The blue-haired lady handed a cup of punch to Pedrito. "Please tell me what you think of it, Lieutenant Smith," she said. "Very healthy. Lots of fresh juices. Just the way you always like it."
Pedrito took a mouthful of punch and spat it out in a spray before he could compose himself and remember where he was and who he was supposed to be.
"Why, what's the matter, dear?" the blue-haired lady said, wiping punch droplets from her cat's-eye glasses.
Pedrito made an awful face, looking at the cup. "No liquor!" he said. "No rum, no tequila, nothing! Just plain fruit juice— what kind of punch is that?" He wiped his mouth with his uniform sleeve.
Joan registered surprise at her date's reaction, then she thought she understood. "It'll take a lot more than that to impress me. Smith—but I'm glad you're at least making the effort."
On the dance floor, couples had grown even sparser, exhausted from the nonstop polkas. Now, to a slower tune, the remaining dancers swayed sedately, but then the music changed to disco. Joan perked up.
"Well, I'm going to dance," she said over her shoulder as she strutted out to the dance floor. "Follow me if you like. Smith—I intend to have a good time, no matter what you do." Joan began gyrating alone to the music while Pedrito stood next to her at a loss, not knowing what to do . . . though he did enjoy watching her body move, the way it pressed against her black sequined dress.
"What's the matter, can't you dance? Didn't they teach you that in officer training?" Joan rolled her blue eyes. "My, what a surprise."
Hubbard & Anderson
"I am a master of the dance—but that's not a tango," Pedrito said, offended. "I just can't disco!"
"Watch—and learn," Joan said. "And you'd better learn fast if you want to have a good time tonight." Her whole body went into a shiver, and she shook her hips, moving with the music. Her evening dress followed every twist and turn, flowing with her supple moves.
Pedrito Miraflores was actually a very good dancer, and since this was part of his mission, he matched her gyrations, his eyes shining as he stared at her. They moved close, rubbing together as they danced. Pedrito grabbed her around the waist and pressed her against him as they continued to move together now, growing hotter.
The row of severe old women stared in shocked disapproval, clucking at each other.
Despite herself, Joan was pleasantly surprised, as if Lieutenant Tom Smith had just turned into a different person in front of her. Pedrito was willing to play the part of the uptight, strait-laced young officer ... but only to a point.
Pedrito drove the car, lost but following Joan's directions. She enjoyed telling him where to go, and she kept glancing sideways at him, reassessing him. This wasn't the type of date she had expected at all.
"It's just up the block," she said. Ahead Pedrito spotted a neon sign that flickered with pink letters, much more high-tech than the Cantina de Espejos: MOTEL, Vacancy. "All right, that's the place," she said. "Good paintings on the wall, nice decor. Comfortable beds."
"Good," Pedrito said. "I like comfortable beds."
Later, in the motel room, the headboard shook violently, much the way Yaquita's brass headboard always shook in her room at the cantina. A white Navy uniform lay on the worn carpet, tangled with a fancy black evening dress. Pantyhose dangled from the television antenna, and somehow one black high-heeled shoe hung from the curtain rod.
The headboard bumped against the wall in a real tango beat. "Oh, I can't wait to tell my father," Joan gasped. "He'll be so happy about this."
"What?" Pedrito said. The headboard stopped shaking. Why would she want to tell the admiral? Most fathers came after Pedrito with shotguns when they found out what he had done with their daughters. "What are you going to tell him?"
"Why, that I've changed my mind. We can get married within the month! This is the opportunity he's been waiting for.
Just think of the big wedding he can throw us I just hope he doesn't rent that officers' club."
"Married?" Pedrito slapped his forehead. "Ai! Is that all you women can think of?"
"I read it in a story somewhere." She raised her eyebrows at him. Her blue eyes shone with languid satisfaction. "Isn't that how it's supposed to be? I'm so tired of being intelligent, independent and my own woman. A husband is all I need."
She snuggled up next to him, and Pedrito looked frantically around the room, wondering how he was ever going to escape from this dangerous situation.
Chapter 27
RIDING INTO THE SUNSET, just like in an old cowboy movie, Smith and Bonita trotted along. Bonita looked fine on her dapple-gray horse, dressed in a black riding habit with a white scarf tied around the top hat. Smith sat astride the once-wild buckskin stallion, who now seemed resigned to his new look-alike master.
The past several days had passed in a blur, and Smith still hadn't been able to telephone the United States. Rancho Miraflores had no phone service whatsoever.
So many people had called him "Pedrito" for so many days now, he responded to the name automatically. Even the real Pedrito's parents didn't seem to notice any difference. He hadn't seen Yaquita since the old monoplane had landed ... which he supposed was good, considering the attentions Bonita showered on him.
Today, they had gone out together so Smith could practice shooting with the mysterious laser pistols he had found in his tan suitcase—he was curious about the exotic weapons, and blasting a few trees made him feel a bit more like wild and rowdy Pedrito Miraflores. Finished for the afternoon, they headed off for the Rancho Ramirez.
"I can't wait to see my own family when they find I've caught my man at last," Bonita sighed blissfully and batted her eyelashes. "Oh, Pedrito, we'll be so happy together."
"I hope Rancho Ramirez isn't much farther," Smith said, bouncing heavily even across the flat plains, "or I won't be in very good shape for the big reception your father has planned."
Meanwhile, on top of a nearby knoll, a squat cavalry sergeant and his trim and nervous senior officer lay on their bellies, brushing a clump of feathery grass aside so they could watch Smith and Bonita ride past.
Thirty CIA-sponsored cavalrymen and horses waited in a hollow, anxious for that night's planned ambush. One of the mounts snorted and began to munch on a tuft of grass; one of the cavalrymen snorted and began to munch on an apple.
The squat sergeant pressed bulky field glasses against his eyes, focusing and refocusing. He frowned, making his huge black mustache droop like the tentacles of an octopus.
"Is it Pedrito?" asked the trim officer, squirming for a comfortable spot on the rough ground. He shaded his own eyes, but could make out no details in the fading light.
"I can't tell. Captain Xavier, sir." The squat sergeant took down the binoculars and glared at them. "These infrared glasses from the CIA are busted. I can't see anything."
"Then go sneak down to the rancho and take a look around. Blend in." The squat man scrambled to his feet. "Come back the moment you recognize Pedrito, so we can get on with the attack " Xavier said. "I'm getting anxious here."
The sergeant scuttled down the hillside toward the fancy white outbuildings of the Rancho Ramirez.
Smartly dressed vaqueros and polished black coaches stood in the courtyard in front of the large Ramirez ranch house. Torches blazed around the marble fountains. Guitar players sang from wrought-iron balconies above, raising their voices in celebration as the two new riders came through the gates.
Pulling their mounts to a halt. Smith and Bonita swung from their saddles as vaqueros rushed up to take the reins of their horses. Though servants gallantly helped Bonita down from her saddle. Smith actually needed more assistance than she did.
"Welcome, you lovebirds," Senor Ramirez said. "This way, please—you must change your clothes and freshen up. The fiesta is about to begin. Everyone is waiting! This will be a joyous occasion. We have even scheduled a championship cockfight for this evening."
Outside in the hedgerow, the black-mustached sergeant peeked between the hed
ge, but too many other riders moved across his field of view. He crept closer, shoving his girth into the underbrush. One gold button popped off his shirt, but he continued undaunted; if he returned unsuccessful. Captain Xavier would inflict far greater damage on him than a lost button.
The squat sergeant finally reached the windows of the hacienda's main salon. Kneeling under an overhang of red roof tiles, he pressed his face against the rippled pane to study a crowd of grandees and ladies inside. The crowd clapped in time to the movements of a male flamenco dancer who spun across the tiled floor.
The sergeant enjoyed the music until unexpectedly the lovely blond Bonita appeared, now dressed in a white ruffled evening gown. She was escorted by a befuddled-looking redhead dressed like a Spanish grandee.
The whole crowd turned their heads and waved in excitement. "Ai! Pedrito!" the crowd shouted in unison.
Outside, the sergeant clapped a hand to his mouth. After disentangling himself from the clinging hedge, he raced away to the cavalry troops waiting in the nearby hills.
Smith felt like a drowning man as people surged up to him, clapping him on the back and pumping his hand. The guests jabbered on about Pedrito Miraflores' alleged exploits, and Smith couldn't believe any single man could have accomplished everything they attributed to him. He certainly could never have done as much—it all sounded too dangerous.
A young raven-haired girl in the crowd shouted, "Dance a flamenco litre for us. Uncle Pedrito!" She clapped her hands.
The crowd took up her cry. "Come on, Pedrito. Dance!"
"I'm sorry, but I can't dance flamenco libre," Smith said, looking from one to the other. "I don't even know what it is." He glanced at Bonita for assistance, but she smiled lovingly, full of encouragement.
The crowd whooped with laughter. "Pedrito, you taught us all how to dance it!"
In the shadow of the main entrance hall, Bolo slouched under a dark vaquero hat. He yanked a smoldering cigarro out of his mouth, then calmly removed a black bag of firecrackers hanging on a wall peg. He pulled a single firecracker out and touched his cigarro to the fuse. "Dancing lessons. Lieutenant Smith."
The crowd drew back, giving Smith room on the tiled dance floor, despite his insistence. "Really," he said, "I'm not fooling. I can't flamenco libre! Never heard of it, in fact."
Bolo's firecracker landed on the floor at his feet and exploded. Smith leaped three feet into the air. Taking their cue, the band erupted into music.
Bolo tossed one firecracker after another. As they exploded under his feet. Smith instinctively leaped again and again in a wild dance. The crowd clapped their encouragement. "Ole! Ole."
In the moonlit hollow above the bright hacienda, nervous Captain Xavier stood by the CIA-sponsored troops as they mounted up, ready for a rapid assault under cover of darkness.
The black-mustached sergeant puffed up, holding his rounded stomach and aching sides. "It's Pedrito," the sergeant gasped. "It's him!"
Explosions echoed ffom the distant rancho buildings. The horses danced with anxiety.
Captain Xavier raised his fist. "Ride in at once—he's shooting up the place! If I know Pedrito, there's a slaughter going on down there."
In the salon, Smith ended the dance, shaking and drenched with sweat. The crowd shouted, "Ai! Pedrito!" over and over again.
Senor Ramirez poured wine for Smith, snaking a sinewy hand around the shoulder of his future son-in-law. "You always could make us laugh, Pedrito." He put the wine in Smith's hand, urging him to gulp it down. "I'm so glad you will be settling down with us. We missed you!" Smith's eyes watered and his throat burned from the wine, but he managed not to cough.
Bonita took his arm in a proprietary fashion. "Yes, Papa, he'll stay home and be a good husband. I'll give him good reason to. Sometimes he has memory lapses, but I think I've cured him."
Senor Ramirez clapped his hands. "May I have your attention! Everyone, please listen. We have an important announcement to make."
Bole ran in at breakneck speed, sounding the alarm. "The CIA is coming!" he shouted. "It's a raid—run!"
Outside, as the crowd screamed in alarm, a shadowy woman crept to where the guests' horses were tied to a post in the stable yard. She ducked beside Bonita's dapple-gray, keeping out of view. "Never could trust that Pedrito. Scoundrel! Platypus! I go on a mission for a few days—long live the revolution—and he shacks up with another woman. Sidewinder! What was I thinking? How could I expect that iguana to change?"
With a sharp knife, Yaquita slashed the cinch on Bonita's saddle. The dapple-gray horse flinched, but she adjusted the saddle to keep it in place, intact to all outward appearances. Bonita would be in for a big surprise when she tried to mount.
That would even the score a little.
As the panicked crowd surged to escape the main hacienda building, Smith stood alone on the dance floor. Tugging his hat brim down to hide his face, Bolo swept in and grabbed Smith by the arm to propel him toward the big arched door. "Run, run for your life! They will shoot you on sight, Pedrito."
Bolo hustled him down a rear hallway toward the stable yard, while Bonita followed in her white ball gown, breathless with concern. She had managed to tie on her top hat with the white scarf.
"There, my friends!" Bolo pushed Smith out into the yard, pointing to the saddled horses. "You must go—and be quick about it!"
"Wait, I forgot my bag!" Bonita said.
Gallantly, Smith whirled about and dashed inside, finally seeing something he knew how to do. "I remember right where you put it."
From a pile of saddlebags and satchels left by the guests, he grabbed the bulging sack of firecrackers Bolo had left, rushed back out and leaped onto his formerly wild buckskin stallion. "I've got it," he said. Bolo swatted the horse, and the stallion bolted away.
Meanwhile, Bonita tried to figure out how to climb onto her horse in her voluminous white evening gown. The frilly lace was for dancing and showing off, not horseback riding. She waved toward the departing Smith. "Wait for me, dearest!"
Seeing no easier way up, she put her foot in the stirrup and struggled to lift her other leg. But with the cinch strap slashed, the saddle came off entirely, slipping around as if greased with banana peels. Bonita flopped down into a big puddle of mud.
Lying in stunned shock, Bonita blinked, looking for words of outrage. A black-sleeved hand snaked in and grabbed her top hat, snatching it away. "Gracias, Bonita. I can make much better use of this than you."
Yaquita ran off for her own horse, waving toward the departing rider. "Ai! Pedrito!" But Smith didn't even bother to turn around. He was having too much trouble just holding on to his saddle.
Captain Xavier, the squat sergeant and thirty CIA cavalrymen galloped toward the wrought-iron main gates of the hacienda, firing their pistols into the air and screeching out a battle cry. The crowd from the fiesta milled out in the courtyard.
Bolo stood by the gate, working his way over to the whip-thin captain. He appeared so suddenly that Xavier's horse reared. The officer looked down at Bolo, who pointed across the plain after the two galloping horses.
"They went that-a-way!" Bolo said. Lieutenant Smith would certainly get a workout tonight, but Bolo feh confident the man would get away. He had the right stuff.
"Come on, men! We can still catch them!" Captain Xavier spurred off, with his troops following.
Seeing the cavalry depart without burning down Rancho Ramirez, the band decided to keep playing. The Spanish lords and ladies began to dance out in the courtyard. Someone lit off more firecrackers as the party guests continued the fiesta outside.
No need to waste a good celebration.
Chapter 28
GRIPPING THE STALLION'S MANE for dear life, Smith rode into the night as though devils were after him. As he heard thundering hoofbeats of another horse coming closer, he shouted over his shoulder, "Is that you, Bonita?"
Lit by the moonlight, another rider drew alongside him. Smith looked around, and his jaw dropped. Dark-haired Yaqu
ita was mounted on a dun horse with heavy saddlebags behind the cantle. She wore Bonita's riding habit and top hat with the white scarf. Her radio-guitar was strapped to her back, bouncing as she rode along.
"Oh, uh, hi, Yaquita."
She turned her head to him in a rage, raised her riding crop and brought it down across his back with a vicious whack. "That'll teach you to cheat on me! And with a green-eyed blonde yet!"
Though Smith could hear the thunder of cavalry troops close behind, right now, Yaquita seemed the more dangerous enemy.
"Wait, Yaquita, I can explain!" Smith said. "She was my childhood sweetheart—I mean Pedrito's childhood sweetheart. . . ."
She whipped him with the riding crop again.
Smith held up a forearm in an attempt to defend himself. "I know! I knew it was a mistake. I, uh, wasn't myself."
Yaquita looked at him, far from mollified, but reading her own meaning into his words. "Does that mean you're not going to marry her after all?" Yaquita seemed more concerned about her matrimonial prospects than their impending death at the hands of the cavalry.
"No!" he spluttered. "I never wanted to marry her." And he doubted the real Pedrito had, either.
"Oh, you darling," Yaquita purred, "you are so attractive!"
As the stallion continued to gallop, Smith turned around and saw the snarling approach of the cavalry under the silvery moonlight, their pistols glistening. Every one of the cavalrymen was out for his blood.
Captain Xavier, riding like fury, yelled back to his troops: "Draw your sabers! Get ready to cut them into fajitas!"
As one, the cavalrymen drew their sabers, the metal blades ringing from their sheaths.