“But I don’t know the gentleman of whom you speak, señor.”
“Maybe you could ask around,” I suggested. “You could start with your local bookmaker.”
Only a slight narrowing of the eyes said I’d touched a vulnerable spot. “Bookmakers, señor? But this is a bordello. There is no gambling here. Gambling is illegal.”
“And illegal gambling is a very complicated matter,” I said soothingly. “Of course, I could ask the American consul to take up the matter of my friend. Or perhaps the immigration officials. But it really would be simpler if you made the inquiries.”
“As you wish, señor.” Smooth. Very smooth. “If you’ll be good enough to wait here while I excuse myself for a moment . . .” He left us.
Inside of less than five minutes he was back. “Elena awaits you outside,” he told us. “I think she may be able to help you in your quest.” Nothing more committal than that.
Elena routed us through the winding hall again. Once more she stopped in front of a closed door. This time produced a key and dangled it under my nose.
“Seven dollars and fifty cents American,” Elena said.
“For what?”
“Rental for a private room.”
“I don’t want to rent a room. I want to-—”
She held up her hand, cutting off my sentence. “What you do in the room, señor”—her gaze went from me to the little old lady and back again, leaving no doubt as to her opinion of what would transpire in the room—- “is your affair. But for privacy, you must pay.”
“What about Bugs Ameche?” I demanded.
“I know nothing.” Elena shrugged. “I was told only to bring you to this room. For which you must pay,” she added. “Seven dollars and fifty cents American.”
What the hell! I forked it over. Last of the big-time spenders. On a Putnam-guaranteed U.S.-government expense account. My apologies to the taxpayers. Elena unlocked the door, and we entered. She handed me the key and left us. A moment later the door opened again and a man entered. He turned the lock behind him.
He was small and thin with a posture like a banana and a complexion like a billiard table. Only not as smooth. His gaunt face was a swamp of pockmarks, pimples, and pustules floating in a bilious green sea of wrinkles.
“Are you Bugs Ameche?” I inquired.
He didn’t answer.
“Phoebe Phreeby sent me,” I reassured him. “I’m a friend.”
“I’m Bugs Ameche.” Snake-eyes watched me suspiciously, not buying easy friendship.
“Bugs Ameche, I’m taking you into custody!”
My jaw dropped. Snake-eyes blinked; suspicion confirmed. It was the little old lady who had spoken. She was sitting there primly, watching us both.
And she was covering us with a Smith & Wesson .38!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Listen, Grandma, you could do yourself damage with that thing.” Bugs Ameche started moving toward the little old lady.
“One more step and I’ll shoot,” she told him calmly.
Bugs was smart enough to believe her. He stood still.
“Where did you get the gun?” I asked the old lady, recalling that I’d taken one weapon away from her already that evening.
“I always keep a spare in with my knitting. Loaded,” she was careful to add.
“You people feds?” Bugs inquired.
“CIA,” the old lady told him.
“Her, not me,” I protested. “I really am a friend of Phoebe’s. This is strictly her double-cross.” I turned to the old lady. “What’s the big idea?” I demanded.
“The CIA wants this man,” she replied. “If I bring him in, it will be a feather in Henry’s cap. Henry,” she explained to Bugs, “is my son. He’s home sick with a terrible cold.”
“Vitamin C,” Bugs recommended.
“How do you think you’re going to get him out of here?” I asked her. “You’re in a foreign country. You have no extradition papers. You have no authority.”
“I’ll check with Henry.” She walked over to a table in the corner of the room, picked up a telephone there, and dialed. There was a couple of minutes’ silence, and then: “Henry?” she said into the mouthpiece. “Did you take your temperature, dear? . . . Well, why not? . . . Look, you take it right now, and I’ll wait.” She stood tapping her foot, the gun held steady. “Are you sure?” she said finally. “No, that’s not very high. Still, you’d better take two more aspirin and stay under the covers. . . . As a matter of fact, Henry, I do think that’s exactly what James Bond does when he has a cold. . . . Don’t raise your voice, dear, it will only make your throat feel worse. . . . No, you may not go to Interrogation School tomorrow! . . . I simply will not have you playing around with electric-shock equipment when your hands are all clammy from a fever. It’s not safe! . . . Now, listen, dear, I called to tell you that I’m in Ciudad Juarez at this bordello, and . . . Henry? . . . That’s right, a bordello. . . . Henry? . . . Henry? . . . Henry, now you stop that laughing! . . . The thing is, dear, I’ve captured Bugs Ameche, and I don’t know what -”
“Let me talk to him,” I interrupted her.
She shrugged and handed me the phone.
“Hello, Henry? . . . This is Steve Victor. I work for Charles Putnam. I hate to pull rank on you, Henry, but the fact is— What? . . . Oh, yes, I outrank your mother too! . . . If you’ll call your superiors and have them check with Putnam — Yeah, well, they’ll know who he is! . . . Just say I’m asking for verification of my authority in this matter. . . . When that’s straightened out, Henry, I want you to, do two things for me. I want you to get word through to Putnam to call me back here. And I want you to call back yourself and get your mother off my back.” I gave him the number of the phone. “Stay under the covers,” I told him, “and take care of that cold.” I hung up.
We waited. It was a pretty dull half-hour. Finally the phone rang. It was Putnam. I cut short his questions and told him what I wanted. He said it wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it.
As soon as I hung up, the phone rang a second time. It was Henry. He spoke to his mother.
When the call was completed, she handed me her gun. “Henry says you’re in charge.” She was all good-sporty about it. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Sit down and tend to your knitting,” I told her.
She did exactly that, producing two needles and a ball of yarn from her knitting bag. “A pullover for Henry,” she confided.
I turned to Bugs. “I need your cooperation,” I told him.
“Why should I cooperate with you?” He was still suspicious.
“Look, I just got you off the hook with the feds. I can make that permanent.”
“The feds are the least of my troubles. They got nothing on me. It’s Tom Swift they want. I know if I talk about Swift, they’ll drop those penny-ante phone-phreak charges against me. I don’t need you for that.”
“How about the Mafia?” I asked him. “You know there’s a contract out for you. Hiding out in Mexico won’t stop the hit. Suppose I can square that? Will you cooperate then?”
Bugs turned a little greener at the mention of the Mafia contract. “How can you do that?” he asked, hope mixing with the doubt in his voice.
“Wait and see.”
We didn’t have to wait long. Less than five minutes later the phone rang again. I answered it.
“Hello, Victor?” I recognized Gino Goldberg’s voice.
“You really are a fortunate man,” he greeted me. “I never expected to speak to you alive again.”
“No thanks to you,” I reminded him.
“Don’t hold grudges,” he advised me. “That’s plasma under the bridge. It’s all in the past. Mr. Putnam’s been in touch with the family, and I’ve been instructed to cooperate with you fully. Let me prove it. Put Ameche on the phone.”