Like A Hole In The Head

     Raimundo lifted his head from the pillow and looked at me. "It's a pipe dream, soldier. I wish I could make you believe it."

     "Don't answer the question if you don't want to. Why should I care?"

There was a long pause as Raimundo studied me.

     "If he did get a hole in his head," he said finally, "I'd go back to my wife and kids in Caracas."

     "So you have a wife and kids?"

     "Yeah . . . four kids . . . three boys and a girl."

     "With Timoteo dead and the old animal dead . . . what happens?"

     "I guess Lopez will become Boss. There's no one else What sort of man is he?"

     "Short of brains but peaceful."

     "Would he take care of you?"

     "I wouldn't want his care. He would leave me alone. That's all I would want. I have a farm. My wife looks after it. With me working with her, it would become something important."

     "So you have something to plan for . . . a future?"

     He got the message.

     "I guess I have."

     There came a tap on the door.

     I whipped Raimundo's automatic from under my pillow and covered it in my hand with the bed sheet.

     "Open up," I said softly. "Get your back to the wall and swing the door open slowly."

     Raimundo was off the bed and by the door in a smooth, silent flash. Watching him, I knew he was going to be a useful man to have with me when the crunch came. He turned the key and eased open the door.

     I was ready to shoot, but when I saw the coloured boy standing in the doorway, his eyes rolling, I left the gun under the sheet and brought my hand into sight.

     "I've got those knives," he said.

     "Come on in," I said and got off the bed.

     A Levison hunting knife is special. It has a six-inch blade of the finest steel and is so sharp that if you draw the blade along your arm, you're shaved. It is beautifully balanced and with a finger grip handle covered with a sponge jacket. If your hand is soaking with sweat you can be sure the knife won't turn or slip. I never went into the jungle during my Army days without a Levison knife. It had saved my life a number of times. When the pressure is on, it's a man's best friend.

     I checked both knives, then gave the boy a five dollar bill after he had given me the change out of the hundred dollar bill.

     "I want two steak sandwiches and beer up in an hour," I said to him. "Steak . . . not hash."

     When he had gone, I tossed one of the knives in its leather sheath on to Raimundo's bed.

     "Do you know how to use a knife?"

     He gave a crooked smile.

     "A lot better than you, soldier. I was born with a knife in my hand."

     I asked him the question that had been nagging at my mind ever since I knew Lucy was dead.

     "What will they do with the bodies?"

     "She'll go into the swamp. He will be flown back to Caracas. The old man will stage a funeral. He likes funerals."

"Then it's just too bad he can't stage his own funeral," I said.

     We spent the day in the bedroom. We listened to the radio. The midday news said there was no further development about the two people Bill Hartley claimed he had seen shot to death. The police were checking on missing people, but so far they hadn't come up with anyone matching the descriptions of the people Hartley had said had died. The radio announcer, by the tone of his voice, seemed to be hinting that Hartley was yet another nut.

     Around 22.00 we checked out of the hotel. The old negro clerk seemed relieved to see us go. He was a wise old man and he probably guessed we were cooking up something bad. I was sure the golf bag with its leather hood hadn't fooled him, but I didn't worry about him. A hotel of this rating wouldn't survive if it had trouble with the police.

     Raimundo put the golf bag and the suitcase in the Volkswagen and he got under the wheel.

     We had gone over the plan of operation. Raimundo still didn't think we could get away with it, but he was a little more confident.

     He drove to the main shopping centre and parked near an all- night self-service store. We were far enough away from the Imperial Hotel not to worry about Savanto's button men. While he waited in the car, I went into the store. I bought a pair of heavy leather gloves. I would need them for my long climb up the steel structure of the crane. I bought a dozen sandwiches and a family-sized bottle of Coke. I bought a small rucksack in which to carry the stuff.

     I joined Raimundo and we headed towards the Imperial Hotel. This was the danger zone. The button men would know I had a Volkswagen. Although there were a number of these cars driving around Paradise City, I was sure every red Volkswagen would now be scrutinized. So when we got to the beginning of Paradise Boulevard, the mile and a half long promenade by the sea where the best hotels were, I told Raimundo to park the car.

     He found a hole in a row of cars and parked. We looked at each other.

     "Give me ten minutes start," I said, "then come after me."