Like A Hole In The Head by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online

men were in the front seats. The driver, seeing me, waved his hand, then steered the truck towards me. I waited.
         The truck pulled up and both men got out. The driver was middle height, wearing only a pair of black boxing trunks. His body was covered with thick, coarse hair. He was around thirty years of age with a fleshy, swarthy face. If you like the Dago type — I don't — you could call him handsome. He was certainly sexy and in fine condition. Flat muscles rippled under his skin. He could be as quick as a lizard and as strong as a bull.
         My eyes shifted to his companion. He was older, shorter and he wore one of those Hawaiian shirts that have dropped out of favour : yellow flowers on a red background and a pair of grubby white slacks. His swarthy face was pock-marked, his eyes small, his lips thin and his nose broad and flat. He looked like one of those types you see on TV, playing a minor moronic gangster.
         The driver came towards me, revealing perfect white teeth in a wide, know-all smile.
         "Mr. Benson? I'm Raimundo. I'm Mr. Savanto's right hand, left hand and possibly left leg." His grin widened. "This is Nick. Don't bother about him. No one does. He's just the jerk who sweeps up the horse droppings."
         As he didn't offer his hand, it saved me from shaking hands with him. I didn't like him. I didn't like his companion.
         "What are you doing her?" I asked.
         "We've got things for you, Mr. Benson." He suddenly looked beyond me and his eyebrows went up. I glanced over my shoulder. Lucy was moving into the bungalow, carrying our cups. She was wearing a halter and cotton jeans. As she moved, her bottom gave a little twitch.
         "Is that Mrs. Benson?" Raimundo asked, his eyes moving back to me.
         "That's Mrs. Benson." I gave him the hard eye. "What things have you brought?"
         "The works: the rifle, ammunition, food, booze. I haven't missed a trick."
         "What do you mean . . . food? We're capable of buying our own food."
         His grin became sly. "You don't have to . . . it's all here with Mr. Savanto's compliments."
         He turned to his companion who was standing indifferently by the truck.
         "Hey, Nick, get the stuff unloaded." He turned to me. "Is that the shooting range over there? We'll unload the ammunition there if it's okay with you."
         I hesitated, then shrugged. If Savanto wanted it this way, he was the boss and it would save me money.
         "Where's Timoteo?"
         "He's on his way. He'll be here any minute. Have you somewhere we can pitch a tent? Me and Nick won't bother you. We have our own food. Nick knows how to take care of me." Again the wide grin. "Just say where we can be out of your way and that's where we'll be."
         "What are you going to do around here?"
         "Security. We'll wander around out of sight. If anyone comes here, we'll ease him off. No rough stuff, Mr. Benson. All done with charm. That's what Mr. Savanto said and what Mr. Savanto says goes."
         I pointed to some distant palm trees: over five hundred yards from the bungalow.
         "Anywhere beyond those trees."
         "Okay. I'll give Nick a hand."
         He strolled over to the truck. I returned to the bungalow. I had an
    itchy feeling down my spine: the feeling I used to get in the jungle when I was sure one of the Vietcong was moving in my direction. Lucy had come out on to the balcony and was watching.
         "Who are they?" she asked when I reached her.
         "Two of Savanto's men. They have brought provisions."
         She stared at me.
         "Provisions?"
         "That's it. Savanto is providing the food so that saves you a shopup." I looked at my watch. "Show them where to put the stuff, honey."
         She looked helplessly at me, hesitated, then moved down the steps towards the truck. Both Raimundo and Nick were coming towards her,