Evidently it did. “Call me Pedro,” he said. “Some day you shall be my honored guest at the games. Once you have seen me play jai alai, the thrills of no other sport will impress you.”
“If tonight was any example, I’m sure that’s true.”
“Si. In a way it was. You see this?” He stooped down and picked up a small, hard, black rubber ball. “During play this travels at the speed of ninety miles an hour. It can be as deadly as a bullet.”
Looking at the unconscious hood and his still dazed partner, I could believe Pedro.
“The game is played on a cement court,” he continued. “Not only must the player have expert control over the ball, but he must also have great agility and strength so that he may climb the smooth cement walls to return the shots fired at him. This is a great strain on him. On his heart. Most jai alai players die before they reach the age of thirty-five because of this. Quite a few are badly injured or even killed in the action itself, of course.”
“With that kind of life expectancy, it seems like a helluva career to choose. How many years have you got to go?”
“A lifetime. I am only twenty-two. Live fast, die young and-—”
“Have a good-looking corpse.” I finished the bromide for him. “Well, Pedro, that’s all very interesting, but don’t you think it would be better if we postponed this discussion? It seems to me that we should get out of here before the lady’s playmates decide to see what’s keeping her so long.“
“Si. That’s good advice. Particularly since the lady is coming with us.” He kicked at the hoodlum on the floor and there was no response. He was still out cold, possibly dead; Pedro wasn’t interested enough to bother finding out. He sidled casually over to the other muscle-boy and cracked him over the head with the butt of the gun. The hood’s eyeballs rolled up and he crumpled over on his back. Then Pedro motioned to me to climb out the window, and I did. A moment later Ophelia appeared. She had finally remembered to pull up the top of her dress. Pedro was right behind her.
He led the way to a parked Caddy. There was another Cuban behind the wheel and the motor was running. As soon as we got in, the engine purred and we slid smoothly down the street.
“Where are we going?” I asked Pedro as the car crossed the causeway from Miami Beach to Miami proper and turned onto the highway.
“The Keys. Your people are waiting for us there.”
“My people?”
“The CIA. And my people, too. Members of the anti-Castro Cuban resistance movement.”
“Were they the ones who sent you to rescue me?”
“In a way. The word came down from the CIA to watch over you. There has been a tail on you all night. I picked up from him when you left your hotel. But they didn’t really expect trouble. Not so soon. I wasn’t really prepared. So I had to improvise. Fortunately, I had some of my jal alai practice equipment in the car.”
“Damn fortunately. And thanks again. I’m your biggest fan from here on in.”
“You must be a very important man in the CIA, Mr. Victor. They’re as nervous about watching over you as a mother with a new-born child.”
“I’m not even in the CIA.”
“Then who do you take your orders from? What is your mission? Can you tell me?”
“No. And the truth is that I really don’t know most of the answers myself.”
“I see.” Pedro fell silent.
I didn’t particularly feel like making conversation myself. I was dog-tired. After a few minutes, I dozed off.
“We’re here.” Pedro was shaking me and I blinked back to wakefulness. The sun was well up in the sky. It hit me a red-hot blow on the head as I stepped out of the car. I hurried toward the awning over the porch of the cabin in front of which we’d stopped. Ophelia came up behind me, Pedro following and nuzzling one of her vertebrae with the gun.
He motioned me inside and I went. A short, stocky Latin type sprang up from behind a desk to greet me. “Senor Victor? Welcome. I am Juan Carrera, in charge of liaison in this area. Please to make yourself comfortable. My CIA contact will soon arrive and you will undoubtedly wish to report to him.”
That wasn’t so, but I let it slide. I gladly relaxed in a large armchair and found myself looking at Ophelia sitting on a bench across the room. “How come you knew who I was?” I asked her. “How come you were all ready and waiting for me?”
“Go to hell!” she replied.
“That is not polite.” Pedro stood over her and balanced the dagger he’d taken away from her in his hand. “When Mr. Victor asks a question, you should answer him.”
“You go to hell, too!”
“You enjoyed the manicure you were giving Mr. Victor before,” Pedro observed. “Perhaps if I return the favor, you will be more responsive to Mr. Victor’s questions.” He grabbed one of her hands by the middle finger and neatly pared off the long, red-lacquered nail with the knife.
“Forget it,” I told him before he could go any further. “I know this dame. She laps up torture. She thrives on pain. The only thing giving her a going-over would accomplish would be to get her all hot and bothered. That won’t make her talk.”
“That’s right.” Ophelia laughed sneeringly.
“Then what will?” Pedro wanted to know.
“Damned if I know,” I admitted.
“Perhaps her dossier will give us a clue,” Carrera suggested “It’s quite complete.” He crossed over to a filing cabinet and drew out a sheaf of papers which he handed to me.
I studied them spottily. My eye landed on something that prompted a vague hunch. “I see you did time in New York,” I remarked to Ophelia.
“So what? It was only thirty days in the workhouse.”
“What was the rap?”
“You’ve got all the data right there. Why ask me? Look it up for yourself.”
“ ‘Soliciting,’ ” I read from the dossier. “So you were a hooker, hey, Ophelia? I’ll bet you were pretty good at it too.”
“I never had any complaints.”
“How come you stopped? This dates back three years. Once a girl starts turning tricks, she doesn’t usually leave off so easily.”
“I didn’t want to go back to the detention home.”
“No, I guess you didn’t.” I studied the papers some more. You didn’t take it too well, did you? As a matter of fact it says here that you flipped your lid and had to be confined to the psycho ward. Now I wonder how come that happened? You don’t exactly seem the sensitive type.”
“It was those lousy bulls!” Ophelia spat it out violently, with all the rage of a memory she would have preferred not to have revived.
“Bulls? You mean cops?” I asked innocently.
“Not cops. Bulls. Bull-dykes! Lesbos! They wouldn’t keep their dirty hands off me. They were always pawing at me. And at night, after the lights went out, when the guards weren’t looking, they forced me to do the filthiest things you can imagine. Dirty, filthy, perverted acts! I couldn’t stand it. After a couple of those nights, I flipped!”
“That’s the way it is in most women’s prisons,” I reminded her softly.
“It’s disgusting.” She shivered.
“That’s the way it’s going to be when we lock you up this time,” I told her. “And you’ll be put away for a good long time.” I pushed the point. “Years. Years of women grabbing at you and kissing you and making you make love to them. Years of being a mark for every bull-dyke that comes along. And you know what? We’re going to pull a few strings to make sure that no matter how bad it gets, there’ll be no psycho ward for you this time. No relief. Just hungry female hands and hungry female mouths and hungry female--”
“Stop it! Don’t you think I know? I can’t stand it!”