Message From Malaga (7 page)

“Cut that out!” said Torrens. “Where have you been?”

“Looking around.” Laner’s exhilaration was gone. Cut that out, cut this out; that was Torrens’ way of handling things. I say nothing, Laner decided. Nothing at all. Not here, not now.

“What have you been doing?” Torrens asked, his voice low and intense. His blue eyes were fixed in a hard stare.

“Just proving a point.”

Pitt was no longer bored. He knew as little as Torrens, but he knew Laner better and he sensed something interesting. “You made it, man?” he tried.

Torrens was baffled. His worry changed into anger. “Made what?”

Pitt’s grin split wide across his face. “Tell the man,” he mocked in his best Alabama-bound accent. “The man wants to know.”

Torrens’ lips tightened, but apart from that he paid no more attention to Pitt “What are you holding in your hand?” he asked, reaching out so quickly that Laner was caught by surprise. Torrens unfolded the crumpled piece of gauze, looked at it in disbelief. Then he palmed it quickly, raised his hand to his nose, and sniffed the gauze to make sure. He dropped his hand into his trouser pocket. When it came back on to the table, it held only his pack of cigarettes. There was a long pause while he lit a cigarette. Pitt’s black eyes were sparkling with delight. “We’ll talk later,” Torrens said.

“It’s a job you should have done yourself.” Laner was on the defensive and resented it. “What was the idea, anyway, of letting a pig live in this town, snooping around in comfort? I did you a favour.” He gave Pitt a knowing glance. “One less.”

“Right on.” Pitt went into a sudden fit of silent laughter.

“You complacent fools,” Torrens said. “You loose-brained—”

“Shut it! Cool it, man, cool it. We travelled a long way without your help. We’ll start travelling a long way tomorrow.”
Pitt’s low voice was contemptuous, the words spat out in a slow drawl. “Just you get us on board that ship. That’s your job, man. We’ll do ours.”

Torrens looked at them both. “I said we’d discuss this later.” He smoked his cigarette slowly, stubbed it out thoughtfully. “We leave here as soon as this dance is over.” He made an effort and smiled for both of them. He sat there, controlling his anger, waiting for the final bars of music. Then he rose with the rest of the audience, applauding as enthusiastically as any of them. He signalled to the boy who had waited on their table, paid, applauded some more, then gestured with a nod toward the exit through the wineshop. “Slowly,” he told them, and his voice was pleasant and at ease. “No hurry.”

Laner and Pitt recovered their cool, followed him leisurely. Pitt looked back at the stage where a new dance was starting. “They call that rhythm?” he asked superciliously. He shook his head pityingly.

Laner felt good. The Swede had admitted, in his own way, that Laner had been smart; why else all this pleasant talk as they went through the wineshop? Was Torrens only making a smooth exit? Once they reached the street, would he start lecturing again? No, he was talking quietly, but in friendly fashion, about their plans. No questions, no inquisition. Yes, thought Laner, he has accepted what I did. He was impressed, all right. And why not? That was one for their textbooks.

Torrens halted at the nearest corner. “Well, seeing that we lost our transportation, we’d better look as if we were saying goodbye here. I wonder where that friend of yours went?”

“The beard? Back to the beach to play his guitar,” Pitt said.

“Or driving nonstop to Madrid at ninety-miles an hour,”
Laner said. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a five-year-old.” But why are we saying goodbye right on this street corner?

“He had no idea of what you were?” Torrens asked. “It’s dangerous to leave loose threads—”

“No loose threads. He’s just a spoiled baba,” Laner insisted. “He lost his temper and walked out. That’s always his solution. It’s kind of good to be free of him.”

“We suffered him a long long way,” Pitt said. “Picked him up at American Express in Madrid.”

“Why did you pick him up?”

“Why not, man?” Pitt’s voice had a touch of contempt, disguising his resentment at being questioned. He looked away, studied the distant lights.

Laner said quickly, “He had a car, he was coming south, he had a nice fat cheque from dear old mom right in his pocket. Good cover, you know. That’s what he was for us.”

“And you had no idea that he was Reid’s son?” Torrens went on quietly, easily.

“Never heard of pig Reid until we were driving and singing our way to Málaga. Never saw him until tonight.”

“And what did young Reid say about his father?”

“He just dropped a couple of sentences. He had a father who lived in Málaga, worked for the CIA. Big joke.”

“And he was coming to see his father?”

“Nah,” Laner said scornfully. “You don’t get the picture. He just wanted to have a look at his father. Because mom forbids it, I guess. He’s just a mixed-uptight kid.” Laner paused, enjoying his small joke. “Forget him, Torrens. He didn’t talk with his father. And he can’t—not now.” Laner paused again, hoping for some praise. He wasn’t being given any more reprimands,
but Torrens might add a word of praise. Yes, Torrens was doing that in his own close-mouthed way. Torrens was holding out his hand. Laner took it, was given a warm shake, was astounded to feel a card left in his palm. Pitt was given the same treatment.

Torrens was saying heartily, “Goodbye.” In a lower voice, he added, “The cards tell you where you’ll each find a room for the night. Destroy them as soon as you are alone.”

“But I thought—” began Laner.

“You’ll have to wait one more day. Until your travel arrangements are complete.”

“We were to leave in three hours—” Laner began again.

“You can’t leave until your papers get here. There has been a delay. Don’t look at me. That is not my department. You’ll leave tomorrow. So I have been assured.”

“Your American is slipping,” Pitt told him. “So I have been assured,” he repeated with high amusement.

Laner asked worriedly, “Tomorrow when?” The sooner he was out of Málaga, the better. He had been counting on leaving tonight.

“Around this time. A man will contact you at each of your hotels—he will use the recognition signals you exchanged with me. And stay in your rooms until he comes. Don’t go wandering in the streets. You could be picked up for questioning.”

“Why?” No one saw me, no one paid any attention, Laner thought.

“Anyone who was seen at El Fenicio tonight may be picked up for questioning. The Spanish police like to ask questions. We were all noticed back there. Don’t kid yourselves about that.” He stared hard at Laner, then glanced at Pitt. “Is my American doing better?”

“What about our clothes, money—”

“You’ll get them with your papers. Tomorrow. And you may be travelling separately. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“No. We weren’t told—”

“Of course not,” Torrens said genially. “They never tell me anything either until the last minute.” He watched some men walking along the street toward them. He spoke quickly. “Both of you take this street down toward the water front. Pitt takes the first alley to his left; you, Laner, take the one on your right. You’ll find the addresses on your cards without any trouble. I’ll phone them to expect you.” He raised his voice to a normal level. The passing strangers could hear whatever they wanted to. “Well—nice meeting you. Drop in when you are next my way. Good night, good night!” He was off, heading for a telephone in the direction of the main street, its lights still bright at two in the morning, calling back over his shoulder in Spanish, “Have a good time in Madrid! Goodbye!”

Pitt and Laner stared at each other, then at the narrow street they had been told to take. It was ill-lit, deserted, a place that worked hard through the day and shut up tight by night. “Dullsville,” Pitt said in disgust.

Laner looked back at El Fenicio. It now seemed an oasis in a desert of new buildings. “There are other wineshops. There’s always plenty around a harbour.”

“What bread have you got?”

“Not much.”

Pitt pulled out his wallet, showed it was almost empty, too. “So we do as the man says. We stay in our little rooms, don’t wander around town.” His voice was bitter. He resented Torrens’ quick goodbye that had left them both with their
mouths open. “He’s a scared cat,” he said contemptuously as they started walking down the narrow street. Torrens was already out of sight.

“And scared of what?” Laner was derisive. “A clown tripped over his two big feet and fell off a staircase. Who’s to prove otherwise?”

“You sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure. No one saw me. No one paid any attention,” Laner protested. He was about to give some details, but the anger on Pitt’s face silenced him. “Hey, man, we’ve come right across Europe together—”

“And been bossed every step of the way.”

Not every step, thought Laner. And without help and instructions, money and safe rooms, where would they have been? But he wasn’t arguing with Pitt in this mood. Perhaps it was time they were travelling separately.

They reached the alley that branched to their left. “So this is where I spend my last night in Europe,” Pitt said. He didn’t think much of it, but he started along it.

“See you in New Orleans,” Laner called softly after him. There was no answer. Laner walked on toward the next streetlight. He looked at the card Torrens had pressed into his hand, slipped it into his pocket. He felt the spray-gun. He would have more ammunition for it—if you could call an ampoule ammunition—when Torrens sent his duffel bag tomorrow. What was Torrens scared of—that he had ripped it off, smuggled it across Europe, or that he’d keep on using it? Laner was smiling broadly. One test, that’s all I needed, just to get the real feel of the thing. One test, that’s all I wanted. And better here than back home. Safer is better, isn’t it? Besides,
the risk was justified: no one saw me, no one noticed a thing. Everyone in that courtyard had had his eyes on the dancer.

Some of the spring came back into Laner’s light walk. With confidence and caution, he appraised the small back street where he’d spend the next twenty-four hours. It was empty, so he could cross without delay, to the number he was looking for, slip quietly inside its door. He was expected. The fat, white-faced woman at the bar stopped talking with a half-drunken sailor to give Laner a searching look and then nodded when he sat down at the nearest table. She brought him a glass of wine, asked for no payment. “Room three” was all she said, looking at the stairs beside him, and she went back to the bar. Sleazy, dirty, filled with smoke and nitwitted talk in several languages. Not the Ritz, Laner decided, but safe. There wasn’t a boozehound in here who’d remember a thing tomorrow. He kept his eyes on the table, nursed his drink, waiting for the right moment to get upstairs unnoticed. An argument was starting. This was it. Torrens should see him now; he’d be less scared. Torrens... One thing you could say for that son of a bitch: he knew how to make quick arrangements.

For the first fifteen minutes or so after Reid had left him, Ian Ferrier paid no attention to the empty chair beside him, but concentrated on Pablo’s excellent footwork. And after that, there was Miguel’s singing. This was the part of flamenco he least enjoyed, but judging from the constant murmur of admiring
olé’
s from the courtyard around him, his taste was either poor or uninformed. Probably both, he thought with some amusement. The guitars were good by any standard. He listened to them, looked up at the stars, did some dreaming.

Then Constanza began her dance, and his eyes were drawn back to the stage again. Halfway through, he had a small qualm about the empty chair beside him: there was a thin line of people now standing along the wall nearby. He glanced at them briefly without turning his head, wondering what the hell was keeping Jeff. And in that split second he glimpsed one of the Americans from the back corner table—the thin guy with
the blond unwashed hair hanging over his brow—standing almost at the door. It may be difficult holding Jeff’s place, Ferrier thought worriedly. Esteban, who had been circulating quietly among his patrons, might have had the same idea. He came over to sit down for a few minutes with Ferrier and show that the half-occupied table had his approval, excusing himself with Spanish politeness and a touch of sardonic humour. “Do not worry,” he said in Ferrier’s ear. “Señor Reid will soon be back. He likes to talk with Magdalena, and she has always much to say.”

Magdalena? Ferrier was no wiser, but he nodded. It seemed simpler for a foreigner not to start talking during a performance. Esteban, as manager of El Fenicio and old bullfighter friend, could do as he damned well pleased and get away with it.

“You enjoy our flamenco,” Esteban stated, the deep furrows in his face pulling up into a real smile, and his melancholy dark eyes lightening with approval. For a minute or so, he watched the stage along with Ferrier. Then he sensed increasing pressure from the people standing at the side. “Excuse me,” he said, rose, bowed, and turned to gesture to them with his hands. They obeyed him, of course. They moved back against the wall. Perhaps Esteban fixed them with those dark eyes of his in the way he had dominated many a bull in the old days. But, thought Ferrier, I bet they don’t stay fixed; they’ll be back, once Esteban leaves. The thin American with the hunched shoulders was no longer standing near the door. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere in sight. Now where did he go? Ferrier wondered; and then, looking at the stage again, forgot his question, didn’t even think an answer was important. Constanza was finishing her dance with a succession of fireworks from heels and castanets.

There was a short lull, a sense of waiting, a sudden silence, and then gentle guitars. Tavita rose. She stretched her waist, raised her arms, advanced one thigh. Softly, at first, she began to dance the story of two different loves, a story that had been danced this way for more than four hundred years.

Where’s Jeff? Ferrier wondered irritably. He was seeing the most wonderful dancing he had ever imagined, and it was being spoiled for him. (There’s something wrong, he kept thinking. Jeff had said he would be back in time to watch Tavita, and he had meant it.) As the dance progressed, from Miguel’s pleading into Pablo’s demands, Ferrier found he was looking at that door near him, almost as if he were trying to will Jeff to appear. But there was no sign of him. Give up, Ferrier told himself angrily: Jeff manages his own life; if he wants to miss Tavita, that’s his business. From then on, almost to the end of the dance, he watched the stage determinedly, ignoring the seepage of people along the wall beside him. They had returned, of course, Esteban now being seated at a table of bullfighters on the other side of the courtyard. One of them steadied himself against the back of the empty chair, as if he had been pressed forward unexpectedly. Ferrier glanced sideways, automatically. And beyond the stranger, who gave him a bow of apology, he saw a shaggy nondescript blond head. Ferrier’s eyes swerved back to the stage, but the last minutes of violent passion and remorse, now being danced so magnificently by Tavita, were completely ruined for him. The young American had come out of that damned doorway: what the hell was he doing, slinking out in that way? Come to think of it, he had been in there quite a while, hadn’t he? If he hadn’t come out so carefully, so unobtrusively, Ferrier would have paid less attention. He
signed quietly to the stranger who stood by the empty chair that he and his friend could have the table. Then he rose, just as quietly, and made for the doorway.