Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1930)

that bird's got half Mexico eating out of his hand. When his horses run, they win, seeing that none of the other jockeys think they'd look good with their throats cut." '"Senough," chirped Abe. "I feel like I'd dusted off the electric chair." "Don't worry; he's on his best behavior at the races," said the other. "But it's lucky he didn't spot you in some lonesome coulee. He ain't called the Scourge of Sinaloa for nothing." Messrs. Zoop and Torrance, with Violetta between them, stepped smartly to the automobile and embarked for the land of liberty at seventy miles an hour. The dew of alarm which sparkled on their foreheads evaporated as the border drew nearer, and by the time they re-entered San Diego Mr. Zoop attempted jocularity. "The Scourge of Sinaloa, eh?" he croaked. "I pretty near said to him, 'Stand back, Noah Beery,' but for why should I waste my breathing on a foreigner? A swell menace he'd make, with them mustachios and revolving eyes. Imagine him trying to scare us. Heh-heh-heh — I'm laughing!" "But I am not," said Miss Velasquez, her black opals glazed with memory. "He ees sooch a queeck, bold sort of man. I am afraid ." "There, there," soothed Mr. Torrance, winding a Drotective arm around her. "Don't worry, Violetta " The girl's bosom heaved hysterically. "It's not that, you big elephant!" she whisoered. "I'm afraid I won't see him again." TWlTHIN six months Violetta Velasquez ** was established in the hearts of the people as firmly as weight reducing, second mortgages, and the belief that it was possible to pick good horses from bad ones. From a minor bit in "Betrayed in Barcelona" she had risen to the altitude of a featured player, and developing a sequence of coy Latin tantrums on the way, she had incited the critics to employ such adjectives as vivid, vital, vixenish and voluptuous. This led inevitably to dealings with a finance company, which, after the required signatures had decorated the contract, obligingly produced a pink stucco mansion and two cars; also a welter of Filipino servants and a regimental looking college girl who acted as private secretary, in the hooe of getting material for a nebulous book to be entitled "Sewers of Hollywood." Not forgetting her father, Violetta pensioned that astounded person to a life of alcoholic stupor — provided he remained in Albuquerque. Hand in hand with fame had come an avalanche of mail, including a sultry, letter every fortnight from Tomaso Bustamente, who had managed to see her pictures between raids. These epistles, apparently written with a pickaxe dipped in red ink, were carried by Violetta to a linguist in Yucca Street, who translated them as literally as he dared, for the Scourge of Sinaloa had no more restraint than the editor of a tabloid. She gathered that Tomaso's heart was burning a hole in his bolero jacket, and that if the accursed gringo government had not refused him permission to enter California he would come bursting through her window with a knife in one hand and a wedding ring in the other. ONE warm afternoon, Violetta stretched her willowy person on a day bed and gave herself up to thoughts of the man she'd seen only once. What a conquering gaze he had! She shivered deliriously and speculated on his lovemaking abilities. There was a crisp knock at the door. "It's the interviewer from the Sunday Sun," announced the secretary. "Dear me, did you forget what I told you about being ready?" "Why can't they let me alone between pictures?" complained the drowsy Violetta. 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