Alex reeled across the curb, slamming into the side of an old abandoned car.
He caught himself and crouched to defend himself against the huge doorman, but there was no need. He had re-entered the building with a backward look.
Tugging at his jacket to straighten it, Alex sighed. There wasn't a cab in sight. He'd have to walk into town.
The suspicion that he was being followed began with vague noises in the darkness behind him. He would see no one, yet the feeling persisted.
Climbing a steep street, he was suddenly boxed in by two men. One was heavy, squat, powerful. He reminded Alex of the doorman at the La Casa de Los Angeles. His companion was short and skinny, dressed in a loud check suit. He was the dangerous one.
It was almost over so fast, Alex nearly missed the whole scene. The heavy-set man moved forward, grabbed him by one arm and flipped him to the ground. At the same time the skinny man lunged in and his knife seared along Alex's ribs like a red-hot razor blade.
Quickly the squat man knocked the little man's knife arm up and yelled, "No muerte, Antonio!"
The little man's ferrety eyes glared and he wavered, half-determined to charge again, this time with his big companion as his target.
It wasn't much, but it was a chance. Alex rolled free and then kept rolling and sliding down the steep street as fast as he could in a shower of stones and loose dirt.
The little man was first after him. His pointed Italian shoes plowed paths in the loose trash as he literally skiied down the slope on his heels. He held the knife ready and when he was close enough, set his feet and lunged.
Alex rolled away. This was no game. The little man was playing for keeps.
He followed Alex relentlessly, holding his knife ready for the taste of blood.
Alex scuttled along on his back trying to get away, but the killer had him cornered and was closing in for the finish. He held his knife low, blade up. When he lunged, he came in low trying to make a horizontal stab into Alex's body.
Rolling again, Alex evaded the knife for the second time. But just barely.
He was breathing hard and the stones on the street bit into him as he slid along on his back.
Suddenly, one hand encountered a round object that turned under pressure. A rock! Perhaps half as big as his head. He caught it in his hand, mothered it and scuttled away from the little man, again.
Behind Antonio, the big man was coming to his aid, huffing and pulling on the raw slope.
It was now or never, Alex told himself grimly. And if he waited too much longer it was going to be never.
His body was taut in preparation. His will was concentrating on preparing for Antonio's next charge.
The little man was eager, now. He was hurrying. He could hear his larger companion rapidly shortening the distance between them threatening to end the game before he tasted the blood he sought, needed.
He dove forward, his knife-blade eager for the salty taste of gringo blood dripping from it.
Time seemed to stand still for Alex. The little Mexican paused, then plunged forward in what seemed like slow motion to Alex.
He was sure he was going to get away. So sure! And the knife tore into his side leaving a trail of pain.
It was only reflexes, reflexes and determination that drove his hand up and out, ramming that rock into the side of Antonio's head with all the force left in him.
Blood splattered in thin drops. The knifeman shuddered and then collapsed as if the strings holding him up were cut. As he fell he dragged the knife out of Alex.
Alex noticed with a passing surprise that there was almost no pain. Not enough to stop or hinder him, anyway.
Alex stood, shakily. And the squat man seized him around the chest and hugged him to him, squeezing the air and life out of his lungs.
Wiggling desperately, Alex wrenched free of the squeezing arms and dropped to the ground next to the still figure of Antonio. His squat attacker paused for a moment, sensing the kill. Then he dove for Alex, spreading his body out in a cloak to catch and trap his body.
His look of anticipation changed to horror at the last moment, as he descended on Alex, whose hands held the silvery blade erect to catch the massive weight.
He screamed long and horribly as the cold steel rammed into his belly. In his throes of agony, he reared up off of Alex and plunged backward atop Antonio. He clawed at his soft belly until the knife pulled out.
And then he knelt, staring stupidly as a bright red fountain of blood poured from his belly over Antonio's body. He wailed, like a hurt child, tears streaming from his eyes.
Alex wanted to shut the sound out the sound but he couldn't. He watched as the big man swayed and keened his death song before slowly folding up and falling across Antonio.
Alex crept close. The big man's eyes stared in abject terror, unseeingly.
There was no movement from Antonio either. Gingerly, Alex felt for a pulse beat, but there was none.
As distasteful as it seemed, Alex had to take the knife and press it into the little man's hands and bend the still-warm fingers around the blood-smeared handle.
He did the same with the rock, pressing it into the big man's hand, then letting it drop free and roll a few inches away, leaving its track in the blood-soaked ground.
Alex groaned and stood. He had been stabbed. But how bad he couldn't tell. At least he was still able to walk.
Dragging his feet, he turned away from the two bodies and headed for his hotel room and the chance to pull himself together.
The few blocks seemed like miles. He was gasping with pain as he reached the door to the lobby. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his way inside and stumbled across the lobby, doing his best to look like an ordinary drunk coming home.
Leaning on the counter to get his key, he almost fainted. It was fortunate that the desk clerk didn't give him more than a casual glance and mumbled "Mr. Benson," before handing him his key. The clerk went back to perusing his copy of "Playboy".
Alex stepped away from the counter and froze in horror. A thin drip of blood speckled the top where he had leaned.
"Buenos noches," he said and wiped his sleeve across the edge of the counter.
"Buenos noches." The clerk didn't even raise his head. He had better things to do than look at drunken gringos. Just then he was busily spelling the English words to "Miss December" in the gatefold. His mouth watered over the photograph.
Alex, in the meanwhile limped to his room where he used his sliced open shirt as a bandage to hold in the blood. Not thinking clearly, he collapsed on the bathroom floor, falling into a shock induced sleep.