“On the other hand,” Carole Marchand said, “you can’t steal second base if you insist on keeping one foot on first.”
“I don’t follow the game, ducks.”
Anders said, “Can I take it we’ve agreed to join forces?”
“For the time being,” she said.
Crobey was dubious. “It’s your money.”
“I think it’s money well squandered,” she replied. “Let’s not tiptoe, Mr. Anders. If we keep secrets from one another we’ll have terrific problems questioning each other because the nature of our questions will have to describe the limits of our own knowledge. Miss Rojas assures us you’ve turned the bag upside down and shaken it — Harry’s obviously not convinced of that and neither am I. It seems to me you’ve had minions upon minions working on this case. Haven’t they come up with anything more than what you’ve told us? Haven’t they tried to check up on sales of paperback science-fiction books, for instance, or Gauloise cigarettes? It’s the kind of grinding legwork that requires a flat-footed legion of peons — I’d have thought your organization would have done it.”
“Inquiries have been made.” Anders regretted his stiffness as soon as he couched it that way. “They’ve looked, they’ve asked around. They haven’t come up with anything. A lot of people buy paperbacks and cigarettes. You can’t stake out every shop on the island. Nobody’s got that much manpower. There’s a limit — you’re new to this, I guess, but believe me we’ve tried to follow every lead. Keep in mind this case isn’t right at the top of the San Juan police department’s list of urgent matters.”
“It’s at the top of mine.” The intensity with which she spoke drove him back like a physical blow to the face. “What about yours, Mr. Anders?” The challenge was harsh, and she was throwing it in his face.
Anders said lamely, “My instructions are to find Rodriguez. It’s my full-time job right now. I’ve got no other assignments. Does that answer you?”
“To find Rodriguez — and do what?” She was as persistent as a dentist’s drill.
Anders said, “Let’s just find him first, shall we?” Rising, he reached for the back of Rosalia’s chair. “Where can I reach you?”
Crobey said, “We’ll be in touch. You’re at the Sheraton, right?”
Carole Marchand was still watching his face; she hadn’t cooled. Anders paused and tried to smile. “We’ll find him, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” She wasn’t giving an inch. He’d failed to put anything over on her; she was shrewd — she didn’t trust him. He felt a touch of shame, as if he’d been caught with jam on his face.
She said, “Do you have children, Mr. Anders?”
“No.”
“Imagine if you had,” she said. “Imagine what you’d do if someone murdered your child.”
It was impossible to find a parking space in Old San Juan; they hadn’t even bothered — they’d come by taxi. Now and then you could find a cab in the plaza; they set out that way on foot with three or four blocks to cover. Rosalia said, “One tough lady.”
“Not all that tough,” he judged. “But angry.”
“Didn’t you ever want to be a father?”
“Not with the wife I had then.”
“How about with me?”
“A whole mess of kids.”
“I love you,” she said.
“Is there any truth to the rumor that an unidentified male made an ass out of himself in the restaurant back there?”
“None,” Rosalia said. “She was trying to get your goat — that’s not your fault.”
“I don’t mind lying, it’s part of my job. I do mind when somebody catches me at it. Makes me feel like a foolish little boy.”
“What lies did you tell them? I didn’t hear any.”
“Lies of omission, querida. A lot of things. I didn’t tell them they’re to be shunted off into the cold as soon as we get anywhere near Rodriguez. I didn’t tell them I’m using them because I’ve been disconnected from the machinery and I need all the manpower I can get now that we’ve got no staff, no connections, no police privileges. I didn’t tell them how badly I need their help, or how high the odds are that I’ll have to betray them later. In short I didn’t level with them and she knew it.”
“So did your friend Harry,” she said. “He just wasn’t so obvious about showing it.”
“Well Harry understands. He won’t get sore if I push him overboard — he knows how to swim. Let’s cut through here, save a block.” It was a steep cobbled passage walled by crowded stone-and-stucco buildings; a drainage rut ran down the center. An old man with a collapsed mouth sat on a worn step nodding, reeking of wine, looking back past them. The old man sat under a twenty-five-watt bulb in the doorway. Beyond it the passage was dark — at the top was the glow of the plaza. Anders was saying, “I don’t feel sorry for Harry but the woman’s another thing...” And then he let his voice peter out because it occurred to him that the old man hadn’t looked at him but had looked behind him, which meant the old man had seen something back there more interesting than Rosalia or Anders. He looked over his shoulder with a sudden sense of alarm.
There were two of them, big in the shoulders, soft caps over their eyes — menace in the speed of their approach: Now they began to run and Anders took the girl’s arm. “Come on.” And bolted for the head of the passage, ankles twisting on the cobblestones, leather soles slipping. At an awkward shambling pace they scrambled for it — he couldn’t hear the two men behind; they ran on rubber soles; then he stopped and swiveled, propelling Rosalia away: “Go on — keep running.”
One of them was nearly on him; the other unaccountably was sprinting away, back toward the street, rushing past the old man in the doorway whose head swiveled to indicate his bewildered interest in the dashing to and fro.
The assailant slowed to a jog and Anders saw the glint of a knife and aimed a kick at it but the cobblestones unsettled him and he careened against the wall, all but going down; the assailant half circled to cut off escape and then moved in fast and Anders hauled the jacket around — he’d had it hooked over his shoulder — and dragged it against the knife, snagging the blade, a desperate parry: He’d never been good at this, and science always went out the window when panic set in.
He heard the knife tear through the cloth but it was deflected just a little and he went for the man’s wrist left-handed, trying for a grip. He nearly missed.
He let go the jacket and flung a fist toward the man’s face but the man knew that one and went under it, twisting his knife wrist out of Anders’ grip and swiveling: The knife plunged forward and Anders got his arm up, forearm against forearm, batting to one side — the knife scratched stucco but then the man’s knee grenaded into Anders’ thigh and he felt himself go over.
With his back against the wall he slid off his feet, thrusting his arm out to break his fall. The assailant loomed.
Anders tried a scissor kick but he had no purchase, slithering on the stones, and the man stepped right through it, stooping; the knife poised to slash upward through Anders’ belly, the man waiting only for a clear target, and Anders tried to bicycle his way out of it, lying on his side, but knew he couldn’t make it.
He tried to reach out for the knife — better to lose a hand than be gutted — but the knife jinked easily to one side and jabbed toward him and Anders squeezed back from it, knowing it was hopeless, eyes popping and mouth wide open in the rictus of terror. Feeling like an utter fool. And then the man howled and sprawled away, falling across Anders’ legs — he heard the clatter of the knife when it fell.
Rosalia tugged at his arm. “Come on—”
“What the hell did you hit him with?”