Candy Kid (12 page)

“It was for the lady. The sweet—how you say it—” He tried to soften Jose with a small joke. “The candy kid?”

Dulcy … Dulce.

“And it was a joke?”

“Yeah.”

“I think,” Canario’s eyes slid curiously to Jose’s grim face, “I think you and the lady have maybe had a little fuss, no? She says to me, ‘The great Senor Aragon, the band must play for him when he goes across the bridge.’ It is very funny! Like you are the
gobernador
or the
major
of El Paso del Norte maybe?” He tittered, begging Jose to consider it funny.

She hadn’t left the table after Jose arrived. And she hadn’t fixed it up early in the evening. Tosteen wasn’t dead in a cab then. He didn’t get it. “What time was all this?”

“What time?” Canario didn’t watch clocks. “She is going into the Cock and she sees me and she laughs. ‘It is Canario again,’ she says, because we have had a joke before this, you understand. And her friend, he comes to me and he tells me this other joke she will play on you.”

“A great little joker,” Jose said savagely.

“It is very funny.” Canario went into his phony laughter again. But he was waiting for a chance to get away. He was edgy.

It didn’t seem that Canario had any tie-up with Senor el Greco. What he’d told could have happened just the way he’d said it happened. He didn’t invent Dulcy Farrar and her bodyguard, hiring Canario to separate Jose from Tosteen early in the evening, hiring him to put them back together after Tosteen died. How did they know Tosteen was going to die? The seersucker man was walking the bars while they were ring-siding it at the Cock. But the Chimp and the Beard and the lovely girl who connived with Death wouldn’t have to do the job, not with pesos in their pockets. He recalled the hirelings in the purple suits, smoking their sweet cigarettes against el Greco’s wall, shadowed against the Chenoweth lamp post. Canario didn’t have to be tied up with el Greco to be involved. Yet Jose felt impelled to mention the Senor, he needed Canario’s reaction. Canario wouldn’t skip until Jose’s hand came out of his pocket.

Jose eyed him. “I’m looking for a girl.”

The change of subject suited Canario. “She has gone—”

“Not the Candy Kid. Another girl. Her name is Francisca. Her
abuelo
is called Senor el Greco.”

The reaction was the same as it had been in Barto’s bar. No one was willing to talk about Praxiteles. “This one I do not know.” Canario’s fingers plucked at his dirty shirt. There might always be an unhealthy respect when the old man was mentioned. But not always this green look of fear. They knew, somehow all of them knew, that el Greco and the dead man were threaded together. With sticky spider threads.

“You know a young fellow named Salvador?”

“There are many named Salvador.”

“This one drinks beer at Barto’s.”

“There are many who do.”

It would be true. Jose dug his hand into his pocket. Five pesos. Not too much, Canario mustn’t think Jose was paying for silence. Five was enough. He folded the small bills together. Canario’s hand was outthrust. It trembled just a little. Not from eagerness, only to secure his pay and escape.

“
Adios,
Canario,” said Jose. “See you around.”

“Si.”
He managed a weak grin but only because he was a showman. “See you around.”

He scuttled, out of the churchyard, into the street. He was heading toward Barto’s bar. Well, it was the closest and by now Canario’s tongue would be parched. One thing was certain; anything Jose wanted to find out concerning Senor Praxiteles, he would have to find out first hand. He pushed himself up from the low steps, shook out the kinks. It was about time to pay a visit to el Greco.

J
OSE MOVED OPENLY UP
the street where the boy had led him last night. He turned boldly into the alley called Calle de la Burrita. It was no more than a quiet little street made up of shops and houses. A street where men were about their gossip and women their chores, where dogs lay panting in the afternoon heat, and children, too small to wander the Plaza, played with melon rinds in the dust. The tourists, too, were here; they all resembled schoolteachers reaching for their retirement pay, a little too stout or a little too scrawny, quite a bit too warm in their silk prints and white sensible oxfords. Some were armed with cameras, others with pesos alone and the urge for bargains. They wandered in and out of the shops free of the imagination which bred fear. Not one of them would have dared venture here after sunset. Instinct would protect them.

Senor Praxiteles’ shop was a busy place. Three printed ladies in rimless eyeglasses, like three stair-steps, were spreading the garish colors of Mexican rugs near the window. Their speech was brisk, they knew exactly what they wanted and would not be hurried until they had weighed well their choice.

A fussy woman, the heat breaking through her makeup, and a portly man, who carried his checkered jacket, were involved with the serapes. The heavy goat’s wool they fingered increased their discomfort. The man was complaining, “I will not try one on, Veda….”

At the gimcrack counter, a pretty woman shepherded two teen-age girls. The girls looked cool enough in their white blouses and full pink-and-blue skirts. Mexican peasant wear was popular this summer on both sides of the border. The mother may have looked smart in her dark chiffon when she bought it in Detroit or Omaha. Right now it clung to her as if she’d been caught in a freshet of rain. She perched on the edge of an old table and was patient.

Senor Praxiteles was dividing his attention between the rug ladies and the serape couple. A young assistant, so young he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, waited with unwavering apathy for the young girls to decide on what they would carry back to their friends at home. It would take a long time, although the mother, panting like the curs in the dust outside, tried wearily to hasten the buying.

The bell tinkled on Jose’s entrance, even as it had last night. But the door was unlatched and there were no curtains now dividing the shop from the entry. Praxiteles looked up from the rugs but he didn’t advance to Jose. His wrinkled, hairless head, yellowed with years, signaled the young boy. There was little resemblance between the gentleman who had stood in the dim lamplight the night before, and this poor
nativo
who had come in, perhaps for no reason but to cool himself from the heated street outside.

The boy who was
primo
to Jaime or Pablo or the
sorbita
edged from behind the counter. He padded over on his dirty bare feet and stood in front of Jose. He didn’t say anything.

Jose put on a native’s accent. “I wish to buy me a bottle of perfume.”

“No perfume.”

He frowned, spoke louder, as if the boy were deaf. “It is the perfume I wish to buy. The perfume you sell here.”

He had drawn Praxiteles. With little murmurs of apology to the paying customers, the old one shuffled over and peered up at Jose. He did not recognize this yokel; it was evident in his dismissal. “We do not sell perfume. On the Avenida are the perfume shops. Or at the Mercado.”

“I have the money.” Jose fished for pesos in his pocket. “I have enough money to buy a bottle of your perfume. A bottle of La Rosa del Amor.”

The old man kept shaking his head. He was annoyed at the insistence. He was in a hurry to return to the good money of turistas. “Look about you! There is no perfume. I do not sell perfume.” He shuffled off toward the serape couple, mumbling, “No perfume. Go to the market.”

Jose didn’t go. He followed the boy to the counter. “There is no perfume?” he persisted. The teen-age girls giggled to each other.

Jose slanted over his shoulder at Senor Praxiteles. The old man wasn’t free to listen, not if the fussy woman was to be sold the costume she had chosen for her husband. Jose lowered his voice, “Where is Francisca?”

The boy’s blank face said something now. It spoke of fear.
“Yo no se,”
he stammered. He did not want any more conversation with Jose. His eyes sought Senor Praxiteles’ for help. But his fear was of the old one. He shrank again when the Senor approached the troublous peon.

El Greco’s tongue was barbed. “What now is it you want, Senor?” The title was a sneer. “I am a busy man. I have told you there is no perfume to be had here. Go to the Mercado.”

“I want to see Francisca.”

The girls giggled more shrilly. The fussy woman said loudly, “Well, make up your mind, Horace. The blue or the green,” and the schoolteachers conferred, “This one would go well in front of your fireplace, Julia.” Praxiteles’ silence was the more menacing for these extraneous sounds which dangled from it.

“She is not here,” he finally said.

“Where is she? She tells me I can see her. It is for her I wish to buy the perfume.”

Praxiteles might believe it, he might not. Francisca wasn’t too young to have a fellow seeking her, they started young on the streets of Juarez. “She told you to come here?”

That must be wrong. Jose was belligerent. “You are her abuelo. Where do I look for her but at the house of her abuelo?”

Senor Praxiteles spat, “You are wasting my time. I am busy.” He beamed a wrinkled smile at the arguing couple.
“Un momento, Senora.”
From his narrow lips, he ordered Jose, “Get out of here. Go away. If you bother me further I will call the police.”

That was a good one. But Jose skirted by the old man as if he were cowed by the threat. He would return later. When el Senor had more time for him. On the broken steps he lingered long enough to roll a cigarette. He rounded the corner where last night two men had waited for him. No one shadowed the sunlight. In the back of his mind, he might have wanted a look at the rear entrance of the Praxiteles tienda. He was not expecting a whisper from the window.

He saw the boy’s empty, frightened face. “Francisca, she did not come home last night.” The boy was gone that quickly. He must have made some excuse to the gigglers to come into what would have been a stockroom, something which would hold water with the old man, such as fetching more gimcracks.

Jose walked on. Tosteen was dead, Francisca had not come home last night. Francisca had the package Tosteen was after, the package el Greco had turned over to Jose for Dulcy Farrar. The package which was more important than a bottle of cheap perfume should be. He was going to find the
sorbita.
He wouldn’t listen to the dreary whisper that she too might have been laid to rest in the river. He would find her alive.

There was one more source of information, an honest one. Senora Herrera wouldn’t know anything about what made a perfume bottle important but she could tell him more about Francisca and the spidery old man. Senora Herrera was one person who wasn’t afraid to speak out about el Greco. He couldn’t call upon the Herreras in his sweaty work clothes. They were gentlefolk. He’d have to return to the hotel and change. It was just as well to report in to Lou before evening. He’d stirred up fuss in enough quarters over here to make a friend essential. He didn’t want to be found on the riverbed tomorrow morning.

Instead of returning to the intersection, he cut across side streets to Avenida Juarez. His guardian angel must have been nudging him. Certainly he hadn’t thought about trouble waiting at the intersection. The short cut gave him a head start when they spotted him, Salvador and two men in purple-blue suits.

He wouldn’t have noticed them if he hadn’t short-cut again, slanting across in the direction of customs. Salvador was pointing to him, the men began a slant cross of their own. Jose lengthened his stride, eeling through the clusters of tourists and vendors. He didn’t know what the two wanted with him, he wasn’t anxious to find out. The men were half-running but he kept ahead of them and, in a last spurt, declared himself quickly to the Mexican officials.

He was midway to the American side when they reached the barrier. Over his shoulder he watched them gesticulating to the officials. They might be accusing him of anything from theft to rape to subversive activity but they weren’t permitted to follow. He didn’t breathe easy until he had been passed by the American side. Steaming from the heat of the chase. It wasn’t the climate for foot races.

He had a natural distaste for the waiting taxis. No telling what you’d find in a border cab. It was safer to be out in the open. His luck held. A slatternly street car was approaching and he waited for it. His pursuers might have been on board but they weren’t. The car was sparsely filled at this hour. He rode the short way into the city with Mexicans who were crossing the border for shopping or a job. The El Paso streets were cluttered with safe afternoon crowds. When he swung off the trolley, it wasn’t more than a stride to the hotel.

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and he went directly to the coffee shop. The cooling system enhanced appetite; he ordered steak and potatoes and a tomato salad, iced coffee. While he waited, he munched on bread. He sensed rather than saw that someone stood above the table. It was Lou.

“What are you doing here?” She didn’t seem pleased about it.

“Sit down.” His mouth was full.

She hesitated and then she pulled out the chair across from him. “I thought I spotted you coming in.” For Lou the waitress rushed to the table. “Nothing for me, Annie.” She waved the girl away. Her frown returned to Jose. “I said you’d checked out.”

He was quick. “Who’d you say it to?”

“The police.”

They observed each other silently. He asked, still not understanding how or why, “The police were looking for me?”

“Not exactly.” There was an ink stain on her forefinger. She rubbed at it. “One of our guests died last night.”

“Was killed,” he said.

Her eyes jumped to his face. “You know about it!”

“I’ve been in Juarez. Everyone knows about it.” He put butter on another slab of bread. “I don’t get why the cops wanted to see me.”

“I don’t know that they did,” Lou said slowly. “Until those friends of yours—”

He waited without expression.

“Jim Wade and Dee Meighan volunteered that Tustin had been looking for you last night.”

He began to chomp the crust. Annie was bringing his plate, it gave him time to think about how much he should tell Lou. By the time he’d sampled the steak, he’d decided to open up. About so far.