Killing Castro by Lawrence Block

decided.
    All he had to do was take her the first time.
    So. He stood up, ambled over to Fenton. Fenton was reading a paperback novel, his eyes on the page, a cigarette burning itself to ashes between two of his fingers. Garth cleared his throat and Fenton looked up, his eyes asking a question.
    “I was thinking,” Garth said. “I was thinking it’s a nice day and you maybe should take a walk.”
    “You want to go someplace?”
    “Not me,” Garth said. “You.”
    Fenton said nothing.
    “Just a little walk,” Garth went on innocently. “A little walk, maybe scout around or something. You wouldn’t have to be gone long. Ten, maybe fifteen, even twenty minutes. No more.”
    “Why?”
    Garth shrugged.
    Then Fenton got it. “You’re making a mistake,” he told him, “A big mistake.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yes. The girl doesn’t want you. If you force her we’ll all have trouble. Why can’t you leave her alone?”
    “That’s my business, Fenton.”
    “It’s mine as well. You’ll get twenty thousand dollars, Garth. You can have all the women in the world with that much money. Can’t you leave this one alone until then?”
    “What’s the matter? Got the hots for her yourself?”
    “No.”
    “I bet that’s it,” Garth said. “Why, you little dried-up old fart! You want the broad yourself, don’t you?”
    “No. Leave her alone, Garth. You’ll ruin everything. You’ll—”
    But Garth didn’t hear any more of it, mainly because that was all Fenton had a chance to say. Garth’s mind worked simply but efficiently. He had managed to dope out the fact that Fenton wasn’t going to go for a walk, and that if Fenton stayed around he would only make trouble. So Garth did the simplest thing possible under that set of circumstances. He hit Fenton once, on the side of the head.
    Once was enough. The blow was a measured chop, hard enough to knock a man out, hard enough to keep him out for ten or fifteen minutes. Which would be plenty of time.
    Time for the broad.
    He found her at the edge of the stream, sitting cross-legged in the shade of a huge matto grosso palm, dressed as always in the army field jacket and the khaki pants. Her eyes came up slowly, meeting his, finding something frightening there that caused them to widen in terror. He met her fearful expression with a smile that came out lecherous and evil.
    “It’s about time,” he said. And he stepped toward her.
    She understood the meaning if not the words. She had been scrubbing a cast iron skillet, and as he moved at her she threw the skillet at him, aiming for his face. He brushed it aside with one hand, then moved to kick aside the Sten gun she was reaching for. She started to scramble to her feet but he slapped her hard on the side of her face and she fell down again.
    “Now,” he said.
    He fell on her, roughly, savage and blind with his hunger. She fought him, her nails driving for his face, for his eyes, but he pinned her hands behind her back and tore the field jacket open. Beneath it she wore only a white T-shirt, no brassiere. He ripped the T-shirt from her body. Her breasts were enticing mounds of golden flesh, the tips dark and taut, and he filled his hands with them, squeezing her, hurting her.
    There was terror in her eyes now, terror mingling with fear, hatred, loathing and anger. He ignored all this. He was impatient, a stallion aching to mount a mare. He tore at her pants, at the damned khaki pants she always wore. He got them down over her hips, over her thighs, down to her knees. Her underpants were wispy white nylon and he shredded them.
    “Don’t fight,” he said, not caring that she could not understand him. “Don’t fight, don’t give me a hard time. Just relax and enjoy it. It won’t be so bad, you little bitch. Just relax. You might like it.”
    But she fought. One knee tried for his groin but he swerved his body and blocked the blow with his hips. One hand got loose, went for his throat, but he caught the hand and bent