After Connie left them, Hooker and Heinemann enjoyed a few minutes of comfortable silence that can exist between men who like and trust each other. Heinemann brought out a pipe, which he rarely smoked, and chewed thoughtfully on the bit. Hooker lit another Lucky Strike.
A sudden gleam of light in the garden outside the glassed-in bar startled them. The men looked at each other sheepishly.
“Someone on the upper floor has turned on a light,” Heinemann said. “We are jumpy, my friend.”
“It must be Connie,” Hooker said. “Our rooms are directly above the bar.”
The light on the shrubbery outside dimmed as the shade was pulled down in the upstairs window.
After a moment, Heinemann said, “Speaking of Connie, is there anything happening with you two yet?”
“We’re just pals.”
“I see.”
“When you say ‘I see’ in that tone of voice, I don’t think you see.”
“We’ll see.”
“Cut it out.”
Heinemann massaged his cheek with the smooth bowl of the briar. “The weather does not smell good for tomorrow. There is rain nearby.”
“How will that affect us?”
The German shrugged. “Very little. It will only make an extremely difficult task impossible.”
“You don’t think there’s much chance of finding the plane.”
Heinemann sucked on the cold pipe and shook his head. “Do you?”
“No,” Hooker admitted. “I’m even starting to feel guilty about taking the lady’s money.”
“We both know that was not your primary reason for coming,” Heinemann said.
“We do?”
“You had some idea you might learn the fate of your friend Kaplan.”
“That’s a big part of it,” Hooker said. “This may be the only chance I’ll have to find out what happened to him. You didn’t know Buzz, did you?”
“Not well. We met once or twice but never really became acquainted. Was he not some sort of radical?”
“We never talked politics.”
“Do you ever talk politics, Hooker?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You would seem to be an ideal candidate for extremism.”
“Why? Because I got pushed around a little? Hell, everybody has problems. I’ll handle mine and let the rest of the world go with any ism they want to.”
“Maybe you would feel differently had you seen what I saw in Germany.”
“Maybe,” Hooker said, “but I doubt it.”
“The uninvolved man,” Heinemann said.
“That’s me.”
• • •
Upstairs in her room, Connie Braithwaite took a look at herself in the inadequate mirror over the bureau. She was wearing a blue silk nightgown that clung nicely to her body. A damn shame there wasn’t somebody there to see it, she thought. Somebody like John Hooker? a mocking voice asked. Hell no, she told the voice. What could she possibly see in that renegade smuggler, or whatever he was? Him with his shaggy haircut and perpetual five-o’clock shadow.
She snapped off the room’s single lamp and got into bed. All right, so maybe she was thinking about Hooker. He was damn good-looking, if you liked the type. Probably knew his way around a bedroom, too, from the satisfied look of the Mexican girl who came sashaying through the bead curtain in his apartment.
The sheets on the hotel bed were not as finely woven as Connie was used to. They had a stiff, crackly feel. But they were clean. They smelled of strong laundry soap. Connie closed her eyes. She pulled up the silk nightgown and touched herself. She thought about fucking. There hadn’t been any since Nolan’s disappearance, and precious little before that. Nolan Braithwaite had been an ardent lover when they were first married, but face it, he was fifty then, and he probably tried too hard. Whatever the reason, the fucking slacked off in a hurry.
She pushed the disloyal thoughts of her husband away but left her hand where it was. Connie had never been what the boys called a sexpot despite the way she looked. Nevertheless, she had a healthy appetite, and it had been a long time between fucks. Much too long.
A dreaminess crept over her as she massaged herself gently between the legs. Her lips formed a smile.
What was that?
A soft scratching sound came from out of the darkness of her room. Connie’s eyes snapped open. Had there been a strip of pale light down the wall just then, as though someone had eased the door closed?
She held her breath, listening. A floor board creaked. She sat up in bed staring into the blackness. Silence. Then a soft sound of movement.
“Who’s there?”
More silence. The floor creaked again.
Connie groped for the lamp beside her bed, found it, snapped it on. She blinked at the sudden light. Before she could react, a hand clamped onto her throat, stopping her breath, choking back any outcry.
She clawed instinctively at the fingers gripping her throat. There was no give at all. Her strength drained. As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, her brain began to buzz with the approach of unconsciousness. She saw a dark, high-cheekboned face above her. The eyes were set deep in their sockets; the breath was foul with rotten teeth. Then she saw the knife.
The man was squeezing her throat with his left hand while holding a knife with his right. The point of the blade pricked the blanket above her stomach. The man’s bare torso was slick with sweat.
The bastard is going to kill me!
The thought made her more angry than afraid. The idea that some half-naked Indian should come into her room in this godforsaken corner of Mexico and stab her to death was not acceptable. She tried to scream but managed only a miserable squeak. At the same time, she realized the pressure on her throat had eased. Then she knew why.
The horny son of a bitch was looking at her body. One of the shoulder straps had slipped down, and a plump, pinknippled breast was exposed. The man stared at it like a kid at an ice cream sundae. He licked his lips. His tongue had an odd purplish color.
The man slipped the knife back under his belt and used his freed hand to squeeze Connie’s breast. The other hand still held her by the throat, but his attention was elsewhere.
Connie lay still, letting him have all the tit he wanted. She even shifted a little to make it easier for him. As long as his mind was in his pants, she had a better chance of staying alive.
He threw back the sheet and blanket that covered her. His little eyes widened at the sight of her body. The blue silk nightgown had hiked up around her hips, exposing the soft mound of dark blonde hair and the moist flesh beneath it. The fingers gripping her throat slackened even more. That was what she had been waiting for.
She twisted vigorously away from him to the right and rolled out of bed, hitting the floor with a thump. She scrambled to her feet, yelling every foul word she could think of as the intruder came around the bed toward her. When he reached her, Connie was ready. She brought her bare knee up hard into his crotch.
The man grunted and staggered back, holding himself, looking more surprised than hurt. Women did not do that to men in his world. Not even if they were about to be raped and murdered. Connie kept yelling. She was out of defenses, and the bastard was between her and the door. The knife was back in his hand.
• • •
Downstairs in the bar, the eyes of the two men jerked toward the ceiling at the heavy thump. Then a woman cried out, and they were on their feet, running.
Hooker raced out past the startled desk clerk and up the stairs, with Heinemann a step behind him. When he reached the hallway, he could clearly hear the woman. It was Connie’s voice, not screaming but shouting a steady stream of profanity. Hooker reached the door in three long steps. He shoved it open.
Connie stood with her back pressed against the wall. In front of her was a sweating Indian, naked to the waist. As Hooker hesitated, the Indian whirled and lunged at him. Only then did Hooker see the knife.
A pistol cracked close beside him. So close that he felt the heat of the muzzle blast on his arm. The Indian stumbled and went to his knees. He looked down at the blood pumping from the hole in his chest as though wondering where it came from. Then his eyes rolled up under the lids, and he pitched forward on his face.
For a moment, the three of them stood there in frozen tableau, the two men in the doorway and Connie still backed against the wall next to her bed, eyes wide, hands to her mouth. And on the floor, the knife clutched in one lifeless hand, the shirtless Indian.
Then, with a sudden release from tension, Connie ran to Hooker. Without hesitation, he took her in his arms. He held her and stroked her hair, sharply aware of how fresh it smelled. Her body was warm and smooth under the slippery blue silk.
For Christ sake, Hooker thought, I’m getting a hard-on.
Connie pulled her head back a little and looked at him. He started to say something, but her eyes told him to save it. They moved apart almost casually, each reluctant to let go.
Hooker turned to Klaus Heinemann. He held a Luger pistol straight down at his side. A curl of blue smoke rose from the muzzle.
“I thought you didn’t like guns.”