So to hell with being lookout. One of the Cubans had taken over, a guy named Jiminez, and Garth didn’t have to play lookout like a goddamn kid playing cops and robbers. He had better things to do.
The first thing to do was find Fenton. Fenton had it coming, all right. There was Maria, flat on her back and ready to take it and there was Garth ready to give it to her. And that buttinsky, Fenton, had to foul things up.
Garth laughed. The bastard wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she came around and tried to serve it to him on a platter, but he had to louse things up for Garth.
Well, he’d know better next time.
Garth smiled. He was still smiling when he found Fenton by the dead campfire. Fenton didn’t return the smile.
“Say,” he said deceptively, “I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Private stuff,” Garth told him. “And listen—I’m sorry I belted you the other day. I lost my head. I got all hot over the broad and I couldn’t think about nothing else.”
“Oh,” Fenton said. “Well, it’s all right.”
“No hard feelings?”
“None.”
“Shake on it?”
Fenton seemed to hesitate, then accepted the huge hand offered to him. They shook hands solemnly.
“Now,” Garth went on innocently, “let’s talk. I got things you oughta know about.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s private, Earl. C’mon—let’s head over into the brush a ways. These spics are all the time listening.”
Fenton shrugged, stood up. He was holding the Sten gun in one hand. Garth led him away from the camp, into the brush far from the road. Garth wanted to laugh—it was getting cute now. You could take these complicated guys like Fenton and you could twist them up six ways and backwards. The simple things were best, damn it.
“What’s it all about, Garth?”
“Oh, it’s interesting,” Garth said, stalling. “About this Castro bird. The one we hit in the head tomorrow.”
“You mean today. Any minute, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah,” Garth said. “Well, whenever the hell it is. It’ll be a gas telling them about it on Bleecker Street, you know? Can you see it?”
“Is that all you wanted?”
“Not exactly. Lemme have your gun a minute, Earl.”
Fenton handed him the gun. “Why do you want it?”
“I don’t want it,” Garth said, tossing the Sten gun into a clump of bushes. “I just don’t want you to have it, Earl, honey. Because I’m going to beat the crap out of you, Earl.”
“I don’t—”
That was all he said. Garth drove a fist to the pit of his stomach, doubling him over. Then a right uppercut straightened him out again, and a left cross to the chest put him on the ground. He lay there looking as though he had been hit by a truck.
“You fell for it,” Garth said. “No hard feelings? I got plenty of feelings, you son-of-a-bitch!”
He hauled Fenton up, smashed him full in the face. Fenton’s nose was bleeding now. He hit him, smashed his lips, felt teeth give way. This time he let him fall to the ground. He kicked him hard, felt ribs crack and kicked him again. The man on the ground looked lifeless, inert, but Garth knew he wasn’t dead. Matt Garth was a pro, damnit. He could beat the hell out of a guy and not kill him. He knew his business.
He whirled at a sound. Maria had followed them; she stood in the clearing now, gun in hand, her eyes on Fenton. The eyes moved to Garth and stared with hatred. But Garth ignored the gun. Beating Fenton had excited him; he always got excited after a muscle job, always needed a woman as soon as possible. And here was a woman—to hell with the gun in her hand.
He rushed her. There was a moment when she could have shot him, but she hadn’t expected his move and the chance was lost. His whole body slammed into her, knocking the gun from her grasp, tumbling her to the ground. He fell on her, and although she fought him she didn’t have a chance. He had her where he wanted her.
Fenton wasn’t going to stop him now, not this time. Nobody was going to stumble on them. This time, goddamn it, he was going to lay her silly.
He ripped off her clothes, stripping her naked, and struck her savagely in the face or stomach or naked breasts every time she tried to resist him. Then he fumbled momentarily with his own clothing, struck her again, forced her legs apart, went for her. She had given up, knowing resistance was useless, resigned to the inevitable.
He plunged deep into the soft warmth of her. She struggled anew, briefly.
And then, finally, it was over.
He got slowly to his feet. “You’re hot stuff,” he told Maria. “We’ll have to go another round pretty soon.”
Her eyes were sheer hatred.
Garth laughed. He looked at Fenton—conscious now, on his feet again, and able to function. Fenton had his gun back. And Maria moved to pick up hers.
“C’mon,” he told them. “We gotta go up against this Castro guy. Then we can have some more fun.”
He turned his back to them and started through the brush again, back to the camp site. Either one of them could have shot him. But he knew they would not. In both their minds, Castro came first.
And no one shot him.
Ernesto took a small sip of sour red wine. The heavyset Cuban put his glass on the table and smiled broadly.
“My friend,” he said. “You have decided to stay in Cuba, true?”
“I’ve decided to stay,” Turner said.
“And you will obtain papers? You will become a citizen?”
Turner nodded.
“A thought has come to me,” Ernesto said. “I have a friend, an official in the Department of Immigration. He is not busy these days. More people seek to leave Cuba than to enter here. This friend of mine, he is a fine man. You would like him, amigo.”
“You have many friends, Ernesto.”
“So? Can a man live without friends? Friends are the strength of a man. But to continue. This friend of mine, this official, might make matters simpler. There are complications to becoming a citizen, even in Cuba. What you Americans call pink tape.”
“Red tape.”
“So. My friend could cut this red tape. A preparation of papers, a signature, the application of an official seal, and you are a citizen of Cuba. Is it not simple?”
“Shall we go to this friend?”
“Very simple.”
Turner considered. “I have no money,” he said. “Wouldn’t it cost some money for this friend to expedite things?”
Ernesto sighed, extended his hands with his palms down. “This is a friend,” he said. “Not an acquaintance but a friend, as you are my friend. Once I was able to do a great service for this friend. Once he was in great trouble with the man Torelli of whom I spoke. He was a croupier, and there was the matter of a shortage. I was able to cover for my friend. Thus he would be happy to do a service for me in return. There will be no need for money in this case.”
“Well,” Turner said. “That’s different.”
“So. Let us go, my friend. And in an hour you shall be a free citizen of Cuba. Then we shall go again to the bordello, yes? I am in need of a woman. And we shall celebrate your citizenship.”
Two hours later Turner was a citizen of Cuba. The three of them—he, Ernesto and the Immigration official—had a drink in celebration. Then they taxied to a bordello which Ernesto liked. Turner was happy now. He was safe. He did not have to think of murdering Castro.
Castro’s convoy was sighted at seventeen minutes past six.
One of the new men had the watch. He saw the lead Jeep pull into view, saw it far off down the road. He gave the signal, and the rebel band began drifting into position, stationing themselves in strategic spots along the rock formations on either side of the road. Fenton was ready, gun in hand, heart hammering. He braced himself with his back against a boulder, then shifted and stretched prone in the gap between two huge rocks. He lay down on his belly and pointed his weapon at the road.