The Golden Gizmo Read online

  A dark, neatly dressed man was staring down at him thoughtfully, slapping a hypodermic needle against the palm of his hand. Also gazing down at him, her dark eyes anxious, was the girl Dolores.

  “It’s all right, Toddy.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

  Toddy stared at her, unwinking, remembrance returning; then, swung his eyes toward the man with the needle.

  “You a doctor?”

  “Yes, Señor.”

  “What’s going on here? What happened?”

  “I have given you an injection of nicotinic acid. To strengthen the heart. Lie still for another half hour, and keep in place the ice pack. You will be all right.”

  “I asked you what happened?”

  The doctor smiled faintly, shrugged, and spoke rapidly in Spanish to Dolores. Toddy’s eyes drooped shut for a moment, and when he reopened them he was alone with Dolores.

  “Well?” he said. “Well…?”

  “You should not talk, Toddy.” She sat down on a chair at the bedside, and laid a hand on his forehead. “There is little I can explain, and—”

  Toddy rolled his head from beneath her hand. “That guy tried to kill me?”

  “To knock you unconscious. You were to be disposed of later…at night.”

  “Why?”

  “I cannot tell you. There is much I do not understand.”

  “You know, all right. Why did Alvarado want me killed?”

  “Alvarado did not want you killed.”

  “No? Then why—”

  “If he had,” said the girl, “you would be dead.”

  Toddy frowned, then grunted as a stab of pain shot through his head. “Yeah,” he said. “But—”

  “Try not to think for a few minutes. Rest, and I will make you some coffee, and then, if you feel able, we can leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “Rest,” said Dolores firmly.

  Toddy rested, more willingly than he pretended to. It was almost reluctantly that, some fifteen or twenty minutes later, he sat up to accept the coffee Dolores prepared. She gave him a lighted cigarette, and he puffed and drank alternately. His head still throbbed with pain, but he felt alert again.

  “So,” he said, setting down the cup, “Alvarado doesn’t want me dead?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “He knew this was going to happen?”

  “I think—I think he must have.”

  “What did he stand to gain by it?”

  “I cannot say. I mean, I don’t know.”

  “No?”

  “No!” snapped the girl; but her voice immediately became soft again. “Believe me, Toddy, I don’t know. But you will soon find out. Alvarado himself will tell you.”

  “Alvarado will!” Toddy started. “What do you mean?”

  “That is why I am here, to take you to him. He is in San Diego.”

  Toddy fumbled for and found his cigarettes. He lighted one, staring at Dolores over the flame of the match. He didn’t know whether to laugh or bop her. How stupid, he wondered, did they think he was?

  “What’s Alvarado doing in San Diego?”

  “Again, I do not know.”

  “But after this pasting I got, I’m still supposed to see him?”

  “So I told you.”

  “What if I refuse to go with you? What happens, then?”

  “What happens?” The girl shrugged, tiredly. “Nothing happens. You are free to go your own way. You may leave here now, if you feel able.”

  Toddy shook his head, incredulously. “You say that like you mean it.”

  “I do. You will not be harmed.…Of course,” she added, “your situation will not be exactly pleasant. You have little money. You are a fugitive. You are in a foreign country.…”

  “But I’m alive.”

  “There is no use,” said Dolores, “in arguing. I was not ordered to persuade you, only to ask you.”

  She stood up, walked to the battered dresser, and picked up a flowered scarf. Draping it over her black hair, she knotted it under her chin and took a step toward the areaway.

  “Good-bye, Toddy Kent.”

  “Now, wait a minute.…”

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” said Toddy. “I just—Oh, hell!” He wobbled a little as he lurched to his feet, and she moved swiftly to him. He caught her by the shoulders, his hands sinking into the soft flesh with unconscious firmness.

  “Look—” He hesitated. “Give me the lowdown. What had I better do?”

  “I am here to take you to Alvarado.”

  “But should I—?”

  “Suppose I said no; that you should remain in Mexico.”

  “Are you telling me that?”

  “Suppose I did so advise you,” Dolores continued, looking at him steadily, “and you decided to do the opposite—and repeated my advice to Alvarado?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You have no reason to trust me. In fact, you have made it very plain that you do not trust me. Why shouldn’t you tell Alvarado? Particularly, if it appeared that by doing so you would help yourself?”

  Toddy reddened uncomfortably and released his grip. The girl stepped away from him.

  “I guess,” he said, “I can’t blame you for thinking that.”

  “No.”

  “But you’re wrong. If I’d wanted to get you in trouble, I could have told Alvarado about—well—”

  “—my warning to you last night? Perhaps you did, after you left the house.”

  Toddy gave up. She was dead right about one thing. He didn’t trust her, even though something had impelled him to for a minute. Perhaps she didn’t know what Alvarado wanted. Or perhaps she did. He’d never take her word for it, regardless of the situation. Whatever she advised him to do, he’d be inclined to do the opposite.

  “Where’s my coat?” he said shortly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You are going with me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a drink will help me to make up my mind.”

  …They went out the same way Toddy had come in, squeezing past the crowded racks of trinkets and curios. The little man who had slugged Toddy was nowhere in view. The fat woman was still seated near the doorway on her campstool.

  “Nice bo’l of perfume for lady?” she beamed. “Nice wallet for gen’leman?”

  Toddy started to scowl, but something about her expression of bland good-natured innocence made his lips tug upward. He gave her a cynical wink, and followed Dolores out the door.

  It seemed like days had passed since he had arrived in Tijuana that morning, but the clock in the bar indicated the hour as five minutes of two. Seated in a rear booth, Toddy drank a double tequila sunrise and ordered another. He took a sip of it and looked across the table at the girl.

  “Well,” he said. “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not going with you. I’ll lay low here for a few days. Then I’ll beat it back across the border and—” Toddy broke off abruptly, and again raised his glass. Over its rim, he saw the faint gleam of amusement in Dolores’ eyes.

  “On second thought,” she said, “you will head south into Mexico. That is right?”

  “Maybe,” said Toddy. “Maybe not.”

  “I understand. It is best to keep your plans to yourself. Now, I must be going.”

  She slid toward the edge of the booth, hesitated as though on the point of saying something, then stood up. Toddy got up awkwardly, also. On an impulse, as her lips framed a mechanical good-bye, he held out his hand.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I don’t know where you fit into this deal, but I think you’re playing it as square as you can.”

  “Thank you.” She did not touch his hand. “And I think you also are as—as square—as you can be. Now I would like to tell you something. Something for your own good.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Wash your face. It is dirty.”

  She was gone, then,
her body very erect, her high heels clicking uncompromisingly across the wooden floor. Toddy stared after her until he saw the bartender watching him. Then he shook his head vaguely, ran a hand over his jaw, and headed for the men’s restroom.

  It was at the rear end of the room, a partitioned-off enclosure inadequately ventilated by a small high window opening on the alley; a typical Tijuana bar “gents’ room.” There was a long yellowish urinal, and two cabinet toilets, flushed by old-fashioned water chambers placed near the ceiling. Adjacent to the two chipped-enamel sinks was a wooden table, supporting a sparse assortment of toilet articles and an elaborate display of pornographic booklets, postal cards, prophylactics and “rubber goods.”

  “Yessir, mister”—the young Mexican attendant came briskly to attention—“you in right place, mister. We got just what you—”

  “What I want,” said Toddy, “is some soap.” And he helped himself from the table.

  He turned on both water taps, scrubbed his hands, then lathered them again and scoured vigorously at his face. He rinsed off the soap and doused his head. Eyes squinted, he turned away from the sink and accepted the towel that was thrust into his hands.

  “Thanks, pal.” He dried his face and opened his eyes. “Don’t mention it,” burbled Shake.

  “And keep your hands out o’ your pockets,” gritted Donald.

  19

  Toddy did not need the last bit of advice. One swift glance at the hideously scratched mugs of the pair told him they would kill him on the slightest pretext. Kill him and worry about the outcome later. Fury had made them brave.

  Shake was holding a blackjack—upswung, ready to strike. Donald had the Mexican attendant backed against the wall, the point of his knife pressing against his throat. The door of the restroom was barred.

  “Just don’t try nothin’,” murmured Shake. “Jus’ don’t try nothin’ at all. You get past us, which you ain’t goin’ to do, I got two of my pachucos outside.”

  “Someone’ll be coming back here.” Toddy’s voice sounded strange in his ears. “You can’t keep that door barred.”

  “I c’n keep it barred long enough. Turn around.”

  “You tailed me down here?”

  “What does it look like? Turn around!”

  The blackjack came down sickeningly on Toddy’s shoulder. He turned.

  Shake slapped his pockets expertly, located his wallet, and extricated it with a satisfied grunt. There was a moment’s silence, another grunt, and another command to “Turn around.”

  Toddy turned.

  “What you doin’ here?” Shake demanded. “What’s the deal?”

  “Deal?”

  Donald ripped out a curse. “Let him have it, Shake. We can’t wait here all day.”

  “No one’s tryin’ to bust in,” Shake pointed out, his eyes fixed on Toddy. “I asked you what the deal was?”

  Toddy licked his lips, wordlessly. Helplessly. The blackjack began to descend.

  “Wait!” It was the Mexican attendant. “I will tell you, Señores!” His teeth gleamed at Toddy in a warm, placating smile, a grin of apology. “I am sorry, Señor, but it is best to tell them. These gentlemen mean business.”

  Donald nodded venomously. “You ain’t just woofin’, hombre. Spill it!”

  “But you must know, gentlemen. What else would it be but—but—”

  “But what?”

  “White stuff,” said Toddy, taking the Mexican off the limb. “As my friend says, what else could it be?”

  Donald sneered. Shake gave Toddy a look of mock sanctimoniousness. “I might of knowed it,” he said. “A man that’ll murder his own sweet little wife an’ play mean tricks on people that trust him won’t stop at nothin’. Dope, tsk, tsk. You smugglin’ it across the border?”

  “Not at all,” said Toddy. “I use it to powder my nose.”

  He fell back from the blow of the blackjack, and Shake advanced on him. “Okay,” he wheezed. “Be smart. Be good an’ smart. It’s gonna cost you enough. Where you got the stuff hid?”

  “I”—Toddy’s eyes flicked around the room, settled momentarily on one of the elevated water chambers, and moved back to Shake—“I’ve got it cached out in the country a few miles.”

  “The hell you have—” Donald began. But Shake interrupted him.

  “You give yourself away, Toddy. You’re losin’ your grip. Get up there an’ get it.”

  “Up where?”

  “You better move!”

  “Okay,” sighed Toddy. “You win.”

  With Shake at his heels, he stepped into the first of the toilet enclosures and gripped the top of its two partitions. He gave a jump, swung himself upward, and got a knee over one of the partitions. Grasping the pipe which ran from the flush chamber to the toilet, he pulled himself up until he stood straddling the enclosure.

  Donald issued a curt command, and the Mexican hastened to lie down in the adjacent booth. Then the little shiv artist crowded in next to Shake, holding his knife by the blade.

  “Don’t try nothing’,” he warned. “I can’t reach you but the knife can.”

  “Yeah,” said Toddy. “I know.”

  He gripped the ends of the heavy porcelain lid of the water chamber. Grunting, he moved it free and edged backward.

  “Have to help me with this,” he panted. “It’s—”

  “Now, wait a—” wheezed Shake. And Donald’s knife flashed with the swift action of his hand. But he was too late. They couldn’t stop what Toddy had started. They couldn’t get out of the way.

  “—heavy!” said Toddy. And he hurled the heavy lid downward with all his might.

  It caught Shake full in his fat upturned face, one end swinging sickeningly against the bridge of Donald’s nose. They sprawled backwards out of the enclosure, and Toddy scrambled down hastily from his perch.

  He need not have hurried. The Mexican attendant, apparently, had exactly anticipated his actions. Now he was on his feet, administering one of the most thorough, expert yet dispassionate kickings that Toddy had ever seen. It was a demonstration that would have been envied even by Shake’s pachucos.

  Not a kick was wasted. Each of the two men received two kicks in the guts, by way of obtaining temporary silence. Each received a kick in the temple, by way of making the silence more or less permanent. Each received three kicks in the face as a lasting memento of the kicking.

  “¡Bien!” said the Mexican, smiling pleasantly at Toddy. “I think that is enough, eh?” Then he bent over the motionless thugs, stuffed their wallets and Toddy’s inside his shirt, and picked up the knife and blackjack.

  “I have been put to much trouble,” he beamed. “You do not mind the small present?”

  “That money,” said Toddy, “is all I have.”

  “So? You want it very much, Señor?”

  “I guess not,” said Toddy. “Not that much.…How do I get out of here?”

  “The table, Señor. Drag it over to the window.…You will excuse me if I do not help? It is an easy drop to the alley.”

  Toddy nodded, dragged the table to the window, and stepped up on it—deliberately destroying as much of the display as he could.

  “It is all right, Señor,” the Mexican laughed softly. “Everything is paid for.”

  “Yeah.” Toddy grinned unwillingly. “What happens to these characters? And their pachucos?”

  “People come back here,” the Mexican explained, “but no one go out. So, soon, very soon, my father will be alarmed.”

  “Your father?”

  “The bartender, Señor. He will summon my brother, the waiter, who will call my two cousins, officers of the police.…”

  “Never mind.” Toddy hoisted himself into the window. “I know the rest. Your uncle, the judge, will give them ninety days in jail. Right?”

  “But no, Señor”—the Mexican’s voice trailed after Toddy as he dropped into the alley—“he will give them at least six months.”

  Toddy plodded down the alley to the street, lighte
d the last of his cigarettes, and threw the package away. He thrust a hand into his pocket, drew it out with his sole remaining funds. Sixteen cents. Three nickels and a penny. Not enough to—

  A hand closed gently but firmly over his elbow. A blue-uniformed cop looked down at the coins, and up into his face.

  “You are broke, Señor? A vagrant?”

  “Certainly not.” Toddy made his voice icy. “I’m a San Diego businessman. Just down here for a little holiday.”

  “I think not, Señor. Businessmen do not take leak in alley.”

  “But I didn’t—” Toddy caught himself.

  “For vagrancy or leak,” said the cop, “the fine is ten dollars. You may pay me.”

  “I—just give me your name and address,” said Toddy. “I’ll have to send it to you.”

  “Let’s go,” said the cop brusquely, in the manner of cops the world over.

  Toddy started to protest. The officer immediately released his grip, unholstered a six-shooter, and leveled it at Toddy’s stomach.

  “We do not like vagrants here, Señor, even as you do not like them in your country. A ver’ long time ago I visit your country. I am a wetback, yes, but no one care. The lettuce must be harvest’ and I work very cheap. Then I complain I do not get my wages an’ I am sick from the food—cagada, dung—and everyone care ver’ much. I am illegal immigrant. I am vagrant. I go to jail for long time.…It is good word, vagrant. I learn it in your country. Now move. ¡Anda!”

  The gun pointing at his back, Toddy preceded the cop down the side street, across the main thoroughfare, and so on down another side street. Tourists and sightseers stared after him—curiously, haughtily, grinning. Mexican shopkeepers gazed languidly from their doorways, the dark eyes venomous or amused at the plight of the gringo.

  Toddy walked on and on, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the walk immediately in front of him. He knew something of Mexican jails by reliable hearsay. When you got in down here, brother, you were in. The length of sentence didn’t mean a thing. They took weeks and months, sometimes a year, to get around to sentencing you. They just locked you up and left you. And—and Shake and Donald!…Toddy’s step faltered and the cop’s gun prodded him.…There wasn’t a chance that he could persuade the two thugs to play quiet. They’d squeal their heads off about Elaine’s death and the supposed dope racket, and—