely the old woman fruit-vendor watched him. He started to get into the car, but Luis reached out and placed a hand on his arm.
"I am sorry, Senor, I can no longer drive you."
"What do you mean?"
"I have other business."
Chris started to protest, but Luis started the engine, and the taxi began to edge away. The stocky driver looked back once with a strange sadness in his eyes. "I am sorry, Senor. Adiós."
Luis stepped on the accelerator and the old Plymouth roared up the street. Puzzled, Chris stood looking after the car. Behind him the old lady in the blankets moved with surprising vigor as she entered the jewelry store.
Chris began to walk down the crowded street. He had a feeling that eyes were following him from all sides, but whenever he turned to look no one was watching him. The difference in Luis Zarate today troubled him. He also wondered about the strange actions of the jewelry salesman. A sense of growing urgency prickled the hair at the back of his neck.
He had walked not quite a block when a hand dropped on his shoulder from behind. He spun around and was surprised to see the salesman from the jewelry store. The man pushed a folded piece of paper into Chris's hand.
"Here you will find what you are looking for," he said. "I cannot say more." With a nervous glance at the people passing them on the sidewalk, the man turned and hurried back toward the store.
Chris unfolded the paper and read: Tulio Santos, 48 Calle Verde. The man from the store was out of sight when he looked up.
The thought came to him at once that it might be some kind of trap. People were acting much too strangely today. And yet, what else did he have? Time was passing, and tonight was the full moon.
He hailed a passing taxi, this one a red Ford, somewhat newer than Luis Zarate's Plymouth. He showed the handwritten note to the driver.
"Calle Verde? You sure you want to go there, man?"
"Why not?"
"It's a bad street for tourists. It's a bad street for anybody."
"I'll take my chances," Chris said, getting in, "Let's go."
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
The street called Calle Verde was still another side of Mazatlan. It bore no resemblance to the moneyed boulevard that curved along the shore, nor the gaudy tourist streets just inland. Calle Verde was a narrow, grubby passage, between rows of weather stained buildings which gave no evidence of life within. The few people visible on the street moved furtively, as though they expected to be stopped and searched at any moment. A quarter of a mile away was the blighted section called La Ratonera. Some of its human refuse spilled over into Calle Verde.