The Sunburned Corpse, page 18
“I’ll teach you, you donkey!” Garel slapped him again, this time higher on the jaw, a flat clap of mayhem that stunned Mario, sending him staggering against the wall. His big head clacked against the boards. He held up a hamlike hand to protect himself. Garel hit the hand. And when the giant dropped his guard, he found himself staring into the muzzle of the automatic, under his right eye, and jabbing deep and hard. “You can understand me, you ape,” Garel said. “Can’t you?”
“Si, si, si,” said Mario.
“Let’s hear it in English.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mario. “Un poco, señor. A little.”
“What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Here? I watch the gallery, señor.”
“For who?”
“Huchero,” said Mario. “The gallery, it is Huchero’s.”
“You’re a liar!” Garel spat the words in his face, coming close enough to ram the gun into his gut. Mario tried to slide into the wall, to bury himself in the boards. But he couldn’t quite make it. He was a picture of horrified humanity, his hands high over his head, his blood-splotched face a mask of fear and trembling. Garel said, “It’s my guess this dump belongs to Miquello. Right?”
“I do not know, señor.”
“Try to remember.” The gun probed Mario’s navel, deep into the fatty layer now. “Try hard.”
“I do not know, señor.”
Then Garel gave him the boot, suddenly. Garel operated out of a long experience in mayhem, a practiced hand at the old French art of fracturing an enemy with the knee, a quick boost in the seat of Mario’s manhood, a jolting jab that doubled up his opponent and sent him rolling on the floor muttering strange weak cries of hurt. It was a dirty blow, calculated to level an ox. It was a terrific tactic, geared to kill the spark of hope in any man. Mario squirmed and groaned in pain, completely helpless now, grabbing at the wounded section of his groin and eying his assailant with a mixture of terror and horrified respect.
“Get up,” said Garel.
“Please, señor,” Mario gasped. “Please.”
“Let’s start again. Whose gallery is it?”
“Huchero uses it. But perhaps Miquello owns it.”
“Miquello is interested in art?”
“His wife,” Mario gasped. “His wife, she paints.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Garel stepped in and slapped him. “Is Miquello interested in art?”
“Yes, yes,”
“Is that why he promotes the gallery?”
Mario nodded dumbly. Garel moved away from him and examined the side of the wall for the first time. He made faces at the paintings. He stepped back and scowled at them, finding nothing in them to interest him. Then he looked down at the picture Mario had been handling. He studied it briefly.
“How much is one of these things worth?” Garel asked.
“I am not sure.” Mario shrugged. “A hundred dollars. Perhaps two. Perhaps five hundred.”
“What were you doing with this one?”
“I take it down, señor. It is sold.”
“Who bought it?”
“I do not know. I do not remember.”
“Force yourself,” Garel shouted, and hit him again, this time with his fist, another low punch, inches above the spot where his knee had found its mark. Garel was getting angrier with each slug at his easy target. Garel simmered with rage now. He grumbled a flood of nastiness at Mario. He jerked him into position and beat at his belly with another right, grunting as he pounded the big man. He waited for the bleating, sucking sobs to quiet down. Then he tugged Mario into position and showed him the automatic. Garel placed the gun under Mario’s nose.
“You’re wasting my time,” Garel growled. “Who bought the painting, jerk?”
“A tourist, señor. A man from the boat. Señor Quirk.”
“You know him?”
“No, señor.”
“Miquello knows him?”
“Miquello could know him.”
“Where does Miquello live?”
“Santurce,” said Mario, mumbling the address. “You wish me to take you there? Please, señor. But do not hit me again.”
Mario was on his knees now, in an attitude of prayer. He grabbed Garel’s legs and would have licked the polish off his shoes. Garel kicked him away in disgust.
“Tell me about Miquello, and talk fast.” Garel leaned over him menacingly. He was in no mood for delays. A band of sweat hung on his corrugated brow. He spat his words. “His business, big boy: Tell me about his business.”
“I do not know—”
“You want the gun?” Garel waved it and moved it forward, the muzzle under Mario’s flabby mouth. “Miquello works at something down here. What’s his line?”
“Import,” said Mario. “Export.”
“What does he import?”
“Novelties. Small jewelries.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, señor.”
Garel was not satisfied. He waved the gun. He jabbed it. He began to shout. “I’m going to open your head, you big ox,” he roared. “I’m going to spill your brains out on the floor. You’re a stubborn, lying dog and you’re wasting my time again.” He kicked out at the kneeling Mario. His toe caught Mario’s jaw. The sound was a sickening flat clop of leather against bone. The impact of the shock sent Mario over and back against the wall, screaming his pain. He continued to scream and shout, blubbering hysterically. Garel, however, was not quite finished with him, Garel kneeled over the stricken giant, bellowing a flood of profanity at him. Mario lay on his side, holding his fractured jaw, his eyes glazed now, his oily face working in paroxysms of uncontrolled twitching. Garel grabbed him by the hair and slapped his head down against the floor. “I want the truth, gismo,” Garel roared. “I know plenty about Miquello. He’s a pusher down here, isn’t he? He sells dope, doesn’t he? He’s been selling it for a long time.”
“Si, si,” mumbled Mario.
“Where does he get it?”
“Italy.”
“When did he start?”
“A few years, señor. Three.”
“Who feeds him from Italy?” Garel asked. “Forragi?”
“That sounds like the name, señor.”
“And Miquello got rich on the deal? Pushing dope?”
Mario nodded. “Rich, yes.”
Garel ended the interview in his own way. He stood back and measured Mario. Then he kicked him again, in the same place, on the tip of his bleeding jaw. Mario was finished this time. His tremendous body sagged under the blow and began to fall, slowly, but completely out of control now. He rolled over and was still. Garel put his gun away and rubbed his hands in a handkerchief.
Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the gallery. I locked the front door and examined the big boy. He would be asleep and dreaming for a long time to come. His face had been mangled beyond recognition. His bloody chin was already swollen into a great lump. It was an effort to bend over him, to search his jacket for the bright object he had stuffed away a little while ago. I found it, or what was left of it. I plucked it out of his pocket and held it up under the soft light. It was a pair of spectacles, the glasses cracked because of the impact of Mario’s weight as he rolled on them. They were ancient specs, of the gold-rimmed variety, sported by an older generation. I stood there, letting memory play games with me. Out of the recent past, I had seen these spectacles before. Against the wall, the big painting leaned where Mario had set it down. And suddenly, letting my eyes trace the intricacies of the abstract pattern on the canvas, the whole incident of Huchero’s lost glasses came back to me. I put the glasses away, now fascinated by the whole atmosphere of the scene around me. On the floor, Mario snored, lost in a sleep from which he would not emerge until his ruined body rallied under surgical care. Something about his pose, the mad attitude in which he lay, seemed to suit the background for his great body. He was asleep against a wall of color. Huchero had painted a stage set for the scene, a dozen imaginative interpretations of blood and sun in Puerto Rico. I stood away from the group of paintings, letting them talk to me. I backtracked over my old knowledge of this artist’s work. Why were these pictures so different? What made them boil so? What made them sing in too loud a symphony of color?
Then, suddenly, I knew.
These paintings were imitations!
CHAPTER 22
Santurce, the modern suburb of old San Juan, nestles in a tropical setting, but sparkles and shimmers with the brightness of any American suburb. The houses are new and in good taste, set on grassy lawns and open to the benign climate. They range in architectural design from the classic to the extreme avant-garde mode of the north, flat-roofed and terraced and making use of much glass for perpetual sunlight. The streets at this dark hour lay stark and bare. No lights glowed in the sleeping windows. No residents stirred. From somewhere in a lost stretch of beach, the hissing waves rolled against stones, grumbling and sighing and then grumbling again. I got out of the cab a block away from Miquello’s. I retained the cabby with another five bucks. It could be that I’d need him soon.
Miquello’s mansion sat apart from the less imposing houses on a dead-end, elevated by its position on a man-made grassy knoll, plus a variety of thick and abundant foliage that almost screened the sleek lines of the house from the avenue. I circled the place, stepping through a wire barrier at the street end, a path that led to the sand and the shore. To the right, against the wall of dark foliage, the big low house squatted like a giant animal, asleep in a private den and greenery. Close to a broad terrace, a line of beach chairs and lounges lay in casual disarray. Two tiny cabanas snuggled in the row of palms. Here, in big black letters, a sign warned me away:
PRIVATE BEACH PROPERTY
Trespassers will be punished!
The semantics of the sign made me pause. The lettering spelled out a warning, both in English and Spanish. Pass beyond this point and get your pants shot off! I slowed and examined the area behind the beach house, looking for a wandering watchman. There was a narrow winding path between the cabanas and the main house, a thin line of white pebbles that led me to the rim of the terrace. Beyond, the great house slumbered, a gray ghost in the night. I skirted the bushes on the west side of the place and found myself on the elevated lawn, a grassy knoll that allowed a full view of the interior of the house, through the biggest picture window. Inside, from some hidden corner, a thin haze of light brought the odd pieces of furniture into focus. Deep beyond the living room, on the other side, a light burned. I backtracked through the low foliage to find the source of the glow.
On the street side another broad terrace ran the full length of the place, punctuated by more picture windows. I climbed to the terrace and looked inside. Now the light came from the right, in the immediate area of the entrance hall, through a half-opened door. There was another wing on that side of the house. A studio? The entire wall was a window, facing the north. But the heavy drapes completely screened the light. I moved across the terrace again and tried the front door. It was locked. I ran under the trees and around the side toward the north end of the studio. There was a small, square stairway leading up to a balcony that jutted over the sand. Here the light came through with a shock of brilliance, a sharp sheen that lit the greenery below. I went up the stairs and paused on the landing. This door lay open to the feeble wind.
Nancy Scott was inside.
She sat at a small easel, staring at a painting before her. She leaned restlessly, her slender hands knotted and working nervously. Against the background of the stark white walls, she was a symphony of blonde beauty. She wore a beach robe of the short variety, a colorful creation of reds and yellows that made her sallow, bloodless face seem paler still. The studio was a white-walled box, designed to pluck the sunlight from the outer landscape and imprison it here for the artist’s use. But now, in the early morning blackness, the white walls seemed out of key, a brightly lit stage set, or a storefront or an outdoor display, too stark for coziness, too bare for warmth. On the plaster walls, a series of pictures hung, startling abstractions all of them. The paint screamed and challenged the observer’s eye. These were bold and frightened works of art, the revealing explorations of a disturbed mind. From where I stood, the initialed signatures stood out boldly, N.M., in the lower right-hand corner of each canvas.
Nancy was on her feet now. She was alive with a fretful restlessness, the paintbrush in her hand shivering under the impact of her upset. She dropped the brush and stepped back to observe her picture. She hesitated and screwed up her pretty face at it. She didn’t like it. She crossed the room and sat on a tufted sofa, staring moodily at the walls. But she could not rest for long. Something moved her in a pattern of erratic motion, a nervousness that would not let her rest. Panic? She no longer found the studio comfortable. Her body reflected an inner disturbance, a great and overpowering upset. She stirred and sighed and licked her lips. Where had I seen these gestures before? A quick ripple of memory took me back to the boat, to the frantic moments with Jane Yorke, in my cabin. Was Nancy suffering the same type of mania?
As if in answer to my question, she moved back to the far wall and doused the lights, all but the small working globe over her easel. When she started for the door to the main house, I skipped in and followed her.
She led me through the great living room and through a corridor leading to the sleeping quarters. Down the hall, I saw a bedroom light go on. Then she was half running beyond it, into one of the marble palaces used for bathrooms in the mansion. She came out with a small box, pausing to fumble with the lid and then dropping the affair. When she stooped, her fingers were out of whack and trembling. It took time for her to lift the box off the mat. Time enough for me to see what had fallen out.
I stepped up to her and grabbed the box. Nancy fell back and uttered a small, weak scream of surprise. But she had no time for further hysterics. She was too much concerned with what I had in my hands. She wanted the box. But badly.
I said, “How long has this been going on, Nancy?”
“Please,” she sobbed. “I must have it. I must.”
“Let’s talk about it.”
“The box,” she sobbed, her face twisted with torment. She reached for my hands and made a few desperate stabs at the box. I caught her fingers and held on. The robe was loose in the sleeves and easy to tug up. Along the forearms, the pin-pricks dotted her fair skin. She was a Main Liner, and old-time addict. She struggled and squirmed against the pressure of my hands.
“Why did you come here?” she cried. “What do you want?”
“Who feeds you the stuff?”
“I buy it. In San Juan.”
“Where in San Juan?”
“A man I know,” she wailed. The tears were real. Her face worked itself into a mask of frustration and frenzy. “The box,” she sobbed. “Please give me the box.” The robe had fallen away, the sash around her waist loose and free. Underneath, she was as naked as a nymph. And twice as restless. She moved close to me and showed me the depth of her blue eyes, the empty hopeless mania that would not rest until she felt the sting of the needle. She was tugging me back into the bedroom, into the gloom and the grayness beyond. “I’ll tell you what I know. But later. I must have that box, do you hear?”
“First, the name of the pusher.”
“The pusher?”
“The peddler, the salesman, the pimp who feeds you the dope.”
“I don’t know it.”
“You’re lying,” I said. I jammed the box into my pocket and pulled away from her. She came after me, on her knees, clutching my legs and wailing. “I haven’t got time for lies, Nancy. It’s too late.”
“The box,” she sobbed. “I’ll talk afterwards.”
“Now.”
“I’ll have to hurt you.”
She had fallen away from me and scrambled to the night table. She had crawled quickly. When I turned to face her, she was holding a gun, a tiny automatic. She didn’t like the feel of it. Against the dull light from the john, she was a rapturous picture, a naked huntress. Her lips twitched with anxiety, her hand trembled on the gun. She didn’t want to use it. But she used it.
The shot was wild and high. I dove for her and she fell back under my assault, against the bed and on the tufted coverlet. She tried for another shot at me, squirming under me, kicking and flailing and clawing at me with her free hand. The fight was one-sided. I couldn’t hit her. I didn’t want to hurt her. And the feel of her silken skin under me slowed me and staggered me, her ripe breasts against me, her smooth, sensuous figure working to stagger me. She had a body built for milder sports. I managed to keep my distance, still groping for the gun in her right hand. Then I had it and it was falling away, off the bed and on the floor. She shrieked and sobbed, hysterical now. She bit and clawed. She held me close to her, employing another tactic now, her mouth upturned, her arms tight around my neck, the stabbing nails digging into me. “Please,” she sobbed. “Please, the box. I’ll do anything, anything you say. But I must have it.” She bit my neck and I felt the warm, moist catlick of her tongue. Her legs were struggling to hold me, to slow me, to weaken me. “Anything,” she whispered, biting me again. “Anything you say.”
I rolled away from her, anxious to change the rules of our little game. She came after me, but her wild stab at me failed, her frantic clawing and rubbing no longer effective. I was off the bed. In the thin light from the bathroom, she was a throbbing, squirming, writhing bundle of frustrated passion. She was completely beaten, now.
I caught at her flailing arms.
“The pusher,” I said. “Who is he?”
“Rafael.”
“He’s had you on narcotics since you left New York?”
“Even before that.”
“He started Jane Yorke, too?”
