back of his neck.
He had walked not quite a block when a hand dropped on his shoulder from behind. He spun around and was surprised to see the salesman from the jewelry store. The man pushed a folded piece of paper into Chris's hand.
'Here you will find what you are looking for,' he said. 'I cannot say more.' With a nervous glance at the people passing them on the sidewalk, the man turned and hurried back toward the store.
Chris unfolded the paper and read: Tulio Santos, 48 Calle Verde. The man from the store was out of sight when he looked up.
The thought came to him at once that it might be some kind of trap. People were acting much too strangely today. And yet, what else did he have? Time was passing, and tonight was the full moon.
He hailed a passing taxi, this one a red Ford, somewhat newer than Luis Zarate's Plymouth. He showed the handwritten note to the driver.
'Calle Verde? You sure you wan' to go there, man?'
'Why not?'
'It's a bad street for tourists. It's a bad street for anybody.'
'I'll take my chances,' Chris said, getting in. 'Let's go.'
26
THE STREET CALLED Calle Verde was still another side of Mazatlan. It bore no resemblance to the moneyed boulevard that curved along the shore, nor the gaudy tourist streets just inland, Calle Verde was a narrow, grubby passage, between rows of weatherstained buildings which gave no evidence of life within. The few people visible on the street moved furtively, as though they expected to be stopped and searched at any moment. A quarter of a mile away was the blighted section called La Ratonera. Some of its human refuse spilled over into Calle Verde.
The cab driver pulled to a stop. 'This is it, man, if you still want it.'
'Where?' Chris said. 'I don't see any numbers.'
'There.' The driver pointed to a scabrous wooden building with a blind doorway, where a hollow-cheeked little boy sat playing with a piece of string.
Chris got out of the cab and paid the driver. The child watched him, his young eyes already narrow with suspicion. Chris stepped past the silent boy and pushed through the door into a dark, musty room that looked like the overflow from a junkyard. There was a long workbench along one wall. Both the bench and the floor were littered with blackened pots and pans, dented kettles, tarnished, mismatched pieces of silverware, tools, nails, bits of wire, and odd chunks of metal.
'Anybody here?' Chris called.
After a minute a bald, monkey-faced man appeared from somewhere in the rear.
'Tulio Santos?'
'Si.'
'Habla usted ingles?'
'No.'
Chris switched to his laborious high-school Spanish. 'Quiero comprar un cuchillo. Un cuchillo de plata.'
The bald-headed man came closer and peered into Chris's face. 'A knife of silver,' he repeated, speaking Spanish very slowly for the benefit of the gringo.
'Yes.'
'For what?'
'That is of no matter. I will pay your price.'
Santos pursed his lips; that made him look more than ever like a monkey. 'Ah. Well. A knife of silver. A moment.' He vanished again into the gloom at the back of the big room. In a little while he came back carrying a tiny, flat butter knife. He displayed it proudly for Chris. 'Here. A knife of silver.'
'No, no,' Chris said impatiently. 'A knife.' He looked around for something to draw on. He found a crumpled sheet of brown wrapping paper and smoothed it out on the work bench. With his ballpoint pen he sketched the outline of a long, vicious knife with an upturned, Bowie-type blade. Then gripping the end of his pen like the hilt of a dagger, he made stabbing motions in the air. 'A knife,' he said again. 'Like this. You understand?'
Santos watched him slice the air with his pen, then studied the drawing for a long minute. At last he looked up and shook his head. 'I have nothing like this. Not of silver.'
'Can you make one?'
Another long study of the drawing, with much frowning and many shakes of the bald head. 'Perhaps. But it will be very dear.'
'I will pay your price,' Chris said. He opened his wallet to show the bills inside. 'Make the knife.'
Santos looked up from the wallet to Chris's face. He nodded slowly, then turned and walked to a pile of debris in one corner of the room. He began digging through the accumulated junk.
Chris watched the second hand sweep around the face of his watch, and willed the man to hurry. After five minutes Santos gave a cry of discovery. With his sleeve he rubbed the dirt off his find and held it up to show Chris. It was an ornate, badly tarnished silver tea tray.
'La plata,' said Santos proudly.
'No, no,' said Chris, thinking he still had not made himself understood. 'I want a knife.' Again he went through the stabbing pantomime. 'A knife.'
Santos bobbed his head up and down. 'Yes, I comprehend. A knife.' With a blackened forefinger he outlined on the tray the shape of the blade Chris had drawn.'
'You will make a knife from the tray?'
'Yes, yes.' Santos grinned happily for a moment, then his smile faded. 'It will not be a good knife. The silver is too soft for a blade. It will not cut.'
'It is of no matter,' said Chris. 'Make the knife.'
Santos cleared a space on the workbench and set the silver tray on it. He shuffled about the room, gathering up his tools. To Chris's eyes the man moved with agonizing slowness.
The soft knock on the door of Cabana Number 7 surprised Audrey. She had not expected Chris back until later in the afternoon. She had intended to be freshly bathed and perfumed and dressed in her most flattering clothes. She wanted him to be acutely aware of what a beautiful young woman he was treating so shabbily. But here she was still in her robe, and without her hair fully brushed out. Luckily, she had at least recovered from the hangover. Audrey belted the robe, smoothed it over her breasts and hips, and opened the door.
It was not Chris who stood outside. It was instead a tall, lithe woman with intense green eyes and shoulder- length black hair shot with a streak of silver.
'Hello, Audrey,' said Marcia Lura.
Audrey stared. She felt held in place by the woman's gaze. 'Do I know you?'
'No, but we have acquaintances in common.'
'Who?'
'Chris Halloran, for one. For another, the woman now calling herself Karyn Richter.'
Audrey curled her lip. 'Oh, that one.'
'I do not like her any more than you,' Marcia said.
'Uh, come in,' Audrey said uncertainly. 'I was just about to get dressed.'
Marcia stepped into the room and eased the door shut behind her. She glanced around without interest, then turned her luminiscent green eyes on Audrey once more. 'Would you like to have Karyn Richter out of your life for good? And out of Chris Halloran's life?'
'Well — sure, I guess so.'
'I can help you.'
'Why? Why would you help me?'
'It is for myself too. I have an old score to settle with that woman.'
