Free The Kremlin Letter by Noel; Behn

instructed the pilot.
    After another exchange of Spanish during which the proprietor grew even more agitated the pilot turned back to Rone. “He remembers at least four. None spoke English. One may have spoken French. He says Señor Janis is a pig.”
    â€œAsk him if the men came together or at different times.”
    After another discussion the pilot answered Rone. “They came at different times. The last was about two months ago. He says Señor Janis is the greatest pig that ever lived.”
    â€œDid Janis ever leave here with any of the men?”
    The pilot and the proprietor exchanged sharp words. “He does not feel like talking about pigs,” the pilot informed Rone.
    â€œHow much is his bill?” Rone asked.
    â€œSixteen thousand pesos,” said the proprietor, suddenly discovering English. “He owes sixteen thousand pesos, but I will settle for ten thousand, or even better I will take five hundred in gringo—I mean American dollars.”
    Rone counted out a thousand dollars and laid them in a neat pile on the counter. He then placed one hand on them and leaned over toward the proprietor. “Did he ever leave with any of the men?”
    â€œNo, no, Señor. He has never left since the day the Ship sailed without him.”
    â€œWho were the men who came to see him?”
    â€œOne was French, one may have been German, the other two were foreign—not English or United States, but I swear I do not know what.”
    â€œWhat has Señor Janis done with his time? How does he spend his days?”
    â€œHow does anyone here spend his days? They drink soup and have women. These people are Indian. I am not; I come from north of Mexico City itself. But these people are Indian. They make soup from cactus roots and drink it. That is why they cannot work. That is why they cannot pay bills. They just drink the soup—it makes them numb.”
    â€œPeyote? Cacao?”
    â€œNot in this area. But it is the same kind of thing. They just drink it and have the women. They are shameless. They are all pigs.” He continued to eye the money nervously.
    â€œAnd Señor Janis—is he a pig too?” Rone stared coldly at the weakening man.
    The proprietor hesitated, then broke into a wide grin. “Everyone is a pig—but Señor Janis, ah, he is a magnificent pig.”
    Rone picked up the stack of bills and handed half of it to the sweating proprietor. “I am his brother. He will be leaving here with me. When he leaves you will get the rest of your money.”
    The proprietor stuffed the bills into his shirt.
    â€œWhere can I find him?” Rone demanded.
    â€œUp there on the third ledge—at the house of the bitches.”
    The pilot waited at the cantina while Rone climbed the path toward the third ledge. As he approached he heard the voices of arguing women. The tension grew. Screams and hisses erupted. He reached the ledge in time to see a large bronze-faced Indian woman rush from the hut and throw herself on two smaller girls sitting near a caldron. The three rolled in the dust kicking, scratching and screaming. Within minutes two other Indian girls joined the melee. The caldron was overturned, a thin reed chair was smashed, dresses were ripped, eyes were gouged, hair was pulled, faces were hit, naked butts were kicked, and one magnificently exposed tanned breast was bitten.
    â€œ Brava — brava — magnifico!” Rone heard a masculine voice laugh out. “Olé, olé , and all of that rot.”
    There, at the far end of the ledge, stood a tall copper-faced man with snow-white hair and beard. He wore only a pair of brightly colored native shorts. His lean, muscular body looked like that of a twenty-year-old Olympic swimmer. But he was twice or perhaps three times that age. When he saw Rone he flashed a brilliant smile. “I’ll bet fifty pounds on the fat one,” he shouted. “Fifty pounds says she’ll