Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [32]
She was around now, he knew. She was over by the shore, scrubbing down pots and plates, oiling guns, making herself useful. And Fenton was around too, for all the goddamned good he was. Fenton, the punk, wasn’t doing him a hell of a lot of good. Fenton could speak English, all right, but Fenton still didn’t talk to him. He just sat around doing nothing all the time, maybe smoking a little, maybe talking to Manuel, the only spic who could speak English. Fenton talked to Manuel more than he talked to Garth, and Manuel never talked to Garth, and Garth couldn’t take it. He didn’t have leprosy, for God’s sake.
His mind started to work. Fenton was sitting by himself, doing nothing. And Maria was there, too. But if Fenton wasn’t around, if Fenton wanted to take a walk somewhere, then he would be alone with Maria. She was a tough bitch, tough as nails, but he was a man and he was sure one hell of a lot stronger than she was. So what if she screamed? Nobody would hear her. And what could she do later? Not a hell of a lot, because they needed him for the big play against Castro.
He thought it over for a minute or two. But thinking was a waste of time, thinking only gave him a headache. You could think all day long, the way Fenton did, and what the hell did it get you? Nothing, nothing at all. Thinking was not Garth’s kick. He wanted to do something instead. Something that would get that broad on her back with her knees pointing at the sun. He knew her type, too. All she needed was a man to show her who was boss and then she’d come down off her high horse in no time at all. She needed a man, one who could take charge, and once he showed her what it was all about she wouldn’t be cold-shouldering him any more. Hell, by the time he was done with her he’d be beating her off with a club. She’d be after him all the time, he decided.
All he had to do was take her the first time.
So. He stood up, ambled over to Fenton. Fenton was reading a paperback novel, his eyes on the page, a cigarette burning itself to ashes between two of his fingers. Garth cleared his throat and Fenton looked up, his eyes asking a question.
“I was thinking,” Garth said. “I was thinking it’s a nice day and you maybe should take a walk.”
“You want to go someplace?”
“Not me,” Garth said. “You.”
Fenton said nothing.
“Just a little walk,” Garth went on innocently. “A little walk, maybe scout around or something. You wouldn’t have to be gone long. Ten, maybe fifteen, even twenty minutes. No more.”
“Why?”
Garth shrugged.
Then Fenton got it. “You’re making a mistake,” he told him, “A big mistake.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. The girl doesn’t want you. If you force her we’ll all have trouble. Why can’t you leave her alone?”
“That’s my business, Fenton.”
“It’s mine as well. You’ll get twenty thousand dollars, Garth. You can have all the women in the world with that much money. Can’t you leave this one alone until then?”
“What’s the matter? Got the hots for her yourself?”
“No.”
“I bet that’s it,” Garth said. “Why, you little dried-up old fart! You want the broad yourself, don’t you?”
“No. Leave her alone, Garth. You’ll ruin everything. You’ll—”
But Garth didn’t hear any more of it, mainly because that was all Fenton had a chance to say. Garth’s mind worked simply but efficiently. He had managed to dope out the fact that Fenton wasn’t going to go for a walk, and that if Fenton stayed around he would only make trouble. So Garth did the simplest thing possible under that set of circumstances. He hit Fenton once, on the side of the head.
Once was enough. The blow was a measured chop, hard enough to knock a man out, hard enough to keep him out for ten or fifteen minutes. Which would be plenty of time.
Time for the broad.
He found her at the edge of the stream, sitting cross-legged in the shade of a huge matto grosso palm, dressed as always in the army field jacket