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CHAPTER 24

      NAVARETTE LOOKED down at Diggs' body lying in the sand. "I knew the little rat would end like this," he said.

      Deputy Henry Dillman, who had driven out with Navarette, said somberly, "No man ever deserved getting his brains blowed out more."

      They had already checked the body and gone through Diggs' pockets and the wallet. The body was still warm, and his blood had barely congealed.

      "Meanest little bastard I ever saw," Navarette said. "Guy who killed him did it for either revenge or robbery - or maybe both. Every time we've picked him up, he's had at least fifty bucks on him, and now it looks like he was cleaned out."

      "You think it had anything to do with Vandergaard's killing last night?" Dillman asked.

      Navarette mopped his brow with a spotless white handkerchief. "I don't know. But burying a hammer head in a man's head would be right up Diggs' alley."

      Navarette walked a little way up the rutted road. "These tire track are from the folks who called us. You can see they came from way up the road, then stopped to look at him, then continued on. The killer made these other tracks looping into the desert when the car turned around. This car was actually here twice. See, there's a double set out by this loop." He followed the loop and beckoned Dillman to come over. "We still got the plaster of Paris in the trunk?"

      Dillman opened up the car's truck, which was filled with fire extinguishers, flares, first aid kits, a couple of six-battery flashlights, a can of gasoline, a shovel, a sack of plaster of Paris, a canvas bag containing a Brownie camera and several packages of film, a big jug of water, and an ironware turkey roaster without the lid. He dumped the plaster, water, camera and film, and the roaster cap on the rutted road beside the car.

      Navarette said, "Take pictures of everything, from every angle. Make a plaster cast of those tire tracks. Get a closeup of the bullet holes, especially where his head is half blown way so we can make the jury see how heartless the killer was. I'll send somebody to pick you and Diggs up." He grinned. "I'm gonna wind this up in an hour."

      "How you gonna do that?" Dillman asked. It was a measure of his faith in Navarette that he didn't doubt he'd do it.

      "I'm gonna go down to the pool hall and shoot a game of snooker." Navarette said. He got into the car and started it, then roared off in a cloud of dust. Dillman, who was already beginning to feel a little thirsty, started pouring the plaster into the roasting pan and took a drink of the flat-tasting warm water before mixing it in.

      Within the hour, counting driving time, and without Navarette telling them that Diggs was dead, three people in the pool hall had mentioned to him that Diggs and Petrie had been whispering and plotting together the last two days. The two were so generally despised that nobody hesitated to squeal on them.

      When he got back into the police car and opened all the windows so he wouldn't die from the heat, Navarette leisurely lit a cigar and thought things through. He was pretty sure that Petrie killed Diggs, and he thought there was a strong possibility that Petrie had hired Diggs to kill Vandergaard. Why else would Petrie try to establish an alibi by hanging around the pool hall until it closed, something he'd never done before?

      Petrie was seen getting into Brennan's car with Diggs this morning. Navarette figured that Petrie drove Diggs out on the desert, shot him, and then took back the money he'd given him, plus whatever other money Diggs had.

      What bothered Navarette was how Diggs knew he'd find Vandergaard at Hood's place. Was it possible that Petrie had hired Diggs to get somebody else. Pritchard . . . or maybe Rand? They were the only two men likely to be around there.

      The ash on the cigar was only a quarter of an inch long when Navarette decided Rand was the target. Rand was the troublemaker, and he'd had contact with Petrie.

      So why did Diggs kill Vandergaard instead?

      The answer came immediately. From his previous contacts with Diggs, Navarette knew the man was stupid. It had been a dumb mistake. Had to be that.

      Puffing contentedly on his cigar, Navarette drove back to the office and told Jimmy Kelso, his other deputy, to drive out and pick up Dillman before he died of sunstroke and get somebody from the mortuary to bring in Diggs.

      It was almost lunchtime, and Navarette went home to eat and take a siesta, and maybe fool around a little with his wife. Solving a crime always made Navarette horny. Petrie could wait; he wasn't going anywhere.

      While Navarette was having an extended lunch, Hector Guzman and Tonio, some fifty miles away, in Juarez, were walking into The New Waikiki Club, a dimly-lit damp-smelling bar to see Guzman's cousin, Alberto Pacheco.

      Some of the patrons at the New Waikiki called Pacheco "The Wall" because of his size. He greeted Guzman warmly with an abrazo that left Guzman breathless.

      When it was necessary to quiet down an overly enthusiastic patron, as often happened, Pacheco could curl his rather gentle countenance into the chilling look of a sadistic killer. With that one expression, and his enormous body, he seldom had to do more than touch a patron gently on the shoulder to quiet him down. In his softly spoken heavily-accented English, he would utter only a dozen or so words and an unruly patron would run for the bridge and the safety of the United States.

      Only 26 years old, Pacheco was certainly the best bouncer in Juarez. He wore a flowered shirt and high-waisted black trousers with a white belt. His shoes would have been size 16 if the shoemaker who custom-made them had known about sizes. As it was, the shoes were made from a tracing of his feet and cost $40 a pair in Juarez - a fortune, but worth it. Pacheco smelled of Lilac Pinaud. His black hair was always carefully combed. He made good money because, unknowingly, he had become almost as great an attraction as the strippers. When he silenced an obstreperous patron, there was often applause.

      It was early afternoon, and there were only three customers in the place. The girls - the reason customers came - didn't begin dancing until 5 p.m. Juarez time. They twirled and twisted to the music of the four-man orchestra, removed their clothes to the drumbeat and the trumpet, arms and bellies moving gracefully, religious medals swinging around their necks. But the New Waikiki was a decent place as nightclubs went in Juarez. The audience, mostly college boys from Texas Mines and New Mexico A&M got only a quick glimpse of breasts as the girls strode off. The rhinestone-studded G-strings were never removed. There was no cover-charge at the New Waikiki, and the drinks, though skimpy and heavily watered, wouldn't make a man blind. The band was good enough. The management had decided life was simpler and fights were fewer with breasts alone.

      Pacheco, Guzman, and Tonio sat at a table in the back while the bartender brought them Cruz Blanca beer on the house, a drink which Tonio found too bitter. Guzman told Pacheco everything: how Ramirez stole the gold from the bearded rancher, and how the rancher and the two big men who accompanied him came and killed him. He told how Consuelo had brought the gold to Juarez, and how he was protecting it for her and Tonio, and how he had gone to the museum, and learned that the gold was marked with the symbol for El Rey.

      Pacheco's eyes never left Guzman's face as he soaked it in. Finally he said, "Why do you come and tell me this?"

      "Because . . . " Guzman lost the words he had rehearsed. "Because there is surely more gold and the bearded man will know where it is."

      "Ah," Pacheco said.

      Tonio, who had scarcely said a word until then, said, "There is another reason. I want revenge for the man who killed my father."

      Pacheco nodded. He understand revenge.

      "If you will come with us, we will find the bearded rancher and question him. Then when we learn where the gold came from, we will kill him." Tonio said.

      "You want me to kill him?" Pacheco asked.

      "No . . . I will kill him." Guzman said. "Or perhaps Tonio will, since he wants to so much. But if you come with us -" He hesitated, "We will have authority!"

      Pacheco smiled an almost child-like smile. "If we find the gold, I will get a share?"

      "Of course, 'Betto," Guzman said. "You are my cousin and my friend."

      The immense man nodded, pleased, "Good," he said. "When do we start?"

      "I have the car outside now. It shouldn't take very long. A couple of hours. I think I know how to find the bearded one."

      While Pacheco was away from the table telling the club's owner he must leave for the day, Tonio said, "He's big."

      "His heart is bigger than he is." Guzman said. "One time when he was just 20 years old I had a little problem with a man who said he would kill me because of some rings I had sold him. I talked to Alberto about it and he visited the man. After that the man treated me with respect and asked my forgiveness." Guzman chuckled. "Of course, that was after his broken arms had healed."

      Pacheco came back in a few minutes and said, "It's all right. We can go now. They always let me do what I want."

     


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