The Big Enchilada

want to get away tomorrow.”
    “You’re fucking right you’ll go tomorrow. Come up in half an hour. I want to see if you look as dumb as you act.”
    “No tricks?”
    He laughed and hung up.
    I had wondered how I was going to get into his house, but he had made it easy. Overconfidence will do it every time.
    I dug out the gun I had taken from Faro and taped it to the side of my leg just above my ankle. I had to figure they wouldn’t frisk me too carefully, and even if they found the gun, I hoped it wouldn’t make much difference to what I had in mind. To increase my chances, I put my own weapon in a holster that attached to my belt in the back. I pulled my shirt out so it covered the gun, and put on a jacket.
    I went over one of the canyons, took some back roads, and pulled up in front of Casa Domingo in just over half an hour. I sat in the car a minute to get myself into the part I was going to play. It wasn’t going to be easy to resist the temptation to blow a hole through the guy, but it was necessary if my plan was going to work.
    I shambled up the long curving drive, trying to look like I was busted and beaten. I was coiled tight inside, not from nervousness, but from anticipation, and I had to keep it from showing so that Domingo wouldn’t get tipped off that his house was about to come tumbling down.
    I pressed the door bell and heard the chimes play what I recognized as the first few notes of the theme song of his old television show. He probably thought that was really nifty.
    The door was pulled open wide, and the space was entirely filled with the towering bulk of Mountain Cyclone. He looked even uglier than before.
    He looked at me with his little pig eyes for a long time and then turned sideways to let me in. Even that didn’t leave much space, but I squeezed by.
    We stood in the entry hall looking at one another. The monster gurgled something that sounded like “Hold out your arms.” I obliged, and he ran two hands that were the size of Smithfield hams over my chest and under my arms.
    “Watch it, I’m ticklish,” I said.
    He made a sound like a hippo wallowing in the mud, and ran his hands around my waist. He snorted derisively when he found the gun, and roughly pulled it from the holster, nearly lifting me off the floor. He made another gurgling sound that I took to signify amusement and dropped my gun in his pocket. And that was that. Frisk over. They’ll do it every time. I loved it.
    He motioned with a thumb like a large zucchini squash that I was to precede him. We walked to the back of the house to the large room I had seen the night before. In the doorway, Mountain gave me a gentle push that sent me flying into the room.
    I whirled around, but Mountain was gone and I was alone. They couldn’t have made it easier for me. I looked around the room and sat down on the large overstuffed sofa. I was still alone. A couple of quick movements and I had gotten the gun off my leg and buried under the thick cushions. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, if anything, but I figured I could use all the edge I could get when the final scene was played.
    It was a comfortable room and a large one, taking up most of the width of the house. It was done in shades of rich brown and deep red. The furnishings were not new, but were of the kind of high quality that mellows and improves with use. Antique Persian rugs covered the pegged wooden floor and even older Peruvian weavings hung on the walls. An odd feature was that part of the wall opposite the glass back wall was covered with floor to ceiling drapes. I wondered what was behind the covering, but I didn’t want to be caught snooping around, and I remained seated.
    In one of the side walls there was a door that was half open. Originally it would have been a closet, but the opening was blocked with a huge steel door that must have led to a walk-in vault, It looked to be too elaborate an arrangement for storing his expensive cigars, so it must be where Domingo kept his “sensitive” materials.
    Domingo kept me waiting a long time, obviously trying to rattle me, but I just relaxed and thought about what was going to happen in a couple of hours.
    Finally Domingo strolled in, his fat cigar preceding him by eight inches. He was wearing a greenish brown terry jump suit which, with his plump body, made him resemble a furry New Zealand kiwi fruit. He stood in front of me, legs apart, heavy lips curled in a sneer around his cigar, and looked