Candy Kid (11 page)

Again Jose spoke to his beer. “A man is lonely when he is without friends.”

He had finally evoked a
“Com’sta?”
From a little old fellow in whose worn face there was no malice. “I do not believe I have seen you before.”

“I am a stranger,” Jose stated, ignoring in proper fashion what had gone before. All of them were willing to speak now that there had been a beginning of social exchange, all but Salvador who maintained his voluble distrust.

“From what part of the country do you come?”

He saw no reason to tamper with the truth any more than was necessary. “From Santa Fe,” he told them. He allowed the calloused palms of his hands to be seen, grateful for the results of cowpunching.

“And where is Santa Fe?”

He weighed the answer. “It is north. In New Mexico.”

The others gabbled, “My brother, he has been to New Mexico.” “My mother, she has a cousin who has been to the city of Silver.” “We have been to the beet fields of Colorado.” Until the surly question broke from Salvador, “Why do you come here?”

Jose shrugged gracefully. “My cousin and myself, we have worked on a ranch in Socorro county. Only yesterday we have brought to market the cows. For this we receive money. He now has returned but to me there is the consideration, perhaps I can earn more money. It may well be that someone wishes a strong young man to deliver some cows to the north. It is possible.”

“You will find in Barto’s no men who own cows,” Salvador grunted. “For these you must go to the Chenoweth Hotel.” His example could have been El Paso, to narrow it to the Chenoweth was deliberate.

Deliberately Jose said in return, “Only a rich man can visit the Hotel Chenoweth. I am a poor man who wishes to earn his way home.” He measured the faces carefully while he took a full drink from his mug. They were off guard now, all but Salvador, and this one had dared him. He dried his upper lip with his forefinger. “I have heard there is a man who at times is in need of a delivery boy. He is called”—he paused as if trying to remember the name—“el Greco.”

Their faces closed as he spoke. They didn’t answer him in words, only in caution. One murmured, “I have heard the name.” They wanted no more of Jose because he spoke of Senor Praxiteles.

Boldly, Jose continued it, asking, “Do you know where I can find this Senor el Greco?”

The sequence of sounds did not become a phrase this time. The men edged farther away.

“Perhaps you would know, Senor,” Jose addressed the bartender.

“I do not know this man,” Barto denied flatly. He kept his eyes on Jose.

Jose drained the mug. “Someone must know. I have heard of him.” He set the mug hard on the bar. As it thudded, the little men shrank. Not Salvador or the bartender. “I will find someone who knows him,” Jose said boldly, and he walked out of the saloon. He didn’t walk far; he leaned in a shop doorway until he saw Salvador emerge.

He put his back to the street then, examining the shoddy shoes in the shop window. Until the fellow had passed. He figured it would happen this way. Salvador was moving with a purpose, much too energetically for the hour and for a fellow who had been enjoying his beer. Whether Salvador was headed to inform the police of a stranger’s interest in el Greco or whether he was going to el Greco himself was what Jose intended to find out.

He left just enough space between them, his own stride was apparently purposeless, but he knew how to lengthen without hurrying it. It wouldn’t have been easy to follow Salvador on a crowded street, the jeans, the sweaty shirt, and the straw hat burned saffron were uniform. But the street was uncrowded. Trailing was too easy; it wasn’t safe. If Salvador were to glance over his shoulder, he would behold Jose.

He was right, it was too easy; something had to spoil it. As Salvador waited to cross at the first intersection, Jose’s eyes slipped by him to the opposite corner. To Canario.

It took him a moment to recognize the man. Without his band, Canario was no more than another Mexican sauntering along with his cronies before the hour for work. With recognition, Jose had to decide without delay which man was of more importance. Regretfully, he decided against Salvador. Jose stepped back against the wall of the corner shop and waited.

Canario trotted on with his gesticulating friends. He was almost beside Jose before he saw him. Quite obviously he didn’t want to see Jose. Dismay pulled down his lip, skittered his eyes, and he ducked out into the wide street without a thought of the squalling cars. Jose was after him at once. His hand grabbed the small man’s shoulder, bringing him to a halt.

“Look where you’re going,
amigo,
” Jose warned.

Canario’s great friendship had vanished overnight. He spoke in English even as Jose, although his was spiced with border accent. “What is it you want?” He eyed Jose as a stranger.

Jose kept his hand where it was, drawing the musico back to the curb. “I don’t want you run down before I buy you a drink.”

“I do not think I care for a drink.”

Jose’s clutch tightened. “I don’t either. But where else can we talk at this hour?”

“What is it you wish to say?”

“Plenty,” Jose snapped.

Canario searched for escape. He was an unhappy man, Jose was too big, too young, too determined. Too Norte Americano for a small Mexican street musician.

“I’ve just had two beers at Bartolomeo’s. Shall we return there or you have perhaps a better idea?”

Desperately, Canario’s eyes searched the street for assistance. His friends were out of sight.

“Barto’s?” Jose repeated.

“No, no. I am a sick man, Senor—”

“The sickness has come on you quickly. Too quickly for my pity. Shall we sit over there in the churchyard?” He began moving Canario in that direction. “If your sickness increases, I can ask the priest to attend you.”

It wasn’t a bad choice, in the open where none could overhear. There was the usual scattering of sightseeing tourists wandering in and out the tall doors; the usual old women, all in black like crows, the fringe of their shawls rippling as they moved in their little black shoes. And the usual scatter of ragged kids chasing each other in play. That Canario approved the choice was doubtful, he likely hadn’t been this near a church in years. Jose guided him to the very steps, pushed him down, and sat beside him. He pulled out his tobacco pouch, his cigarette papers, and offered them first to Canario. The man shook his head.

Jose began to roll one. “Death walked in Juarez last night.”

Canario’s face was blank. “I do not know what you say.”

“There was a man who followed me. He was called Tosteen. You knew him.”

“I did not know him,” Canario’s teeth clicked. “Before God, I know nothing of this man.”

“He is dead.” He probed Canario’s eyes. “You know that.”

“No, no.” Canario’s nostrils quivered.

“In the river. Everyone knows it.”

For some reason the fear and tension oozed out of Canario. As if Jose meant nothing personal but was merely repeating street gossip. “It is this one you mean?” He was eager now to please. “I have heard of this one.” He could grin. “There is much trouble. Our police and your police must decide on which side of the river he has died. It is most difficult.” He shook his head. “Because a man gets drunk and falls into the river. So much trouble!”

“He didn’t drown,” Jose snapped. Canario blanked again. “There isn’t enough water in the Rio Grande to drown a flea from your miserable body. He wasn’t drunk, either. He was on a job, a man doesn’t drink on that kind of a job, Canario. He was following me. Until you stopped him from following me. What happened after that?”

Canario allowed himself to disbelieve. “It is the same man … this one in the river and the other one …?”

“You know damn well it is. He was thrown in the river. After he was dead. What happened—?”

Fright stammered, “I know nothing.”

“—when you stopped him?” He waited.

Canario began cautiously, “I give him a fine
piada.
Like I give you.” Little drips of sweat rolled from beneath Canario’s straw hat. He wanted to be believed.

“He didn’t want to hear a
piada.
He was after me.”

“Why, Don Jose?” The voice insinuated, “Why was he after you?”

“I don’t know,” Jose answered bluntly. “I don’t know a damn thing about him. All I know is he was following me, and now he is dead….

“I heard the kids talking about it.” Jose watched the clumps of children running in the street and the churchyard, sitting on the curbs, pink watermelon juice or cheap pink and green ices dripping from their chins. “Who was he, Canario?”

“I do not know this.” That much was spoken honestly, Canario wasn’t exaggerating the roll of his shoulders and his eyes. He didn’t know.

“How then is it you know he was in the river, dead?”

“Everyone whispers about it, one to another. Until there is no one, not the ninitos nor the deaf abuelitas nor Don Jose, who does not know.” Canario smiled with childwise bliss as he explained, “There is not much happens in our little city, Senor. It is not like El Paso and the cities of the United States where always there are so many things happening. Where a man may die, and who is there to care? Here it is most important.”

“Yeah.” Here it was most important. Because delicate governmental relations between south of the border and north of the border must not be upset. Most important—more important than the death of a sloppy man in a seersucker suit. And how happy Juarez would be when it was decided that Tosteen died on the American side of the river. As it would be decided. “Why did he die?”

Again the shrug, but again the stained rivulets began their flow from the ragged hat brim. “I do not know this thing. He drinks too much, the Norte Americanos all of them drink too much, he falls in the river, he dies. It is sad, may his soul rest.”

“He wasn’t drunk. I told you he wasn’t drunk. After you entertained him with the
piada,
then what? Where did he go?”

“Who knows? He did not remain to hear the Coda. And Senor, he did not give me so much as a
centavo.
” The indignation was honest, more honest than any words he had spoken. “Not one
centavo
when I have play so beautiful for him. He push by me—he push me, Senor—and he walks on very fast.” Canario’s lips quirked at the corners. “But not very far.”

“Someone sticks a knife in him.”

“Senor!” Canario gasped. Then he tittered, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “You are making a joke. A gringo joke.”

“I’m trying to find out what happened.” Jose brought out his pouch and papers again. They were limp with the heat.

This time Canario reached for them. “He does not go very far because he meets with some friends. They are so happy to see him. They say, ‘Come, have a drink.’” Reproachfully he inserted, “You see it is true he did have a drink, Senor, then perhaps another, then he forgets how many he has had—”

“Uh-uh, Canario. That’s what the newspapers are going to say. But you and I know it isn’t true. We know he was on a job. Who were these friends?”

This was safe ground for the musico. He was happy to say he did not know them.

“You saw them. What did they look like?”

“Turistas.”

He was beginning to suspect. Or he’d known all along. “A lady, perhaps?”

“Ah, so beautiful a lady!”

Jose said slowly, “A blonde. A beautiful young lady—so tall—” He measured toward the high arch of the church. “Young—”

Canario kept giving little quick nods.

“Who was with her?”

Canario stroked his chin. “La Barba.”

“And,” Jose grimaced, “El Chongo.”

“You know them, Senor!” Canario was pleased.

“No. I saw them later. With my cousin. The dead man was not with them. You had seen them before, Canario?”

“Who knows?” He began to argue. So many turistas, every day, every night. “How can one remember?”

“You’d remember her. She was special.”

He snickered. “Special.” He rolled the syllables. “Special.” He would remember the word.

“How much did they pay you to warn me and to intercept Tosteen?”

Canario was so innocent. He didn’t know what Don Jose spoke of.

“How much did they pay you to meet me at the door of the Cock later? To play me across the bridge?”

The innocence was aggravated. “You are my friend, Don Jose. Your father was my friend.”

Jose hammered it quietly, “How much?” His eyes crinkled on the protesting face. “I could pay you more.”

Canario vowed friendship to all Aragons but the spittle of greed was in his mouth. “It was a joke,” he confessed.

“Ha ha,” Jose said.

“Yes, Senor. A joke. This man does not know his friends are waiting for him. I must play for him while they watch—”

“You’re lying. It isn’t even good lying.”

“Senor!”

“You have forgotten what happened. You sang to me. Now you remember? You sang to me that I should be careful, a man was following me. You permitted me to pass and you stopped this man so he should not follow me. As I requested. But the turistas had already paid you for this.”

“It is very warm,” Canario said. Sweat dripped in wider streams. “I must go now.”

“Like hell.” Jose replaced his hand on the sticky shoulder. “These turistas have gone north. Tosteen is dead. And I’m here. Is that what happened?”

“Quien sabe?” Canario murmured unhappily.

“Where did they take Tosteen?”

“I do not know. I do not see them after this. I play for all the turistas who come over the bridge.”

“You saw them again. That stunt at the bridge wasn’t your idea.” It wasn’t theirs until later, when they needed it. “The police could be interested in all of this, Senor Canario. You have told them how you played for the dead man?”

“Senor Aragon!” The old face begged pity. “I am a poor man. A poor
musico.
For pennies I must play every night. When I am so sick I must play.” He clutched his belly, writhed with pain. “Do I know this man walks with death? How could I know this thing? I am a poor ignorant fellow—”

“I want to know about the bridge stunt,” Jose stated coldly. “Who paid you to do it?” He was impatient. “I am not going to the police. I have no wish to visit your bug-ridden juzgado.”