Diego was ecstatic. "But how do you account for the presence of your wife, Señor?"
"She is with you, Diego."
His face broke into a beaming smile. "Ah!"
"And when we find two girls who work in pairs, we find out whether or not they have been asked to perform within the last few days — especially last night."
"I see!" Diego's face was a study in fascination, "Then we go."
"Right. Let's see what develops."
We began hitting the discothèques in Malaga. The European discothèque is essentially a dark place with a low ceiling, and very few windows. Small tables are placed around a platform in the middle. There are various types of decorations hanging from the ceilings — dried moss, belts, ropes, garters, g-strings, bras, whips, almost anything imaginable.
There is always music piped in loudly from a stereo tape set-up somewhere. The speakers blast noise in all directions, from hidden recesses. Strobe lights flash multicolored illumination in all directions. Color slides of nudes and couples in various positions of sexual intercourse are projected on the walls. The noise is fantastic.
Then all the strobe lights cut out, and a group of guitar players stroll onto the stage. A flamenco dancer — male or female — appears.
We hit half a dozen places before midnight, with negative results.
"Well?" I asked Diego after awhile.
"Nothing, Señor," he said. "Plenty of women available — singles, doubles, even triples — but nobody has performed a triple recently."
"So we try again."
"We have run out of places." Diego's eyes squinted. "I think we should try Torremolinos."
"Where is that?"
"A little way to the south. On the Costa del Sol."
"More discothèques?"
"The best. Lively. Bestial. Depraved."
I nodded. "Sounds good. Let's go."
At about one-thirty we went into a place halfway down the main street of Torremolinos. It was a gloomy place. Caged animals paced back and forth in cages hanging from the ceiling near the bar at the entryway.
Luminescent painted chairs and tables gleamed in the darkness. A male flamenco dancer sweated through the customary steps on a small stage in the center of the room. A slide of two lesbians in ecstasy was projected onto a wall. The amplified guitar music competed with a female singer's wild lament in an apparent attempt to deafen all patrons.
We sank down, ordered sangría, and watched.
Diego disappeared.
Juana and I looked at each other in exhaustion.
A hand gripped my shoulder. I jerked around, startled at the unexpected human contact.
"I have them," said Diego in my ear.
I touched Juana's hand, cautioned her to stay there, and followed Diego out through the darkness. At the side of the discothèque there was a small doorway. Diego guided me through it, and we walked down a dark corridor to a room at the end. A woman of indeterminate age sat at a table in a dirty, torn flamenco costume. A feeble electric light glowed in the wall over her head. She had black hair, black eyes, and black bags under them.
"Bianca," said Diego. "This is the man."
Bianca smiled a tired smile. "I like you," she said.
I smiled. "Your companion?"
"She is not as good as me, but she will be there."
"Her name?"
"Carla." She shrugged.
"Bianca," I said. "You've got to be good. I don't want to waste my money."
"You don't waste your money with Bianca and Carla!" the woman snorted. "We are good. Very good."
"I don't want amateurs!" I said. "I want to know if you've worked together before."
"Sure, we work together," said Bianca, waving her hand at me reassuringly. "Don t you worry about that. We split the money."
"How much?"
"Seven thousand pesetas apiece."
"That's a lot! I've got to know if you're good!"
"Listen, you ask anybody…"
Diego said, "Who, Bianca? You got references?"
"Sure, I got references! There's that Frenchman lives in Marbella."
I shook my head. "I don't trust any Frenchman!"
She laughed. "That is good. Neither do I!"
Diego and I shrugged.
"Hey," she said. "There was one we did just last night! Carla and I. A real bastard that one was! He wanted everything! All at once! Oh, I tell you…"
"Who was he?"
She frowned. "I don't know. He don't give us his name. He's a dark fellow. You know. Looks Italian or something. Didn't talk good Spanish."
I glanced at Diego and he lowered the lid of one eye.
"Where does he live?" I asked.
"We went to a villa right here in Torremolinos."
I fished in my wallet and brought out ten thousand pesetas. "You give me the address," I said, "and you can keep the ten thousand."
Her eyes widened and I could see sweat glistening on her forehead. Her lips were wet with saliva. She was torn between greed and caution. Now she suspected I might be more than just a customer with strange sex desires. But she was more interested in money than scruples.
She reached for the cash.
"The address?"
"I don't know the address. I… I take you there."
I pulled the money back and peeled off five thousand. "The rest when we get there, Bianca."
Diego looked puzzled. "Señor. What about the — the other señora? Your…?"
"You go back there, Diego, and take her home in half an hour."
I figured if anyone was watching Diego, he would follow him and Juana back to the hotel.
I grabbed Bianca's arm, and we went out the rear door of the discothèque.
It was very dark outside. Neon lights glared at the front of the building, but in the rear, it was almost pitch black.
Bianca said, "You wait here."
She left and within half a minute a cab pulled up beside the building, and she waved me in.
I climbed in beside her, smelling the musty scent of her make-up, her sweat, and her clothing.
She talked to the cab driver, a sad-eyed viejo wearing a beret, and he started up, winding through the narrow side streets that led up toward the foothills in back of town. We emerged from the business section of Torremolinos and entered a suburban residential section.
After ten minutes, Bianca leaned forward and slammed the taxi driver on the shoulder.
"Aquí! Here."
He stopped the cab.
"That one?" I asked Bianca, identifying the villa she was pointing to.
She nodded.
"The man — does he live there alone?" I asked.
"That is right. No one else there."
I handed her the five thousand pesetas and stepped out of the cab, paid the driver off, and waved them both on their way.
The cab disappeared.
I checked my shoulder holster. The Luger was waiting.
The villa that Bianca had identified was a small stucco place surrounded by a well-landscaped yard. There was an open gate in front of the house.
I stepped through.
The house was dark.
I made my way around the side. It was obvious that the occupant of the house was either out or in bed asleep.
I peered through a window and saw the kitchen and dining room.
The second window looked in on the bedroom, and someone was asleep in one bed.
I glanced around to make sure no one was watching me. Then, making as little noise as I could, I moved around to the kitchen window and tried to pry it open.
To my surprise, it was unlatched and swung right out.
I crawled through.
The floor of the villa was tile and made no sound as I lowered myself onto it. I drew out my Luger and started for the door to the hallway at the rear of the kitchen.
The bedroom door was ajar. I moved quickly through it into the bedroom, and spotted the light switch near the door. I leveled my piece at the bed, and snapped the light on.