Have Gat—Will Travel (20 page)

Jetboy leaped forward, running up on the heels of the horse ahead, and stumbled and fell. I saw Pete hurtle through the air like a bundle of rags, slam into the rail — and in the sudden shocked silence of the crowd I thought I could hear him hit. He fell to the dirt track, rolled and lay still as the other horse sprinted down toward the finish line. Jetboy struggled up and galloped away.

I heard Vera's piercing scream, and then intuitively, I looked toward Hammond's table. He was watching the finish of the race, more interested in that than in Pete's crumpled body.

I snapped out of it, whirled and ran down the steps, sprinting toward the track. By the time I reached the rail, the huddle of doctors and officials cleared away, and Pete was lying there with a white sheet over his body and head, and there was nothing else I could do — except break Hammond in two. Clear down the middle.

I ran back up the steps, the fury hot in me now, my hands itching. I saw Vera lying in a faint at our table, Elena bending over her. I didn't stop. I walked straight to Hammond's table.

None of the men looked up until I stopped alongside them. Hammond was on my right, facing the track. Opposite me and on my left were the two musclemen, and Rath sat with his back to me. I could feel the muscles around my mouth twitching.

I put my palms flat down on the table and Hammond glanced up, his fat pink face gleaming slightly with perspiration, thick lips dry. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Don't 'yeah' me, you fat bastard," I shouted.

There was a slight movement behind me. I reached out without turning, slapping Rath backhanded and knocking him out of his chair. His head cracked against the iron rail, and he let out a yell and started to jump up.

"Wait a minute," Hammond said. "Wait a minute. What's this all about?"

"You don't know, huh, Hammond? You haven't the faintest idea!"

An empty glass in front of Hammond held several colored tickets. His program was open in front of him, Number 2 circled — a horse named Ladkin. I looked at the tote board where the winning numbers were already lighted under the oficial sign: 2, 3, 6, 1; Ladkin was the winner at fourteen to one. Another sleeper. Hammond didn't stop me as I picked up the glass and dumped out his tickets.

There were twenty fifty-peso win tickets on Number 3, and ten win tickets on Number 4. Nothing on the winner. For a few seconds it puzzled me, but only for a few seconds. Those heavy bets were enough to push the odds on Ladkin up to fourteen to one.

"Hammond," I said, "you usually bet two horses to win in the same race? A question, fat boy."

His pink face grew pinker and for the first time he got nasty. He leaned toward me, his face angry. "Give a listen, Scott. I heard all I care to hear right now. I know you been poking your ugly nose in the wrong holes, you hear me? You keep it up, you never will get stateside."

"It isn't just a fixed race now, fat boy. It's murder."

"Murder, my backside! The kid made a bad ride, that's all. Everybody makes a bad ride every now . . ."

I didn't wait for more. Half a dozen partly filled plates of food were on the table, and some highballs. I lifted the edge of the table and the whole goddam mess against Hammond's belly. He tried to scoot back, but the plates and glasses slid off the table as it hit him, and food and liquor smeared his tan suit. The big goon on my left reached for me, but I was more concerned about Rath. His right hand jerked under his coat but before he had a chance to get whatever he was reaching for, I hit him with the side of my hand, hard on his right shoulder. He yelled like a madman, his fingers spreading wide in pain, and then Hammond shouted, "Hold it! Rath! Kelly! Knock it off. Quick."

I'd thought we were going to have a real knockdown brawl right there, but Hammond apparently didn't want it that way. Rath hesitated, then obediently sat down. Kelly followed suit.

Hammond glared at me, eyes narrowed to angry slits. He brushed at the slop in his lap and said, "You'll regret this, Scott. You're gonna be damn sorry for this, you hear me?" He looked around the table and jerked his head, then got ponderously to his feet. The four of them left. Nothing else happened. It surprised me, but I didn't worry about it. I went back to my own table.

H
alf an hour later, after Vera had dazedly spoken with the track doctor in the emergency clinic and looked once more at Pete, we left. She didn't break down till we reached Pete's car. As we drove away she lay flat on the back seat, fingers clutching at the cushions and her body shaking with sobs. Vera didn't want to go home, so we took her to her mother's house. Then Elena and I flagged a taxi, drove to her apartment in Lomas Colony, and I took her to her door.

Before I left, she said, "Shell, you must be careful. It is very bad, I know, but go with care. Perhaps another time we can be happier together."

"Sure, Elena. I'll keep in touch."

She moved close to me, kissed me lightly on the mouth, then went inside.

In the cab again I told the driver to head toward the Prado. There were a lot of things I wanted to do, but first I was going to get Hammond and Rath, one way or another, but I didn't know how. Hammond had a lot of protection and power on his side, and you can't convict a man for murder — or even fixing races — because he buys tickets on losing horses. I was still trying to figure a way to get Hammond when the cab driver yelled, "Madre Dio!" and grabbed for the wheel as if it were a life preserver. A big Packard cut close to our fender, ramming its nose ahead of the cab. The cabbie jerked the wheel all the way over to his right, and jammed on the brakes so suddenly that I almost flew into the front seat. The cab skidded along the road, almost slamming into the Packard, and then shuddered to a stop.

We were on the Reforma, far from town still, and in a wooded section. Trees grew at the right of the road and there was little traffic here. One of Hammond's bruisers was jumping from the side door of the Packard and starting back toward us, a gun in his fist. There were a couple of guys behind him.

I didn't wait to identify them. I threw the cab's door open and leaped out and started to run into the trees, but a gun cracked and I heard the bullet whistle by me. The guy yelled something at me from no more than ten feet away. I'd had it; there wasn't a chance I could get into the trees before a slug hit me. I stopped.

I heard one footstep as I started to turn, but I never made it around. Probably it was a gun butt, but whatever it was, it was solid, and it landed on my skull. They were dragging me when I came to, and when I tried to move they stopped and dropped me. Somebody told me to get up, and in a minute I made it. We were deeper in the trees, and my company was Kelly, the other strong man, and Rath. Rath stood in front of me while the other two grabbed my arms and slammed me back against a tree, pulling my arms behind me around the tree trunk. And then Rath started in on me.

He was methodical about it, but it seemed to give him a sadistic pleasure. First he looked up at me from his approximate five-nine and said, "You sure made a fool of yourself today, Scott. You sure made the boss mad. We oughta plug you, but too many people saw that beef. We're gonna teach you to lay off us, though." He grinned. "After this, we figure you'll get a plane back to the States."

He waited till he'd told me all that, then he hit me. He hit me in the stomach, but I was braced for the blow and Rath wasn't an especially powerful man, anyway. The first time he hit me it didn't hurt so much; but along about the tenth time in the same spot it was getting bad. Once, while I still had the strength, I lifted one foot and tried to kick him in what is politely called the groin, but he got out of the way. Then he took a gun from one of the guys holding me, and slammed it along my jaw twice. My legs suddenly weren't strong enough to support me, and I sagged lower, my arms bending up behind me till it felt as if they'd pop out of their sockets.

Rath's face filmed with perspiration and a little saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. He kept grinning all the time, enjoying himself. He'd hit me and the air would gush out of my mouth; everything swam in front of me and finally Rath was just a blur of movement that meant pain.

I realized the blows had stopped. A hand ripped my shirt open and I tried to lift my head. Rath slapped me several times then said, "Look, Scott."

My eyes focused slowly on the knife in his hand. I saw it move back and forth, then the point pressed against my chest. "See how easy to kill you?" Rath said. His voice was taut and excited like that of a man in bed with a woman. "See?" he said. He pushed on the knife a little and I felt the point bite into my chest, slice through the skin and flesh.

I almost yelled aloud, tried to press back against the tree, suck in my chest and get away from that blade, and Rath laughed, pulled the knife away and held it before my eyes, let me see the red-stained tip. "So get out of Mexico, Scott. Or next time I push this thing all the way in."

He ran the honed edge down the front of my chest, cutting the skin, not deep but painfully. Then he stepped back. The men behind me let go of my arms and I fell forward on my face, unable to stand. My cheek pressed against the dirt and I saw Rath's pointed shoe leave the ground and felt it dig into my side, then there was a blow on my head again and welcome blackness swept over me.

I
must have lain there unconscious for quite a while because it was nearly dark when I came out of it. When I tried to move I gasped as pain leaped through my stomach and chest. I bit my lip, grunting, as I got slowly to my feet and started trying to find the road. I could move only a few feet before I had to stop and rest. Finally I reached the Reforma and got a taxi to stop.

"Get me to a doctor," I told him.

Doctor Dominguez pressed the last wide strip of adhesive tape against my chest and said, "There. You don't seem to have internal injuries, but we'd better get you to the hospital."

"I told you I haven't got time for that." My brain was alert enough now; I simply hurt like hell. "Just so I'm not bleeding inside, Doctor, and nothing's busted."

"At least you should go to bed and stay there."

I could explain to him that there wasn't room in my mind for thinking about hospitals or beds. The fat face of Hammond and the thin features of Rath, and the white, dead face of Pete Ramirez took up all the room there was in my mind. I just wasn't able to think about anything else even if I'd wanted to. And I didn't want to.

Before he'd started working on me I'd given Doctor Dominguez the cube of gum still in my pocket, the Chiclet, and told him what I suspected. Half an hour after he finished bandaging me he had the other answer.

"Yes, Mr. Scott," he said, "it was drugged. Crude, too; somebody merely hollowed out a small space inside the gum and filled it with the powder —"

"Would it kill a man?"

He frowned. "It might. Hard to say. It would at least make him sluggish, drowsy. Why? Where did you get this?"

"Arthur Hammond gave it to a jockey who was killed today."

He got slightly green. "Ah — no, you must be mistaken. Mr. Hammond is a well thought of man." It was obvious the name Hammond frightened him. He said, less warmly, professional now, "That is all I can do for you."

It was also obvious he wanted to get rid of me. I paid him, asked him to call me a cab, and left. . . .

I stood outside the Rio Rosa, a nightclub near Insurgentes, pain constant in my chest and stomach. I'd got a morphine surett from the doctor, but it was in my pocket; I might need it more later than I did right now. From the doctor's I'd gone to the Prado and picked up my gun; then I had started hunting for any one of the four men I was after. But now, three hours later, this was the only lead I had. I'd checked the phone book: no Hammond. A man with as many enemies as Hammond undoubtedly had doesn't advertise his address. I'd checked every crumb I knew in Mexico City, and plenty I didn't know. His address was a complete mystery. Almost all I'd learned was that a lot of people were afraid of Hammond and his thugs — and of Hammond's pal, Valdez. But I learned that a couple of months ago Jimmy Rath had paid the rent on an apartment for a girl named Chatita, who was now in the show here at Rio Rosa — and apparently didn't like Rath any more. I went inside.

For fifty pesos the headwaiter let me knock on the door of Chatita's dressing room. When she opened the door, her eyes widened with surprise. I guess I didn't look very handsome, with my jaw swollen and a cut in the flesh over my cheekbone.

I said, "May I talk to you for a minute?"

She looked at my bruised face, frowning. "I am sorry. I must get dressed."

Now that I took a look at her, she was right. She had on a silk wrapper thin enough so that the points of her full breasts showed through it. She started to shut the door and I took a chance. "It's about Jimmy Rath."

I got more than I bargained for. "Jimmy!" she said venomously. She opened the door wide, looked at my face again. "Did he do this to you?" I nodded and she said, "Come in." She shut the door behind me, locked it, then turned to face me. "Sit down," she said, pointing toward a wooden chair. "You . . . do not like Jimmy?"

"I hate him," I said. "I want to find him and tell him so."

She smiled. It wasn't a very nice smile. "I hope you find him," she said. "I hope you beat him to death."

This Chatita was tall, close to six feet in her high heels, and she would have towered above Rath. He was shaping up as a queer one. Chatita had the sensual, smooth-skinned face found on many of the lovely Mexican women, with large dark eyes and a mass of black hair. Her face had a hot beauty that went with her full-curved body.

"Where can I find him?" I asked.

"I wish I knew. How do you know I once knew him?"

"I heard you were friendly. Not any more, huh?"

She walked toward me, stood in front of the chair I sat in. "I am an exotica," she said. "A dancer." She meant, I figured, that she did a strip act. She went on, "My body, it assures me a living, a job."

I didn't know what she was getting at, but I nodded.

"My body," she said, "it is good. It is to be proud of." She had been holding the thin robe around her; now she parted it, slid it down from her shoulders as she faced me.