In English.
"I don't understand you," he said in Spanish.
"No me pegues, por favor," she said.
"Muy bien," the handsome one said. "Now will speak only Spanish, comprendes?”
"St;" she said, "solo espahol.”
Until I go for the knife, she thought.
"Do you know why we're here?" he asked.
"No.”
"Do you know who we are?”
"No.”
"My name is Ramon Castaneda. My colleague Carlos Ortega.”
She nodded.
"Do you think it foolhardy of us? Telling you names?" She said nothing.
"We trust you not to tell anyone after gone," Ramon said.
"Or we'll come back to kill you," Carlos said, grinned.
The gun was no longer in his hand. Had he in his pocket? She should have been paying attention, but she'd been too fucking intent on Spanish lesson, too afraid the big one, Carlos, would really use the gun on her teeth. She had let them frighten her. They had won the first small battle, not even a battle, a tiny skirmish, frightening her into revealing that she spoke Spanish fluently. But they'd known this already. Just as they knew she was Marilyn Hollis. Or, more accurately, Mary Ann Hollis. On the street yesterday, they had called her first Marianna and then Mariucha. They knew her as Mary Ann Hollis. In which case she could claim... "What do you...?" she started in English, and immediately switched to Spanish. "What do you want here?”
"The money," Ramon said.
Straight to the point, she thought.
"What money?”
"The money you stole from Alberto Hidalgo," Carlos said.
Even more directly to the point.
"Four hundred million Argentine australes," Ramon said.
"Two million dollars American," Carlos said.
"We want it back.”
A pair of international bankers discussing high finance in Spanish.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
Still speaking Spanish. This was a cozy little g among high-born Spanish-speaking people. was a tea party on the duchess's lawn. The duchess had invited the two bankers here to meet dazzling international traveler, Mary Ann Holli.. whose nose was still bleeding into a white towel.
"You must be mistaking me for someone else she said in Spanish.
Everyone speaking Spanish. How nice to have second language.
"No, there's no mistake," Ramon said.
"We know who you are, and we know you the money," Carlos said.
"And we'll kill you if you don't give it back us," Ramon said simply, a slight shrug of his shoulders, this was merely one of the rules international banking.
"Marilyn Hollis?" she said. "Are you looking someone named Marilyn Hollis?”
"No, we're...”
"Because that's my name, you see, and...”
"Shut up," the ugly one said.
Very softly.
The word sounding not at all menacing Spanish, cdllate, the word rolling mellifluously his tongue, cdllate, shut up.
"Your name is Mary Ann Hollis," he said. softly. Explaining something to a very young possibly quite stupid child.
"Ah, bien," she said, "there's the mis...”
"No," he said.
The word identical in English and in Spanish.
No.
Softly.
No, we've made no mistake. You are Mary Ann I-Iollis. And we are going to kill you if you don't give us the money you stole from Hidalgo.
All in that single word.
No.
The bag was still on her shoulder.
The knife was in the bag.
The clock on the mantel read 3:15.
I should be home around four-thirty, see you then, love ya.
No sense wishing for the cavalry. Do or die. Go for the knife, or... The clock ticked into the room. Her nose had stopped bleeding. She tossed the towel aside, seeing her own reflection in the ornately flamed mirror opposite the bed, her reverse image partially obscured by the backs of the two gentlemen from Buenos Aires.
"I have identification," she said. "My driver "s license...”
The one to go for was the big one.. "... my credit cards...”
Him first.
"We don't need identification," the handsome one said. Ramon. "We know exactly who you are.”
"But that's just it, you see...”
Moving across the room toward where the big one with his hands dangling at his sides.
"If I can prove that I'm not who you think I am...”
Her hand dropping into the bag as she moved.
"... then you'll realize your mistake, an you'll...”
"There is no mistake," Ramon said, shaking head.
Fingers searching for the knife.
"But there is. Look, I'd be happy to pay back...”
“Then pay us and shut up!" Ramon said.
Fingers closing on the handle of the knife.
"... but I'm just not this person you think I am. mean it. Truly.”
"Enough of this shit!" Carlos said.
Verdad, she thought, and yanked the knife out the bag.
Her mistake was going high.
She should have gone low instead, for the plunge the blade in low, rip it across his belly, hands would have had to cross in front of his body block the thrust, a clumsy unnatural maneuver. instead she went for the throat. Arm stiff extended, right hand clutching the handle of knife, blade going for his throat like a matador, sword, that was her mistake.
Because his hands up at once in a fighter's instinctive defensive fists clenched for the tick of an instant, and then hands opening when he recognized in instant's beat exactly what was happening here, was coming at him with a knife, this was a here!
His eyes said Oh, yeah?
Ah sf?
In which case I will break your fucking face.
She saw those eyes at once, read those eyes, had seen the message in those eyes many times before when she'd been repeatedly beaten and raped in that Mexican prison, and she thought No, mister, never again, and stopped the knife in mid-thrust because his hands were there and she did not want those massive fingers closing on her wrist.
She shifted her stance, stood wide-legged and fierce, the knife moving in tiny circles, waiting for his move. He was not going for the gun in his pocket or wherever the hell he'd put it. This meant that he respected the knife. You didn't grow up a fucking hoodlum in B.A.
without having been cut at least once. You didn't spend time in a Mexican prison, either, without becoming an expert on reading eyes.
The big one's eyes were saying that she was the one with the knife, and he did not want to get cut. Her eyes were saying If you make a move for the gun, I'll go for your eyes. I'll blind you. Mexican standoff.
She'd forgotten the handsome one.
He moved in as gracefully and as swiftly as a flamenco dancer. She caught his motion almost a moment too late, spotted him from the tail of her eye, and turned immediately to her right as he lunged for her. She thought again, No, mister, and swung the knife out in a wide slashing arc, backhanded. He put out his hand as if trying to deflect the thrust, and then started to pull it back when he remembered cold hard steel'm but he was too late. caught him. It ripped through the meaty flesh edge of his hand, just below the pinky, horizontally, opening a wide bloody gash. He "Aiiii," and caught the hand in his free hand, one, cradling it, trying to cradle it, pulling in against his body, his face going pale, glazing over in fear, the blood covering now'm she went for him again.
And cut him again.
Slashed out viciously at both hands where them in tight against his belly, the blade across the knuckles of the left hand, slashing to the bone. He began whimpering. His running. He stood there with terror in his nose running, his hands bleeding, baby. She had them both in her line of " the handsome one backing away toward the whimpering, the gun still nowhere in sl wondered why the big one didn't pull the then she realized in a sudden exhilarating they could not kill her; if they killed her, never get the money they'd come for. In they inhabited, you did not kill except as an example to other debtors. If yogi your money, you threatened and you they could hurt her very badly - but you Not if you wanted your money. They her!