A Ticket to Hell Read online

  The car outside was a Cad with a California license plate. He read its number, and then read the number on the Porsche license, forgetting them instantly.

  He turned and then followed the right walk along the patio. Ground sprinklers dribbled water on the plotted grass. It was cool and he felt slightly refreshed as he walked. He could forget the hundreds of cups of black coffee that had floated him from New York. Still, he held himself tautly, angered because he’d never learned to relax.

  He inserted the key in cottage eight and stepped inside, feeling the kiss of air conditioning, the faint fresh odor of soap and disinfectant. He closed the door behind him and looked at the room—two deep easy chairs, a thick-mattressed bed, television set, gas wall furnace and a cool-looking tiled bath. He yawned despite the tensions in him and looked longingly at the bed.

  He opened the Venetian blinds just enough to allow him a view of the patio and grounds. The cottage directly across from him was occupied. At the far side of it, he saw where the grass and landscaping ended and the brown of the desert began. Beside the other cottage was a round storage tank on a metal frame, bottled gas for the heating furnaces.

  He smiled grimly, looking at the storage tank, the sagging clothes line beyond and the ugliness of the barren land beyond it. Why do I have to see the back of everything? he wondered turning away.

  A shadow flickered along the walk and he stepped close to the window, watching it.

  “Oh, hell,” he said aloud.

  The knock on the door was almost coy.

  He said, “Come in.”

  Peggy came in and closed the door, cutting off the white blast of sunlight. “Ice cubes,” she said. “Mr. Davis thought you might want some.”

  “Thanks.” He nodded toward the glass-topped dresser.

  She walked by him, warm-scented, and set the container on the dresser. Then she turned, leaning against it.

  “Anything you want, Mr. Durazo, you let me know.”

  He watched her. “Yeah.”

  She gave him a faint smile and a sidelong glance.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Why?”

  “You act like it.”

  His voice went cold. “Does it go with the price of the room? Or is it extra?”

  “Damn you.” She lunged away from the dresser, her breasts bobbling against her dress front. “Where do you get off, talking to me like that?”

  “Sorry. I’m tired and hot. I’d like to clean up.”

  Her eyes did not soften. “Why’n’t you say so?”

  She did not move to leave. Ric sighed. “You’ve got a nice place here, Mrs. Davis.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “Takes a lot of work, all right. You ever try to make flowers grow in the desert?”

  “Not in the last week.”

  “You’re not friendly at all, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody could accuse you of being friendly, all right.”

  “No.”

  “What’s the matter with you? You don’t like women?”

  He exhaled, staring at her.

  “Or is it you don’t like me? I’m not pretty enough for you? Women throw themselves all over you—and I’m not good enough?”

  “You trying to get yourself talked about?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Hanging around here? What will people think? What’ll your husband say?”

  “Who the hell cares? You try living in this god-forsaken desert three years and see if you care. Who’d talk? Who’d they talk to?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want to make any trouble.”

  She laughed. “Trouble. I’d welcome a little trouble. Stir things up.”

  “Yeah.” He walked to the door, turned the knob. “But I don’t want any trouble. Not with anybody.”

  She looked at him a long time, letting her puzzled gaze go over him slowly.

  She walked to the door. “Where’d a guy like you ever get a Porsche?”

  “I won it in a church raffle.”

  She stared at him. “Didn’t you though?”

  She closed the door behind her, a sharp final sound.

  After she was gone he stood there for a moment without moving. Then he set the suitcase on the baggage stand but did not empty it into the dresser drawers. He dug around in it for a moment, came up with a laundered white shirt, undershirt and shorts. He found a pair of socks and tossed them on the bed.

  He stared at himself in the mirror, unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. His face was streaked with dust, and there were beads of sweat under his eyes. He pulled his gaze away from himself, shrugging out of his coat. He tossed it over a chair. Then he sat on the bed, yawning.

  A small smile of pleasure tugged at his mouth. He moved, bouncing on the bed. He lay back, feeling the mattress give, supporting him. He stared at the ceiling. His head rolled. Then almost as if afraid he would go to sleep, he sprang up from the bed, moving with the taut muscled grace of a panther.

  He walked about the room, touching the furniture, the pictures on the walls. He sat in the easy chair, sinking into it and stretching his legs before him. He nodded, pleased, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  He pulled off his shoes and socks, loosened his trousers. He sat for a moment wriggling his toes, scratching his ribs. He thought about Peggy Davis, allowing his thoughts to wander, but to go no further than Peggy, into the past, or into the future.

  After he undressed, he stood for a moment, listening. There were no sounds from outside the cottage; inside the only sound was his own breathing.

  He walked into the bathroom, the tile cold and pleasant against his feet. He ran the tub full of water while he shaved. Then he lay in the tub until he almost fell asleep. He came fully awake with a start.

  He got out of the tub then, rubbed ice cubes on his face and across the back of his neck. He dressed, staring at the silent patio through the Venetian blinds.

  He checked his watch, wound it, went back to the easy chair. From the chair he could see only the front of the cottage across the patio. Somebody had tossed a brief green bathing suit across one of the lounge chairs over there.

  He got up, snapped on the television set. He watched it only a moment. He tuned out the volume, left a woman sobbing silently on the picture tube. He watched the flashing movements for a few minutes but the silent pictures could not hold his interest for long.

  He checked his watch again, his face tightening. He turned the selector of the air-conditioning unit. It was cool in the room, but he was sweating. A faint stain showed on his shirt at the armpits.

  He walked back to the window.

  A Buick had parked out in front near his Porsche. The Buick was three or four years old, shaded with road film. He hoped there was something in it for Peggy.

  He pulled the back of his hand across his forehead and then stared at the sweat he’d collected on it.

  The green bathing suit was gone. After a moment the door of the cottage opened and a woman came out. She wore a green bathing cap and the green suit. It was even briefer than he’d thought, or there was more of her than the bathing suit people had bargained on.

  She was tanned the color of desert clay. She might have been an Indian, but he knew she wasn’t.

  She said something over her shoulder... A man taller than Ric showed in the cottage door. He had a fifth of whisky in his hand. He made a downward gesture at her and drank deeply. That’s the way, Ric thought. Those that have ‘em don’t know what in hell to do with ‘em.

  He saw the sadness flicker in the girl’s face. But she did not say anything else. She spread a large towel beside the pool, loosened the straps on her bathing suit and lay down. She had no idea he was watching her, Ric knew, but there was a look about her that said she wouldn’t have cared if she’d known. She looked like money and breeding even in that bathing suit—even spilling out of it. Her tan was the color of old gold.

  He watched her for a long time. She put
on dark glasses, turned on her back, crinkling the suit back to her nipples. Ric yawned, the weariness like agony going through him. He was glad she was there. If she couldn’t keep him awake, nothing could.

  Their cottage door opened. The handsome one came out, carrying an iced highball. Looking at it, Ric licked his lips. Handsome said something to the girl, but she shook her head.

  Handsome knelt beside her, caught her arm, twisting until she sat up, catching her bathing suit across her breasts with her free arm.

  They stared at each other for a long time. Ric saw that they were speaking tensely. Finally the girl took the highball and turned up the glass. She drank it off fast, without taking the glass from her lips. Then he pulled her to her feet and they went into the cottage. The door closed and Ric yawned.

  He walked slowly to the bed, toppled across it. He was asleep in five minutes, whether he wanted to be or not.

  Chapter Four

  Ric woke up sweating. He was bleary from sleep and for a moment he didn’t remember where he was. He sat up, cursing under his breath. He put out his hand, touched the table. It was chilled under his fingers. The whole room was frosty, but he was sweating. He checked his watch. It was ten past seven.

  His gaze jerked to the window. Had he slept all night? The quality of the darkness beyond the shades told him nothing. There was light enough to read his watch, that was all. Calming down slightly, he exhaled. It had to be night. Seven A.M. out here in the desert was like noon back East.

  For a moment longer he sat on the side of the bed. He reached out to turn on the light, then changed his mind. He frowned, feeling the impatience building in him. He was beginning to feel caged waiting here, and God knew that was a sensation he knew and hated.

  He stared at the telephone on the night table, willing it to ring. All calls had to come through the office up front. Had they considered that angle? There was no doubt about that. They’d considered all the angles. What was the matter with them then? Why didn’t they call?

  He got up, paced the room.

  He walked to the window, stood beside it watching the silent patio. Darkness was settling down over the gaudy cottage rooftops.

  The motel was enjoying a profitable evening. All the cottages across the patio were lighted. For a moment chilled loneliness flooded through him. What were they doing, these ordinary people who had what they wanted, loved and were loved?

  He shook out a cigarette, put it in his mouth. The hell with them. He got his lighter from his pocket and then did not fire up the cigarette. Instead he dropped the lighter back into his pocket, caught the cigarette in his fist and crushed it.

  He dropped the wadded paper and tobacco in an ash tray. He had known all along that he was playing according to their rules. They would get in touch with him when it pleased them.

  His face darkened. He stared at the gaping leather suitcase on the rack. He walked to it, shoved his hand inside and came up with a thirty-five caliber Smith and Wesson. He held it in his hand, hefting it. Then he ejected the cartridge case, checked it and socked it back into the gun.

  He placed the gun under his pillow.

  Ric paced the room, staring at the telephone at every turn in the narrowing circle. A flash of light snagged his attention. He returned to the window.

  He sighed. It was only the front door of the cottage across the patio. He thought for a moment about the girl in the green bathing suit—the way she was stacked, the way she had spilled from the suit, the gold color of her. Had they spent the afternoon drinking?

  Handsome stepped outside the cottage door alone, stood staring casually at the sky.

  Ric smiled bitterly. There was a man he could really envy. This boy was not out of place in a swank motel. The cut of his clothes, the casual way he wore them and the insolence in his face all were part of one package. There was the boy with the deal. No wonder Green Suit was nuts about him. Here was the kind of boy a woman went nuts about at least once in her lifetime—and sometimes if she never matured, fell for over and over.

  He’d known men as pretty as Handsome. They grew out of the gutter. Most of them had dark wavy hair, black eyes, rich olive complexion, the tall, muscled body—too much of everything.

  In all the men like Handsome that Ric had known, it was inside where the trouble was, where all the strength had been spoiled. Sure, Ric told himself, try to hate him. Tell yourself he’s queer. It’ll make you feel better.

  Standing there by the window in his unlighted room, Ric watched Handsome, sensing something wrong. Handsome was casual, but it was a casualness that was uncalled for and out of focus. He looked both ways along the patio, seeming pleased that he was the only person out there. He stared directly at Ric’s cottage. Ric knew he could not be seen, but stepped back into the shadows anyway.

  Handsome glanced back toward his cottage. If they’d been drinking since early afternoon, Handsome should have been nearly potted by now anyhow.

  Ric had never seen a man appear more coldly sober.

  Handsome turned and walked toward the end of the patio, toward the scarred unkempt grounds. He moved lazily, as though unhurried, a man with all the time in the world. Yet Ric knew that Handsome was wound tighter than a dollar watch.

  Handsome reached the side of his own cottage and Ric moved across his window where he could watch him.

  Handsome went to the bottled gas container on its metal rack beside the building. He stood there for what seemed a long time to Ric. Then he reached over and turned the outside gas valve.

  Then he quickly straightened up, looking around guiltily.

  Ric watched him kick at a stone, stroll back to the edge of his own cottage, glance along the patio again.

  Handsome stepped back into the deepening shadows at the side of the cottage. He walked back to the gas valve, turned it again. Ric stared at him. The first time Handsome had turned off the valve it had stopped the gas inside that cottage, killing the pilot light. The second he turned it, raw gas seeped into the room through the wall heater. Some men are born sons of bitches, Ric thought. Others learn it, like a trade.

  He stood, not breathing, watching Handsome. This boy should have been a movie star, he thought. He was like a man playing a game. That was what he wanted it to look like if he were observed, a man out for a breath of fresh air.

  Handsome walked calmly around the corner of the cottage. He did not hesitate at its door. He walked past, not hurrying, taking leisurely strides that increased in pace as he neared the front parking area.

  Handsome glanced toward the office, then stepped around the Cad that had been parked there when Ric arrived. Handsome got into the car. He reversed the car, spewing pebbles all the way across the drive, sliding his rear wheels into the planting area across it.

  Ric saw Peggy run out of the front door of the office and stand there as the Cad burned out of the drive. The car spun west on Highway 58, immediately gone. Ric knew that Peggy was too accustomed to seeing people leave the motel ever to run out the door like that. Handsome must have created quite a racket—quite a show.

  Ric nodded. Wasn’t Handsome still playing the game? Didn’t he need an audience now to see him depart in anger? What better way to get one than to back into the owner’s planting area with engine roaring?

  Ric’s gaze came back to the gas container outside the other cottage. He could hear the hiss of escaping gas. Now that’s as crazy as all the rest of my imaginings, he told himself.

  He turned away from the window, staring at the telephone, hating it because it did not ring.

  Chapter Five

  He could not see into the other cottage because their Venetian blinds were drawn. He could tell only that the lights were burning, glowing brighter as the desert night darkened.

  He walked away from the window, telling himself to forget it. Suppose there was gas seeping into that cottage? Suppose Handsome was trying to kill the doll? Except for the fact that nobody had the right to destroy anything that lush, it was nothing to Ric Durazo—noth
ing but trouble.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. So there was a murder happening over there that Handsome wanted to look like suicide. It was clever in that it was simple and had been worked only God knew how many times in how many places. So what was Ric Durazo supposed to do? Call the cops? Oh, fine.

  He had never seen that girl before this afternoon out there beside the pool. Sure it was a pity for anything that lovely to die, but Ric Durazo had troubles of his own.

  He heeled toward the window, then stopped. He could not afford to get involved in even an attempted murder. He had been afraid that Peggy would stay in his room long enough to attract attention to him this afternoon. If he had not been able to take that kind of trouble, he had to forget the doll in the green suit.

  His gaze struck against the grate of the wall furnace. The pilot light burned so faintly inside it that he barely could detect its glow in his darkened room. That much unburned gas could—

  He spun on his heel and walked to the door.

  The telephone rang.

  He stopped as though someone had chopped him across the neck. That nerve-shattering sound stunned him.

  He turned, walked back to the night table, picked up the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Durazo? Ric?”

  It was Peggy Davis.

  “For God’s sake. What do you want?”

  “I just thought you might be hungry. We forgot to tell you this afternoon. We have a café next to the office. It’s very nice.”

  “Thanks. If I get hungry...

  “We just want you to enjoy your stay here.”

  “All right.”

  “I mean, it worries me when somebody don’t like me, and I can’t think why. You know, you worry me, Mr. Durazo.”

  “I’m sorry. Like I told you, I’m tired.”

  “No man I ever knew ever got that tired, Mr. Durazo.”