“Are you all right, Senhor Huzel?”
“Sore, a little bloody, but I’ll live.”
“The beach is very dangerous at night,” he replied. “Many muggers.”
“I don’t think so,” Carter grunted. “You work for Bolivar?”
“Sim,” the man said. “We are told to watch over you.”
“So watch me,” Carter hissed, and staggered forward to where the leader lay prone in front of a car. He rolled the youth over and went through his pockets.
He located the wad of bills he had tossed on the ground, and a second wad, even thicker. He shoved all the bills into his own pocket and stood.
“Bourlein still in the restaurant?”
The young man shook his head. “He and his woman left just after you.”
“Is he at the Leme?”
“Sim.”
“Give me a ride back to the hotel,” Carter said, already heading for the stairs.
Carter skirted the lobby and signaled the bell captain to follow him toward the elevators.
“You need a doctor, senhor?”
“No. I need a bucket of ice and Senhor Ravel Bourlein’s room number, pronto.” He gave the man a bill and pushed the button for his floor.
In his room he repaired his face and examined the body bruises. The skin was already turning purple, but nothing was broken.
There was a rap on the door and he let the bellman in. “Bourlein?”
“He is in a suite, Twelve-twelve.”
Carter gave him another hefty tip and shoved him out the door. He built a scotch and drank it while he changed clothes. Then he slipped the Beretta into his belt and took the elevator to the twelfth floor.
“Who is it?”
“Bell captain, senhor,” Carter said, in a high voice. “You have a cable.”
The door opened a crack and Carter shouldered it wide. He gave Bourlein two good shots in the middle of his flab and then a hard one behind the ear on his way down.
He kicked the door shut, locked it, and dragged the fat man by his ankles into the suite.
The woman, Nanette, stood naked except for a pair of bikini panties, her mouth round in a silent scream.
“Not a sound,” Carter growled. “Get some ice and a wet towel.”
She nodded dumbly, eyes bulging, and moved into the small kitchen area.
“Move it!” Carter barked. “I’m in a hurry.”
The woman had gotten her breath and a little nerve back. “What the hell do you want?”
“A little talk with him... bring the stuff.”
She returned, her vast bosoms jiggling and swaying. She tried a hesitant smile, but one look at Carter’s face and she cut the act and thrust the ice and the wet towel at him.
“Over here,” Carter said.
To her astonishment, Carter gathered a fistful of Bourlein’s shirtfront and jerked him to a sitting position, then lifted him into a chair. He motioned her around the chair.
“Rub the back of his neck with the ice.”
“Let me get some clothes on,” she whimpered.
Carter looked at her, stepped forward, and slapped her. She went sideways, airborne. Her vision dimmed with stars behind her eyes. She felt herself jerked upright by her hair, held there by the aching, stinging strain on her scalp until her wobbly knees found strength and she stood. Just as she got her wind, the throbbing pain along the left side of her face began occupying her mind. She tried twisting away and the grip in her hair tightened. Carter slapped her again, and she shrieked.
“No, no!” she cried.
“Good,” Carter said. “I don’t like it either.” He turned loose his grip wound in her long dark hair and shoved. She stumbled across the room and fell in Bourlein’s lap.
“Up!” he hissed, and she shot to her feet. “Use that ice on the back of his neck.”
She squealed and sprawled as she reached for the ice, got it, and scrambled to her feet. She tilted Bourlein’s head forward and began rubbing his neck with the ice.
Carter went to work on his face with the towel, back and forth, one side, then the other. Bourlein began moving, then moaning. Finally he cried out and jerked upright.
“What the—” he gasped.
Carter’s face was inches from his. “Three bad local lads tried to bust my head tonight,” he hissed.
“I don’t know anything about it...”
“You ass. You tried to make a deal. I didn’t dance. So you tried to put me in a hospital so I couldn’t be there to make a bid.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I don’t think so,” Carter said. “You had big boobs here call the lads from the restaurant and give them my description. There was no deal. You just wanted to get me out of the way.”
“No, I swear...”
“Bullshit.” Carter looked up at the trembling woman. “Right?”
She gulped and then nodded, once.
Carter dropped the towel, drew the Beretta, and crammed the barrel between Bourlein’s fat lips, shattering teeth. The man reared back and the woman squealed. Carter shot her a look, and she quieted instantly.
“You hear me, Bourlein? Blink your eyes if you do,” he growled.
Bourlein blinked. He tried leaning forward, making gagging sounds.
“Swallow it,” Carter commanded. “Swallow it all, you bastard.” He rammed the gun barrel hard, feeling the high, ribbed front sight rip the roof of Bourlein’s mouth, rammed until the trigger guard rested against his fat lips, inches of cold steel gun barrel gagging him, choking him, his eyes bulging.
The woman kept making tiny mewling sounds, like those of a kitten in pain.
“Let me give you your itinerary for the next few hours, fat man. You’re going to call the desk and have them get you a car. Then you’re going to check out and you’re going to drive to São Paolo. Bolivar’s watchdogs will follow you. They won’t know what’s going on, and by the time they figure it out you and Nanny here will be on the first flight. You got that? I don’t give a shit where the flight goes, just so it’s out of the country and you’re on it. Nod if you understand.”
Bourlein didn’t move. He just stared pure hate at Carter from his beady eyes.
The Killmaster cocked the Beretta. “So long, fat man.”
The head started nodding.
Carter wiped the barrel on Bourlein’s shirt, stuck the gun back in his belt, and headed for the door, where he paused.
“If I see you at Rancho Corinto, Bourlein, I’ll kill you.”
He took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on 417. He heard the padding of bare feet and then Verna Rashkin’s sleepy voice.
“Who is it?”
“Fabian Huzel. Open up.”
The door opened and Carter slid inside. She backed away and he kicked it closed. Her hair was tousled and she wore only a sheer black nightgown, low in front, that stopped at midthigh. Under the black garment’s gauzy transparency, her smooth pink-and-whiteness gleamed and shimmered as she moved. The black material rustled around her, more like a dark mist than a cover, heightening her nakedness rather than concealing it. But in the end her flesh glowed with blinding incandescence.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
“You made a proposition a little while ago. Is it still on?”
Suddenly she was bright-eyed and alert. “It is.”
“Then you’ve got a deal,” Carter said.
“You won’t regret it. I’ll bet Bourlein’s bid as soon as we get to Rancho Corinto.”
“From Nanette?”
Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” Carter said. “I guessed. You’d never get to Bourlein. It had to be his whore.”
She shrugged. “Nanette’s tired of him, and I offered her a good retirement plan.”
“I upped your offer,” Carter said. “Bourlein won’t be bidding. It’s all ours.”