Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [45]
Garth laughed. The bastard wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she came around and tried to serve it to him on a platter, but he had to louse things up for Garth.
Well, he’d know better next time.
Garth smiled. He was still smiling when he found Fenton by the dead campfire. Fenton didn’t return the smile.
“Say,” he said deceptively, “I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Private stuff,” Garth told him. “And listen—I’m sorry I belted you the other day. I lost my head. I got all hot over the broad and I couldn’t think about nothing else.”
“Oh,” Fenton said. “Well, it’s all right.”
“No hard feelings?”
“None.”
“Shake on it?”
Fenton seemed to hesitate, then accepted the huge hand offered to him. They shook hands solemnly.
“Now,” Garth went on innocently, “let’s talk. I got things you oughta know about.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s private, Earl. C’mon—let’s head over into the brush a ways. These spics are all the time listening.”
Fenton shrugged, stood up. He was holding the Sten gun in one hand. Garth led him away from the camp, into the brush far from the road. Garth wanted to laugh—it was getting cute now. You could take these complicated guys like Fenton and you could twist them up six ways and backwards. The simple things were best, damn it.
“What’s it all about, Garth?”
“Oh, it’s interesting,” Garth said, stalling. “About this Castro bird. The one we hit in the head tomorrow.”
“You mean today. Any minute, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah,” Garth said. “Well, whenever the hell it is. It’ll be a gas telling them about it on Bleecker Street, you know? Can you see it?”
“Is that all you wanted?”
“Not exactly. Lemme have your gun a minute, Earl.”
Fenton handed him the gun. “Why do you want it?”
“I don’t want it,” Garth said, tossing the Sten gun into a clump of bushes. “I just don’t want you to have it, Earl, honey. Because I’m going to beat the crap out of you, Earl.”
“I don’t—”
That was all he said. Garth drove a fist to the pit of his stomach, doubling him over. Then a right uppercut straightened him out again, and a left cross to the chest put him on the ground. He lay there looking as though he had been hit by a truck.
“You fell for it,” Garth said. “No hard feelings? I got plenty of feelings, you son-of-a-bitch!”
He hauled Fenton up, smashed him full in the face. Fenton’s nose was bleeding now. He hit him, smashed his lips, felt teeth give way. This time he let him fall to the ground. He kicked him hard, felt ribs crack and kicked him again. The man on the ground looked lifeless, inert, but Garth knew he wasn’t dead. Matt Garth was a pro, damnit. He could beat the hell out of a guy and not kill him. He knew his business.
He whirled at a sound. Maria had followed them; she stood in the clearing now, gun in hand, her eyes on Fenton. The eyes moved to Garth and stared with hatred. But Garth ignored the gun. Beating Fenton had excited him; he always got excited after a muscle job, always needed a woman as soon as possible. And here was a woman—to hell with the gun in her hand.
He rushed her. There was a moment when she could have shot him, but she hadn’t expected his move and the chance was lost. His whole body slammed into her, knocking the gun from her grasp, tumbling her to the ground. He fell on her, and although she fought him she didn’t have a chance. He had her where he wanted her.
Fenton wasn’t going to stop him now, not this time. Nobody was going to stumble on them. This time, goddamn it, he was going to lay her silly.
He ripped off her clothes, stripping her naked, and struck her savagely in the face or stomach or naked breasts every time she tried to resist him. Then he fumbled momentarily with his own clothing, struck her again, forced her legs apart, went for her. She had given up, knowing resistance was useless, resigned to the inevitable.
He plunged deep into the soft warmth of her. She struggled anew, briefly.
And then, finally, it was over.
He got slowly to his feet. “You’re hot stuff,” he told Maria. “We’ll have to