Warren Murphy: Date with Death

That very first night on his own, Donner got a lift from a lady in a Cadillac Eldorado. He remembered her even now, that bright and brittle blond hair, the folds of tanned, wrinkled skin around her neck, the way her carmine-tipped fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the steering wheel.

She asked him what his name was. His lips started to form the sound, "José," but what came out instead was "Wally."

"Wally. That's cute."

"Gee, Ma'am, thanks," Donner had said.

It was the beginning.

She told him she felt sorry for him, a big, healthy-looking boy like himself all alone in the world like that. Her sympathy took the form of an invitation. She thought it might be nice if Donner stayed with her for a few days.

The few days turned into a month, and Donner spent it learning some new and interesting things about his body, things he'd only just suspected before. In retrospect, he figured the old hag had gotten more than her money's worth. The three grand that Donner fled with worked out to a hundred a day. He knew he was worth that and a whole lot more besides.

He kept moving from town to town. He found there was always someone willing to help him out, to put a little folding green in his jeans for the right kind of services rendered. Still, there were those rare times when the pickings got lean. So, like any good businessman, Donner branched out into another line of work. Armed robbery was what they called it in most places.

He killed for the first time in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, when a liquor store clerk made the fatal mistake of going for the sawed-off under the counter. The memory was still vivid, like some cherished instant replay. The thunderous sound of the gun, the funny pattern the blood made as it spread across the clerk's faded plaid shirt, and the look of surprise on his face before he pitched over backward into a display of discount wines.

"We're ready," Consuela called out, interrupting Donner's thoughts. He forced a smile. "Then what are we waiting for?" He tossed away his cigarette and slid open the Econoline's passenger door. The interior looked comfortable and inviting, with shag carpet on the floor and plush-covered captain's chairs instead of the usual seats. All the side and rear windows had amber-tinted glass. If any of the Maderas thought that was a little odd, no one mentioned it.

"Let's go," Donner said, beckoning them. "It's a long way to the border."

With one fleeting backward glance at the shack, Consuela led her family across the litter-strewn yard. They carried their few possessions in cloth-wrapped bundles. Miguel had made an unsuccessful attempt to hide the family dog in the voluminous folds of his shirt, but the animal's slat-ribbed body kept squirming while its pink tongue lapped playfully at the Mexican's pudgy face. Donner decided to let it go. Why make a fuss now, when he could just as easily take care of it after they cleared the border? The Maderas filed into the van in respectful silence. When everyone was seated, Donner slid the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

He concentrated on his driving as he eased the van down the narrow, winding mountain road. There weren't many street lights or signs in this part of Chihuahua. Some of the out-of-the-way villages he'd been in didn't have so much as a single paved road. It was amazing how out of touch these people were, he thought, as if the twentieth century had passed them by without even bothering to wave. Still, it made his job easier. He'd tried the border towns when he'd first started. But they were too Americanized, too wary and hard-assed, too used to running their own cons with little time left over to listen to his. Donner quickly realized that if you wanted to peddle a dream, you had to go where people still believed in them.

When he finally nosed the van onto the highway, Donner pulled out a bottle of tequila from beneath the seat. Behind him the Maderas were singing like a bunch of kids on a camping trip. They sang songs about love, revolution, death, and the Blessed Virgin. The constant rise and fall of their voices was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"Here's something to shorten the road a bit," he said, passing a straw-wrapped bottle back to the old man. Donner grinned as he heard the cork pop. "Let's drink a toast," he suggested, "to a new and better life in America."

"I'm sorry," Consuela said apologetically, "but spirits disagree with me. And my sisters are not yet old enough for such things."

"But you must," Donner insisted. "Surely your stomach is not as delicate as that. After all, this is a toast, an occasion of great honor and seriousness. Of course, if it means nothing to you…" He fell silent, as if he were suddenly overwhelmed by disappointment.

"All right," the girl conceded. "Just this once, in honor of the occasion."

Donner watched them pass the bottle in the rear-view mirror. It worked every time. All you had to do was appeal to a Mexican's sense of pride, and you could get him to do anything. By the time the tequila had gone full circle, the old man's head had slumped to his chest. The rest of the Maderas passed out a few seconds later. Donner heard the bottle hit the carpeted floor with a thud. The skinny yellow dog rose off his haunches and lapped up the last few drops before they soaked into the rug. A moment later he toppled over, too, his big brown eyes glazed and shining.

"Potent stuff," Donner chuckled. "Didn't anyone ever teach you shitheads not to drink with strangers?" Laughing, he goosed the van up to sixty. He was on the main highway now, only about an hour and a quarter shy of the border. Considering how much chloral hydrate he'd put in the tequila, it looked like the Maderas were going to miss their arrival in America.

Donner leaned back in his seat. It felt good to have the wind on his face and nothing but the clear, empty road up ahead. He teased a Winston out of the pack, lit up, and took a long, satisfying drag. His life had really changed a lot in the past few months. He could still remember how surprised he'd been when the first letter came. The way the thick wad of bills had spilled out of the envelope to form a ragged green pile across his threadbare living room rug. It was more money than he'd ever seen at one time, and the letter promised a great deal more.

The letter itself was short, simple, and businesslike. In return for all this sudden wealth, all he had to do was supply his anonymous employer with women. 242 women, to be exact. Specifications were given as to age and general physical attributes, but the type required would be very hard to find. Basically the guy wanted pretty women. That wasn't too difficult to understand.

There was only one catch to the deal. Donner couldn't take women whose sudden disappearance would cause a big stir. In the letter his would-be employer suggested that he do most of his recruiting in Mexico, as they tended to be a bit more lax down there in the matter of missing persons. He informed Donner that arrangements had been made for him to cross and recross the border without the hassle of having his vehicle inspected. The final page of the letter gave detailed instructions on crossing points, times, even what lane to get in so that he could always be sure of connecting with a simpático border patrolman. Obviously, a great deal of money and time had already been spent on smoothing the way for this cross-border commute. Donner was even more impressed when he found the keys to a brand-new twelve-passenger van taped inside the envelope, along with a registration and a bill of sale, both in his name.

Donner had gone to the window and lifted the curtain slightly to peer outside. The van was parked right out front. He checked the license number against the registration. That was it, all right. What made these people so damned sure of themselves? Why had they picked him out of the thousands of people who lived in Santa Fe?