Chapter Thirty-Nine
Doc pulled the Mustang up into the pension’s rear courtyard around two in the afternoon, eager to call Stan Russell and hit the road to Tepic. He took Dancy with him to the little “Larga Distancia” booth in front of the drugstore across the street and waited while a serious girl of about ten with bulging glasses dialed the number of the room in Tepic. When the connection was made he stepped into the little “soundproof” glass booth to talk, but Dancy, lolling by the comic book rack beside the booth, could get a pretty good idea what he was saying. He didn’t reply to Stan’s enthusiastic, “You got her already? I take back anything I ever said. You’re really good.”
But when Russell went on, “Where are you? I’ll drive right up.” He said, “No way. I’m out of here in a few minutes, be down there in about three hours. Have everything ready to scramble, any backup in place.”
Dancy listened without showing any reaction but when Doc came out of the booth heading for the car, she said, “How about a cold beer while I take a quick shower for the road?” Doc looked at her like she was out of her mind.
She pouted, “Well, you never did let me get my bath. And since then, I’ve been scrambling around that filthy jungle, I feel like a woodchuck’s armpit, and I’m not moving another foot without cleaning up and getting a cold drink.”
Doc said, “There’ll be plenty of time for that when I get you back to your husband.”
“Look, Jungle Jim. I think I’ve been pretty damn co-operative so far. But that’s it. I have a few special hygiene needs to take care of and I’m going to clean up or I’m going to just sit here and scream.”
Doc would wonder for years why he just didn’t punch her out, toss her in the trunk and head for Tepic. As it was, he grabbed her elbow and hustled her into the hotel. “Okay. Make it quick.”
In the room, Dancy marveled at the primitive bath facilities, especially the shower nozzle that came straight down in the middle of the ceiling. “And the toilet’s on the other side of it,” she snickered, “You have to walk under the shower to get to it.”
“And when you do, it drips,” Doc added, “Just get on with it. Please.”
“And there’s no shower curtain. Doesn’t the toilet paper get soaked?”
“You have to take precautions.”
“I just want a shower, not precautions.”
“I’ll be right outside,” Doc said.
She called out from the precarious bathroom, “Your turn next. I even left you some lukewarm water.” Some slumber party, Doc grinned. He was tempted to shower himself, but didn’t feel like pushing the day’s startling luck.
Suddenly she threw open the door and bounced out, naked, shining, stunning. Where she wasn’t golden she was a healthy pink, exuding sex and vitality as she sprung over to the bed and pounced in Doc’s lap like a tigress in heat–a sensory barrage guaranteed to distract anything male. If a man had jumped him like that, Doc’s hand would already have been on the pistol he’d laid on the nightstand. Or maybe if she’d been dressed. As it was, it went just like she’d planned. She landed straddling him, her hair slashing around his eyes, her knees pinning his arms, her glory binding him for the second it took her to lean over and grab the gun.
The instant she made that move, Doc bucked her off his arms, so her reaching hand was plunged forward, knocking the gun off the nightstand. She rode with it, piling off the bed in a strong leap, kicking Doc back as she drove off him. He was coming up and turning towards her, but she flopped full length on the floor and got the gun in her outstretched hand. She was rolling over with it when she heard Doc bark “Freeze!” in a voice so commanding it actually worked on her for a second. She froze stretched out, gun in hand, looking at him, on his knees on the bed with a knife in his hands from God knows where. She smiled at him, a smile that said, “Oh, sure, you’d stick a knife in THIS body? Even if you were fast enough?” She batted her lashes and drew down.
She saw only a blur and flash and felt the gun fall from her fingers before she felt the pain in her shoulder or looked down to see the knife hilt sticking out of her rotator cuff muscles, just under the clavicle. Doc had a foot on her forearm and a derringer in his hand. She grinned up at him sheepishly and said, “Is this how you take the trophy pictures?”
Doc dragged her roughly to her feet and sat her on the bed. His face was tight-set and cruel. He pulled out the knife–a nasty feeling that gritted her teeth, but was also somehow sexy–then stuck a pillow on the slowly bleeding puncture and told her to hold it there. She looked at him, standing bare-chested with the gun and knife, then pulled the pillow away and watched the blood burbling out of her.
Dreamily, she dabbled the fingers of her left hand in the blood, then slowly brought them to her mouth. The taste was bitter but stimulating, like licking a battery. She softened, let her legs fall a little apart. She stared at Doc, who was looking at her like merchandise that might have gotten damaged in an accident, or like he might spank her bottom for misbehaving. Not that I’d mind, she thought. She stood up, dropped the pillow and thrust out her dripping fingers. “Look what you’ve done,” she scolded, “Now lick them clean.”
Doc stared right into her eyes, incredulous, smelling her blood, feeling her heat. Then slowly, obviously not believing what he was doing, he took her fingers in his mouth and licked them off. She pointed to the rivulet of blood coursing down her breast and dripping off her nipple. “There’s more,” she said.
She was the first one to speak afterwards. “Gee Doc,” she breathed, “You’re really a disarming guy.”
Doc slowly raised his hand to his left breast and felt around there, where the blood that slathered both of them seemed thicker. He said, “You bit off my nipple.” He turned his head to stare at her. “You bit my frigging nipple off.”
She rolled her eyes and licked her lips with a very red tongue. “Breakfast of champions,” she said.
Doc looked down to assess his mutilation. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, “If I ever fuck a Catholic girl again, it’s going to be on Friday.”
But she knew he’d been hit hard. So had she, for that matter. As he wiped off and did some quick first aid on her cuts (and his bites), he tried not to look at her, giving her the opportunity to study him. He wasn’t much of a showpiece; dark, intense, long face and heavy jaw that reminded her of some English musician. Jeff Beck, maybe, or Roger Waters. Not a handsome face, not ugly. But very strong, very male.
Nice enough body; your basic functional model, hard but no frills or muscle for show. Great tan–the white band around his hips and butt was so emphatic it made everything sort of jump out at you. Not that THAT was ever much of a problem. The glaring whiteness of his underbelly made him seem softer and more vulnerable. Aren’t they all, she thought? Like some sort of tough, brown armadildos. But with their pants down, you see the guts, the little white worms, the handle sticking out to steer them with.
But the only thing was, he’d given it to her the way she’d always wanted it and hadn’t known until right this minute. Hot, nasty, and blood-soaked in a shabby little sweatbox. It’s always so cheap finding what you really want out of life. Well, this guy might not be the living end, but he was the best she’d had so far. Fortunately he didn’t seem prone to letting her get away from him. He was, very literally, a keeper.
He gave her a quick look, said, “Aren’t we out of here, yet?” Feeling pretty unprofessional and pretty shook up despite the poker face. She stepped into her pants and T-shirt, pulled the bandolier over her shoulder and started looking around for her sneakers. Doc tossed them at her feet and tapped the bandolier. “Maybe it wouldn’t pay to advertise that you’re the Snow White Bandit.”
She glanced in mirror, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most wanted bitch in Mexico?” Then, “Sorry Doc. I’d feel naked without it.”
He caught her eye an instant and she snickered, knowing he was picturing her naked with it. “Glutton for punishment, are we? When’s check out time?”
“No time for that now, unfortunately. But listen, lose the bandolier.”
“Out of the question. Where would I put my make-up?”
“You know where,” Doc growled.
“Ever think that’s why it all comes shaped like little dorks? I’m keeping the bandolier. It’s an identity thing.”
“Well, throw a shirt over it.”
She hauled Doc’s spare work shirt over her head then gave him a wide-eyed waif look, her arms wrapped under her breasts, the baggy drape suddenly transforming her into a lost little girl.
“Jesus,” Doc said, “Let’s get you home.”
He already regretted taking time out for a roll in the hay–even the best he’d ever had–chalking it up to guilt and job nerves. But when he steered Dancy out into the courtyard he found out it was just cold realism. The Mustang’s hood was up and Torres was leaning inside, tossing a handful of ignition wires to one side.