“MY GOD, YOU LOOK AWFUL. Has something happened? Here, drink this.”
Angela pushed her vodka and lime across the table to him. He gulped it quickly.
“That’s better,” she said. “God, you look awful. Been seeing ghosts?”
“Worse than that,” he said. He nodded to the waiter, and ordered another round of drinks. Doubles. The A.M.A. said drinking to relieve stress was a sign of early alcoholism. But the hell with the A.M.A.
“I came to Spain,” he said, “to get away from all this. I came for a vacation.”
Angela nodded. She was dressed casually in purple polka dot stretch pants and a loose overblouse with a scoop neck. A very scoop neck.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I want nothing to do with it.”
“To do with what?” she said.
“The autopsy.”
“What autopsy? You’re talking nonsense. Have another drink.”
The drinks came. He sipped the second, sat up, and tried to pull himself together. She watched him quietly, waiting. Finally he said, “Some men came to see me this afternoon. About an autopsy.”
“Like the man on the beach?”
“Yes, but these were different. These men wanted me to do it. They offered me twenty thousand dollars.”
She whistled softly. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them no,” he said. “By that time, I was scared. They were very genteel sorts, very quiet and polite. But I gather he was some sort of gangster.”
“Who was?”
“The one who died.”
“The autopsy one?”
“Yes. Apparently he was shot in Barcelona yesterday.”
She suddenly snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I remember reading something about that. Sit tight.”
She left the bar and returned a few moments later with a newspaper. She thumbed through it quickly and folded it back, then handed it to him.
“Here. Look at this.”
Ross read the story. Stephano Carrini, forty-four, deported American. Underworld contacts. Expelled from the United States after conviction for six hundred thousand dollars in tax evasion on an illegal gambling racket. Shot dead by unknown assailant in a bar in Barcelona.
“What do you know,” he said.
“He was a nasty one,” Angela said. “He was in England for a while, after leaving America. He was mixed up with the hoods in Brighton. Then they threw him out of England as well. Something about narcotics; I don’t remember.”
“Sounds pleasant.”
“I think you were wise,” she said, “not to get involved.”
Ross sipped his drink and nodded.
“Do you think they’ll leave you alone now?”
“I hope so.”
“So do I,” she said.
He looked at her, feeling the drinks begin to hit him. She seemed very worried and concerned about him; he liked that. She adjusted her blouse, and he said, “What do you call that outfit?”
“This,” she said, “is a patented man-getter.”
“Looks more like a coming-out party to me.”
She smiled. “After spending all day at the beach, it seems silly to hide your tan.”
“If I were your father, I’d tan your hide.”
“But you’re not my father.”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
There was a short silence.
“You’re staring again,” she said.
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“About my pass.”
“Pass?”
“Yes. I’m going to make a pass at you soon.”
“That will be interesting,” she said.
“Just warning you.”
“Do I need a warning?”
“Well, you know. Prior notice, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said.
“With open arms?”
“That depends. I don’t usually like passes.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
They finished the drinks, and went into the dining room for dinner. They began with gazpacho, sprinkling the cold soup with onions, peppers, and tomatoes. Then they had pollo con ajillo, chicken with garlic, and a bottle of Portuguese red wine.
“My God, we’re going to stink after this,” Angela said.
“I don’t mind.”
“Neither do I.” She looked at him across the table. “I like you,” she said.
“I like you, too.”
They exchanged a direct look, and then she turned away and began eating again.
“I don’t really mean that,” she said. “Just forget it. Too much wine.”
“It’s all right.”
“Don’t push. I hate pushy men.”
He said nothing more for a time; she seemed depressed. Over dessert, however, her spirits improved, and when they returned to the bar for brandy and coffee, she seemed happy and bubbling.
“Promise me,” she said as they entered the bar, “that you won’t make a pass here. I hate passes in bars.”
“You seem to hate lots of things tonight.”
“Not really.”
“Where should I make my pass?”
“Someplace private,” she said.
They sat down. The brandy came. They had two, then a third. While they were waiting for them, he said, “We could have them in my room.”
She smiled. “We could have them here.”
“Yes, but there’s an excellent view from my balcony.”
“But it’s dark.”
“I could show you my etchings.”
“I never look at the etchings of strange men.”
The drinks came.
“We could walk along the beach.”
“It’s against the law to do it in public,” she said. “Besides, the sand …”
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “If you come to my room,” he said, “I’ll tell you a joke. Privately.”
“A good one?”
“The best.”
“I detest bad jokes. All that waiting, and no punch line.”
“This one has a good punch line, I promise you.”
“Does it take long to tell?”
“That depends.”
“Is it worth waiting for?”
“Definitely.”
She said, “I don’t know. I’ve heard some pretty bad jokes in my time.”
“From men with no sense of humor,” he said.
She smiled. “Will I laugh very hard?”
“You will be convulsed with laughter.”
“It sounds like an awfully good joke.”
“It is, it is.”
She finished her brandy and set it down. “Then what are we waiting for?”
The room was dark, warm, and close. She sighed and rubbed up against him. He put his arm around her shoulder, and she placed her head next to his. He smelled her hair, her skin, her perfume.
“Want to hear another one?”
She smiled contentedly. “Not right now. I’m all laughed out.”
“Was the punch line good?”
“Devastating,” she said. “Now stop fishing for compliments. I want to lie here and think.”
“About what?”
“About you. And your sense of humor. I didn’t know doctors were like that.”
“I’m an exception.”
“I’ll say.” She snuggled up against him.
Half an hour later, she was sleeping peacefully. The phone rang. Ross, on the edge of sleep, answered it.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Ross. This is Robert Carrini.”
“Yes.”
“About our little conversation today. You neglected to mention you had spoken with someone previously.”
“Previously?”
“Yes. On the beach. You spoke with a man. What did he offer you?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Whatever he offered, we will match, and increase by twenty percent. Is that satisfactory?”
“Really, he didn’t—”
“Dr. Ross. This is no time for foolishness. I intend that you shall perform the autopsy on my brother. There is no alternative.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I regret to inform you that should you continue to refuse, or attempt to leave Spain, or to contact anyone, we will be forced to kill you.”
Ross said nothing.
“Is my meaning clear?”
“Quite clear.”
“Good night, then.”
The phone was dead.
He lay in bed, awake, for a very long time. He wondered what he had done to deserve this, and he wondered if it were some kind of elaborate practical joke cooked up by the other radiologists attending the conference, and he finally decided it probably was not a joke at all.
In the middle of the night, he awoke. Angela, sleepy-eyed and soft, was shaking his shoulder.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“You were lying in bed moaning,” she said, “and gnashing your teeth.”
He shivered. His body was coated in sweat. “I was dreaming,” he said, “that everybody was trying to kill me.”
She smiled in the darkness. “Silly boy,” she said. “You were having a nightmare.”
She kissed him.
“Go back to sleep,” she said.
He did.