nearly killed.”
7
I WONDERED IF Toby Jessup’s nerves were making her imagine things. She might have had a blowout and jumped to a conclusion.
Then again she might be right. I couldn’t deny the possibility. Not with Turk Thorne’s body in Art Ditmer’s motel room.
I was in a taxi, on my way to take the redhead out for a meal. I had over an hour to kill before I met Toby in Lozano. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the time than with the redhead.
The taxi dropped me at the motel. I paid the driver and hiked to the garage. I skirted the Mercedes and climbed the stairs. I opened the door with my key.
I called, “Get your girdle zipped. It’s time for chow.”
My voice echoed emptily back at me. I stared stupidly around the room. The redhead’s suitcase was on one of the twin beds. She had put mine on the other bed. It was open and my robe and slippers were laid out with the kind of mocking touch she had such a knack for.
I snarled at the beds and looked in the bath. It was empty. I went back to the bedroom. I spotted the glass on the nightstand between the two beds. It was empty but I could see traces of rum in the bottom. There was no bottle in sight.
I wondered if she had gone out to eat. I checked her suitcase. No bottle. The used glass made it obvious she had one when she came. I hunted down the wastebaskets. They were empty. So was the dresser.
She hadn’t gone out to eat. Not even the redhead would take her own fifth of rum to a restaurant. But she had gone somewhere with the bottle to keep her company.
I swore at her. Then I felt a cold nudge of worry. Maybe she hadn’t ‘gone’ anywhere. Maybe she had been taken away by someone. After all the Mercedes was still in the garage.
I tried arguing myself out of the idea. I wasn’t very convincing. I thought of all the places the redhead might go, either on foot or in a taxi. The only one that could be a possible answer was the Frontera Motel back in Lozano.
And that made sense only if the redhead thought Art Ditmer might show up.
I felt a surge of excitement. Or if she had learned he was going to be there.
I hurried out and down the stairs. I opened the garage doors and warmed up the Mercedes. I backed it out and drove to the street. I started for the border.
I was leaving Mexican customs when it occurred to me to wonder why she hadn’t taken the Mercedes.
I had no answer for that, and no time to find one. The traffic at this time of night was a maze of taxicabs, tourists, natives coming from the other part of Lozano to gape at the tourists, and pedestrians, few of them sober.
I got stuck and stopped directly opposite the parking lot where I had put the camper. I remembered a back exit to the lot that would take me out of the traffic and put me on a side street closer to the Frontera. I cut the wheel and drove into the lot. I started through.
I hit the brakes. I looked into the slot where I had put the camper. It was empty. I opened the butterfly door of the Mercedes and climbed out. I took a look around. The lot was big but the camper sat up high. I couldn’t have missed it.
Only I did, because it wasn’t there.
I felt in my pocket. I had the key, so the redhead couldn’t have taken it for some rum-inspired project. I climbed back into the Mercedes. I drove out of the lot and cut down a dark street. I made a left turn onto the street where the Frontera Motel was located.
The Mercedes’ headlights chewed great savage holes in the darkness. They lit up the red glass of darkened taillights far up the street. A car was going slowly but steadily away from me, using no lights.
Then I realized it wasn’t a car; it was my camper.
I shifted gears and slammed my foot on the throttle. The surge of acceleration slapped me against the seat. I ate up half the two block distance between the camper and myself before I could lift my foot off the pedal.
I fanned the brakes, slowing down. The camper was still plugging along, running dark.
7
I WONDERED IF Toby Jessup’s nerves were making her imagine things. She might have had a blowout and jumped to a conclusion.
Then again she might be right. I couldn’t deny the possibility. Not with Turk Thorne’s body in Art Ditmer’s motel room.
I was in a taxi, on my way to take the redhead out for a meal. I had over an hour to kill before I met Toby in Lozano. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the time than with the redhead.
The taxi dropped me at the motel. I paid the driver and hiked to the garage. I skirted the Mercedes and climbed the stairs. I opened the door with my key.
I called, “Get your girdle zipped. It’s time for chow.”
My voice echoed emptily back at me. I stared stupidly around the room. The redhead’s suitcase was on one of the twin beds. She had put mine on the other bed. It was open and my robe and slippers were laid out with the kind of mocking touch she had such a knack for.
I snarled at the beds and looked in the bath. It was empty. I went back to the bedroom. I spotted the glass on the nightstand between the two beds. It was empty but I could see traces of rum in the bottom. There was no bottle in sight.
I wondered if she had gone out to eat. I checked her suitcase. No bottle. The used glass made it obvious she had one when she came. I hunted down the wastebaskets. They were empty. So was the dresser.
She hadn’t gone out to eat. Not even the redhead would take her own fifth of rum to a restaurant. But she had gone somewhere with the bottle to keep her company.
I swore at her. Then I felt a cold nudge of worry. Maybe she hadn’t ‘gone’ anywhere. Maybe she had been taken away by someone. After all the Mercedes was still in the garage.
I tried arguing myself out of the idea. I wasn’t very convincing. I thought of all the places the redhead might go, either on foot or in a taxi. The only one that could be a possible answer was the Frontera Motel back in Lozano.
And that made sense only if the redhead thought Art Ditmer might show up.
I felt a surge of excitement. Or if she had learned he was going to be there.
I hurried out and down the stairs. I opened the garage doors and warmed up the Mercedes. I backed it out and drove to the street. I started for the border.
I was leaving Mexican customs when it occurred to me to wonder why she hadn’t taken the Mercedes.
I had no answer for that, and no time to find one. The traffic at this time of night was a maze of taxicabs, tourists, natives coming from the other part of Lozano to gape at the tourists, and pedestrians, few of them sober.
I got stuck and stopped directly opposite the parking lot where I had put the camper. I remembered a back exit to the lot that would take me out of the traffic and put me on a side street closer to the Frontera. I cut the wheel and drove into the lot. I started through.
I hit the brakes. I looked into the slot where I had put the camper. It was empty. I opened the butterfly door of the Mercedes and climbed out. I took a look around. The lot was big but the camper sat up high. I couldn’t have missed it.
Only I did, because it wasn’t there.
I felt in my pocket. I had the key, so the redhead couldn’t have taken it for some rum-inspired project. I climbed back into the Mercedes. I drove out of the lot and cut down a dark street. I made a left turn onto the street where the Frontera Motel was located.
The Mercedes’ headlights chewed great savage holes in the darkness. They lit up the red glass of darkened taillights far up the street. A car was going slowly but steadily away from me, using no lights.
Then I realized it wasn’t a car; it was my camper.
I shifted gears and slammed my foot on the throttle. The surge of acceleration slapped me against the seat. I ate up half the two block distance between the camper and myself before I could lift my foot off the pedal.
I fanned the brakes, slowing down. The camper was still plugging along, running dark.
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