Ed McBain (8 page)

The train pulled into 86th Street, and the door slid open. She was pushed onto the platform, and shoved past the man and woman who had been standing behind her in the train. The man was short and squat, and he wore a battered panama. His hands were thin, with long fingers that clung innocently to the lapels of his suit. She looked at the tall girl, and the girl's eyes met hers sympathetically. She smiled quickly, darting her eyes away, and the girl smiled. The embarking passengers rushed by her, and suddenly everyone on the platform was scrambling to get into the car again. She stepped in quickly, moving deliberately in front of the tall girl, and away from the man. He pushed into the car behind her, and she felt the girl shoved rudely against her, too. She heard the door close behind them, and she sucked in a deep breath as the heat descended again.

She knew what was going to happen, and she waited expectantly. The excitement was mounting in her again, and she found herself wishing desperately for the warmth. When it came she almost sighed aloud. The hands were gentle, as before, as she knew they had to be. They touched her, and then held tight. She shivered and the hands moved slowly, deliberately. For a moment there was sudden doubt in her mind, and then she put the doubt aside and thought only of the moving hands, the deliberate pressure of the hands.

They became more insistent, strangely so, strongly so. A perplexed frown creased her brow, and the doubt returned, and she was almost tempted to turn and look. But that was absurd ... that was...

The hands continued, moving feverishly, and suddenly she realized there was wild strength in the fingers. She looked down in panic. This wasn't ... couldn't be...

The hand she saw was covered with hair.

Long slender fingers, but dark masculine hair.

"I thought..." she murmured, and then she began screaming.

When the train pulled into 125th Street, she was still Screaming. The tall girl who'd also been standing behind her left the car with the other passengers, all shaking their heads.

The policeman held the short, squat man firmly.

"He was molesting me!" she told the policeman. "A man. A
man!
" And then, because he was looking at her so strangely, she added, "This man, Officer."

This story carried the Richard Marsten byline when it was first published in
Manhunt
in February of 1953. As a twist on a Woman in Jeopardy yarn, it combines an exotic locale with a sort of action-adventure hero and a true bandito-style villain. It is an absolute coincidence that the bad guy in this story is called Carrera whereas the good guy in the 87th Precinct series, three years later, would be called Carella.

I promise.

T
HE
M
EXICAN SKY HUNG OVER OUR HEADS LIKE A PALE
blue circus tent. We crouched behind the rocks, and we each held .45s in our fists. We were high in the Sierra Madres, and the rocks were jagged and sharp, high outcroppings untouched by erosive waters. Between us was a stretch of pebble-strewn flatland and a solid wall of hatred that seemed alive in the heat of the sun. We were just about even, but not quite.

The guy behind the other .45 had ten thousand dollars that belonged to me.

I had something that belonged to him.

His woman.

She lay beside me now, flat on her belly, her hands and her feet bound. She was slim and browned from the sun. Her legs were long and sleek where her skirt ended. Her head was twisted away from me, her hair as black as her boyfriend's heart.

"Carrera!" I shouted.

"I hear you,
señor,
" he answered.

His voice was as big as he was. I thought of his paunch, and I thought of the ten G's in the money belt pressed tight against his sweaty flesh. I'd worked hard for that money. I'd sweated in the Tampico oil fields for more than three years, socking it away a little at a time, letting it pile up for the day I could kiss Mexico good-bye.

"Look, Carrera," I said, "I'm giving you one last chance."

"Save your breath,
señor,
" he called back.

"You'd better save yours, you bastard," I shouted. "You'd better save it because pretty soon you're not going to have any."

"Perhaps," he answered.

I couldn't see him because his head was pulled down below the rocks. But I knew he was grinning.

"I want that ten thousand," I shouted.

He laughed aloud this time.

"Ah, but that is where the difficulty lies," he said. "I want it, too."

"Look, Carrera, I'm through playing around," I told him. "If you're not out of there in five minutes, I'm going to put a hole in your sweetie's head." I paused, wondering if he'd heard me. "You got that, Carrera? Five minutes."

He waited again before answering.

"You had better shoot her now,
señor.
You are not getting this money."

The girl began laughing.

"What's so damn funny?" I asked her.

"You will never outwait Carrera," she said. Her voice was as low and as deep as her laugh. "Carrera is a very patient man."

"I can be patient, too, sister," I said. "I patiently saved that ten thousand bucks for three years, and no tinhorn crook is going to step in and swipe it."

"You underestimate Carrera," she said.

"No, baby, I've got Carrera pegged to a tee. He's a small-time punk. Back in the States, he'd be shaking pennies out of gum machines. He probably steals tortillas from blind old ladies down here."

"You underestimate him," she repeated.

I shook my head. "This is Carrera's big killing—or so he thinks. That ten thousand is his key to the big time. Only it belongs to me, and it's coming back to me."

"If you were smart," she said, "you would leave. You would pack up and go, my friend. And you wouldn't stop to look back."

"I'm not smart."

"I know. So you'll stay here, and Carrera will kill you. Or I will kill you. Either way, you will be dead, and your money will be gone, anyway." She paused. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "It is better that you lose only your money."

I glanced at my watch.

"Carrera has about two minutes, honey."

"And after that?"

"It's up to him," I said. As if to check, I shouted, "You like your girlfriends dead, Carrera?"

"Ten thousand dollars will buy a lot of girlfriends," he called back.

I looked down at her.

"Did you hear your boyfriend?" I asked.

"I heard."

"He doesn't seem to give a damn whether I shoot you or not."

She shrugged. "It is not that," she said. "He simply knows that you will not kill me."

"Don't be too surprised, baby."

The smile flitted across her face again, was gone almost before it started. "You will not kill me," she said.

I didn't answer her. I kept looking at my watch until the time was up. Nothing came from Carrera. Not another word.

"Now what?" she asked.

"What's your name?"

She didn't answer.

I shrugged. "Suit yourself," I said.

"My name is Linda," she said.

"Make yourself comfortable, Linda," I told her. "We're going to be here for quite some time."

I meant that. I still hadn't figured out how I was going to get my money from Carrera, but I knew damn well I was staying here until I
did
get it. Crossing the open dirt patch would have been suicide. But at the same time, Carrera couldn't cross it, either. Not unless he wanted a slug through his fat face. I thought of that, and I began to wish he would try to get across the clearing. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have his nose resting on the sight at the end of my gun muzzle.

Ten thousand bucks! Ten thousand, hard-earned American dollars. How had Carrera found out about it? Had I talked too much? Hell, it was general knowledge that I was putting away a nest egg to take back to the States. Carrera had probably been watching me for a long time, planning his larceny from a distance, waiting until I was ready to shove off for home.

"It's getting dark," Linda said.

I lifted my eyes to the sky.

The sun was dipping low over the horizon, splashing the sky with brilliant reds and oranges. The peaks of the mountains glowed brilliantly as the dying rays lingered in crevices and hollows. A crescent moon hung palely against the deepening wash of night, sharing the sky with the sinking sun.

And suddenly it was black.

There was no transition, no dusk, no violets or purples. The sun was simply swallowed up, and stars appeared against the blackness. A stiff breeze worked its way down from the caps of the mountains, spreading cold where there had once been intolerable heat.

"You'd better get some sleep," I said.

"And you?"

"With that pig across the way? I'll stay awake, thanks."

She grinned. "Carrera will sleep. You can bet on that."

"I wish I could bet on that. I'd go right over and make sure he never woke up."

"Oh my," she mocked, "such a tough one."

I said nothing.

"I don't even know your name," she said.

"Jeff," I told her. "Jeff MacCauley."

She rolled over, trying to make herself comfortable. It wasn't easy with her hands and feet bound. She settled for her left side, her arms behind her, her legs together.

"Well," she said, "
buenos noches,
Jeff."

I didn't answer.

I was watching the rocks across the clearing. Carrera may have planned on sleeping the night, but I wasn't counting on it.

She woke up about two
A.M.
She pushed herself to a sitting position and stared into the darkness.

"Jeff," she whispered. Her accent made my name sound like "Jaif." I pulled the .45 from my waistband and walked over to her.

"What is it?"

"My hands. They're ... I can't feel anything. I think the blood has stopped."

I knelt down beside her and reached for her hands. The strap didn't seem too tight. "You'll be all right," I said.

"But ... they feel numb. It's like ... like there is nothing below my wrists, Jeff."

Her voice broke, and I wondered if she were telling the truth. I held the .45 in my right hand and tugged at the strap with my left. I loosened it, and she pulled her hands free and began massaging the wrists, breathing deeply.

"That's much better," she said.

I kept the .45 pointed at her. She looked at the open muzzle and sighed, as if she were being patient with a precocious little boy. She leaned back on her arms then, tilting her head to the sky, her black hair streaming down her back.

It's a beautiful night," she said.

"Yeah."

"Just look at the moon, Jeff."

I glanced up at the moon, taking my eyes off her for a second.

That was all the time she needed.

She sprang with the speed of a mountain lion, pushing herself up with her bound feet, her fingernails raking down the length of my arm, clawing at my gun hand. I yanked the gun back and she dove at me again, the nails slashing across my face. She threw herself onto my chest, her hands seeking the wrist of my gun hand, tightening there, the nails digging deep into my flesh. I rolled over, slapping the muzzle of the .45 against her shoulder.

She fell backward and then pushed herself up from the ground, murder in her eyes. She hopped forward, and I backed away from her. She kept hopping, her feet close together, the material from her skirt keeping her in check. And then she toppled forward, and she would have kissed the ground if I hadn't caught her in my arms.

She kissed me instead.

Or I kissed her.

It was hard to tell which. She was falling, and I reached for her, and she was suddenly in my arms. There was a question in her eyes for a single instant, and then the question seemed to haze over. She closed her eyes and lifted her mouth to mine.

Sunlight spilled over the twisted ground, pushing at the shadows, chasing the night.

She was still in my arms when I woke up. I stared down at her, not wanting to move, afraid to wake her.

And then her eyes popped open suddenly, and a sleepy smile tilted the corners of her mouth.

"Good morning," she said.

"Hello."

She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. She took a deep breath and then smiled, and I looked deep into her eyes, trying to read whatever was hidden in their brown depths.

"Your boyfriend," I said. "Carrera."

"He's not my boyfriend."

Her face was serious, so serious that it startled me.

"No?"

"No."

"He's still got my ten thousand," I said. "I know."

"I want it back."

"I know."

"I want you to help me get it."

She was silent for a long while.

When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

"Why?"

"Why? Holy Jesus, that's ten thousand bucks! You know how much work I did to get that money?"

"Why not forget it?

"Forget it? No."

"Carrera will kill you. I know him. Would you rather be dead without your money ... or would you rather be alive without it? Alive and ... with me?"

"If you help me, we can have both," I said.

She considered this for a moment and then asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"You'll help?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want to set a trap for him."

"What kind of a trap?"

"Will you help?"

She moved closer to me and buried her head against my shoulder.

"I'll do whatever you say," she said.

***

We crouched behind the rocks, our heads close together. The sun bore down ferociously, baking the earth, spreading heat over the surface of the land. The sky was streaked with spidery white clouds that trailed across a wide wash of blue. It was the Mexico of the picture books, bright and clear, warm, alive, and it should have been pulsating with the throb of laughter and music, wine and song, fiesta.

Instead, a funeral was being planned.

Carrera's.

There was a sheer wall behind him, rising like a giant tombstone for some hundred feet, terminating there in a jumble of twisted branches and fallen rock. A few feet in front of the wall was the outcropping behind which Carrera squatted with his .45 and my ten G's.