Donald Hamilton - The Menacers

"Am I supposed to love him just because I work for him? Do you love the man you work for?"

I said, "Not exactly, but he's not a pipsqueak."

"So I hear. Incidentally, I don't quite get your strategy, partner. Me you really throwing the Lujan to the Solana, or are you by any chance throwing the Solana to the Lujan? Personally I never trust those healthy-looking, clean-looking, pure-looking blondes. Is she really a professional photographer? She looks- and acts-like a movie star just playing the part."

I said, carefully, "She's sold a few pictures over the years. Quite a few."

"But maybe that's not all she's sold, you mean?" I laughed. "Don't put words in my mouth. Frankly, I'm betting Solana's the one to watch, but I wouldn't make the bet very big. We'll just have to let them sort it out between them and see what happens."

"Well, we don't have to do it here," Priscilla said, rising. "I've got some mescal in my room. That's the bottle with the pickled bug in it-the maguey worm, to show the stuff is made from the genuine maguey plant, whatever that may be. I haven't been brave enough to sample it yet, but with a little moral support from you-" She paused as I helped her on with her ski jacket, and glanced up at me over her shoulder. "Or even a little immoral support," she murmured.

I laughed, holding her lightly. "What do you think I am, Decker, just a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, from blonde to brunette? Hell, the love of my life has just stalked out that door, presumably forever. Give a man time to catch his breath."

She smiled. "You don't need much time. A few days ago the love of your life was lying dead on a hotel room floor, but you seem to have made a pretty good recovery from that passion. If we walk real slow, maybe you'll have caught your breath from this one by the time we reach my room. It's way up near the end of the compound."

I said, "You're a callous, disrespectful bitch. Just give me a minute to pay the bill…

I left a generous tip for the little Mexican girl with the ready song. Outside, the wind still blew cold and sharp off the Sea of Cortez, carrying fine grains of beach sand with it. The leaves of the scattered palm trees in the parking lot rattled and clashed over our heads as we made our way towards the waterfront units in the dark, avoiding the black shapes of occasional parked cars.

Priscilla slipped a hand under my arm for support, as we fought our way along the buildings, buffeted by the wind. The other hand was trying to preserve her elaborate hairdo from total destruction. She stopped at a door and fumbled in her jacket pocket for a key, checked herself, and laughed.

"That's right, the lock doesn't work, like most things around here. Just open it, Matt."

As I opened the door, I had the sudden feeling I'd seen this show before. There had been rain in that other scene and not so much wind, but this wasn't the first time recently I'd come to a woman's door by invitation on a stormy night.

"Just a minute. I'll get the light," Priscilla said, stepping past me to find the switch. I saw her recoil abruptly as the light came on to show the interior of the shabby room; then she'd thrown herself aside and down, shouting: "Matt, look out, he's got a gun!"

It was Henderson, in badly fitting work shirt and pants he must have stolen somewhere; and he had a gun all right, one of those tiny derringers that are just about as low as you can get on the firearms ladder. Still, they are compact, and as one U.S. president found out the hard way, they will kill. The one Lincoln met was, as I recall, a single-shot job; this one had two stubby barrels, one above the other. That was about all that could be seen of it. The rest was pretty well covered by Gregory Henderson's bandaged hand.

Well, I had a gun, too. After years of this work, you learn it's bad business to ignore your hunches. I'd been slow in Mazatlбn under similar circumstances, but I wasn't making the same mistake here. I'd had the weapon drawn before Priscilla switched on the light- but another thing you get from experience is a 'feeling for when a man is going to shoot and when he isn't.

Henderson didn't have that cocked-and-ready, here-goes-everything aura. It was a dangerous gamble – my instincts aren't infallible-but we wanted the man alive and talking, so I held my fire, and he didn't shoot. We faced each other like that, at point-blank range, for a second that seemed much longer; then a gun crashed to my left and Henderson's knees buckled and he fell.

I looked at Priscilla, crouching in the corner, holding a short-barrele4.38 revolver from which trickled a wisp of white smoke. Her face was white, too.

"Were you paralyzed or something?" she snapped. "He was going to shoot, couldn't you see it? Another second and you'd have been dead!"

I said grimly, "Considering the way your boss feels about me, I think it's wonderful the way you people keep saving my life."

"Well, that's a fine way to talk after-"

"That will do!" It was Solana's voice, behind me. "You will please throw your guns on the bed, both of you, and raise your hands!"

His voice said he had a gun, too. Everybody had guns in Puerto Peflasco tonight. I tossed mine on the faded coverlet-well, Vadya's: the little 9mm Browning I was still carrying. After a brief pause, it was joined there by Priscilla's.38 Colt.

Priscilla scrambled to her feet, and I moved over to join her, since it makes a man nervous to try to cover two people standing apart, and I had no designs on Solana's nerves at the moment. Later,. a little psychological warfare might be indicated, but right now it was more important to learn what the man knew, and what he was planning to do about what he knew. It looked to me as if he had just made a great big mistake, moving in too soon when there was no reason for haste, but perhaps I was doing him an injustice.

He entered the room cautiously, holding a pocket automatic very much like my Browning, except that the workmanship looked Spanish or Italian rather than Belgian. It's hard to say what makes the difference, but it's there. Behind Solana was Carol, her blue eyes wide at the sight of death-her second such view that day.

Solana gestured us aside, and came forward to take the guns from the bed. Pocketing them, he stepped, back again, and spoke to Carol without looking around.

"Come in and close the door, Mrs. Lujan. Wait over in that corner, please. If anything should happen, lie down on the floor; you will be safer there." His dark eyes seemed to be focused on a point halfway between Priscilla and me. "I sincerely hope that nothing will happen. There has been enough violence in this room tonight, don't you think?" His glance touched the dead man on the floor for an instant, and swung back to us.

Priscilla said quickly, "He was lying in wait for us, Ramуn. He was going to shoot. We had no choice!"

"We, Miss Decker? I heard only one shot. Did you fire, Mr. Helm?"

"No, but-"

"Why not?"

I said, carefully, "Maybe I've had a little more experience along these lines than Miss Decker. I had a hunch he wasn't quite ready to throw the big, black dice. Besides, with that derringer, there was a good chance he'd miss if he did shoot. Those little things won't hit a manhole cover at ten feet unless the shooter's had lots of practice. I didn't think Henderson had."

That was a mistake. It's always a mistake to show any intelligence in a situation like that; it's much safer to act totally dumb.

Solana pounced: "What made you think so? I thought you did not know the man, except for your brief encounter with him at the hotel. How could you know anything about his marksmanship? After all, he did manage to kill a policeman 'with one shot."

"It must have been a lucky shot," I said. I indicated the derringer on the floor. "If he'd known anything about guns, to amount to anything, would he have come here with that?"