I caught a plane to Santa Barba the following morning.
CHAPTER FIVE
I
The fat woman at the hotel opposite the Pacific & Union Bank recognised me as I walked up to the reception desk.
She gave me her dismal smile of welcome, saying, ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Masters. If you want your old room, it’s free.’
I said I wanted it, passed a remark about the weather, added casually that I had a lot of work to do and wouldn’t be leaving my room all day during my three-day stay, and then humped my bag up to the room.
The time was twenty minutes past one. I had brought a pack of sandwiches with me and a half bottle of Scotch, and I settled down at the window.
This seemed the bank’s busiest time. Several people went in and out, but I didn’t see Rima. I knew I was gambling on a long chance. It might be that she only came to the bank once a week or even once a month, but there was just no other way I could think of to get at her.
When the bank closed, still without my seeing Rima, I went down to the lobby and put through a long distance call to Zimmerman’s sanatorium. I gave the receptionist there the telephone number of the hotel. I told her as I was almost certain to be out most of the time would she ask for Mr. Masters, who was a friend of mine, and who would pass on any message.
She said she would and then went on to say Sarita was still gaining strength although she was still unconscious.
It was a cold, blustery evening with a hint of rain in the air. I put on my raincoat, turned up the collar, pulled my hat down over my face and went out onto the streets.
I knew this was a risky thing to do, but the thought of spending the rest of the evening in this depressing hotel was more than my taut nerves could stand.
I hadn’t gone far before it began to rain. I went into a movie house and sat through a dreary, fourth rate Western before returning to the hotel for dinner. I then went up to bed.
The next day followed exactly the same pattern. I spent all day at the window, not seeing Rima; the evening in a movie house.
That night, when I returned to the hotel, I felt a prick of panic. Was the trip going to fail? Time was moving on. I now had only eleven more days to find her, and these days could easily be the same as the previous days.
Although I went to bed, I found it impossible to sleep, and around twenty to one in the morning, unable to lie any longer in this box of a room, I got up, dressed and went down into the dimly lit lobby.
The old negro night watchman blinked sleepily at me when I told him I was going for a walk in the rain.
Grumbling under his breath, he unlocked the door and let me out.
There were a few cafe bars still open, and one or two dance halls, their red and blue neon lights making patterns on the sidewalk.
Young couples moved along in their plastic slickers, arm in arm, oblivious of the rain. A solitary cop balanced himself on the edge of the kerb, resting his aching feet.
I walked down to the sea, my hands thrust deep into the pockets of my raincoat, feeling a slight relaxing of my nerves in the chilly wind and rain.
I came upon one of the many sea food restaurants, built on piles over the sea. There was a long line of parked cars outside, and I could hear the strains of dance music. I paused to look down the long walk-in that led to swing doors and into the restaurant.
I was about to move on when a big man came out of the restaurant and ran down the wooden pier towards me, his head bent against the rain.
As he passed under one of the overhead lamps I recognised the cream sports coat and the bottle green slacks.
It was Rima’s boy friend!
If it hadn’t been raining and if he hadn’t been running with his head down, he must have seen me and possibly recognised me.
I turned quickly so my back was to him, took out a pack of cigarettes and went through the motions of pretending to get a light in the wind.
Then I half turned to watch him.
He was leaning into a Pontiac convertible, groping in the glove compartment.
I could hear him swearing under his breath. He found what he was looking for, swung round and ran back down the pier and into the restaurant.
I stood looking after him. Then I walked casually over to the Pontiac and looked it over. It was a 1957
job, and not in too good condition. I glanced to right and left. There was no one in sight. Quickly, I picked hold of the licence tag on the steering wheel and flicked my cigarette lighter alight. I read the neatly printed name and address:
Ed Vasari
The Bungalow
East Shore, Santa Barba.
I moved away from the car, then crossing over to a cafe opposite the restaurant, I pushed open the door and stepped in. There were only four teenagers sitting over cokes at one end of the room. I took a table by the window where I could see the Pontiac and sat down.
A tired looking waitress sauntered over and I ordered a coffee.
Was Rima with this man? Was she living with him at this address?
I sat there smoking and stirring my coffee, my eyes never off the Pontiac across the way. The rain increased and spattered against the window.
The four teenagers ordered another round of cokes. One of them, a blonde with a pert, knowing expression, wearing skin tight jeans and a sweater that showed off her immature childish shape, came over to where I was sitting and fed coins into the juke box.
The Platters began their soft moaning, and the teenagers joined in.
Then I saw them.
They came running out of the restaurant. Vasari was holding an umbrella over Rima. They dived into the Pontiac and drove off. If I hadn’t been watching closely I would have missed them. They had come and gone so quickly.
Without drinking the coffee, I paid the waitress and walked out into the wet and the dark.
I was coldly excited and determined not to waste any time.
I walked fast to an all-night garage I had spotted on my way from the hotel. I went in there, and after a brief talk with one of the staff, I hired a Studebaker, paid the deposit, and while he was filling the car with gas I asked him casually where East Shore was.
‘Turn right and keep going, following the sea,’ he told me. ‘It’s about three miles from here.’
I thanked him, then getting into the car, I drove out into the rain.
East Shore turned out to be a mile-long strip of beach with about thirty or forty wooden cabins dotted along the road.
