Candy Kid (16 page)

“It is not true!” she cried out. “I have not seen this man you speak of. I do not know him.”

“You saw him all right. He spotted you and he hired you. He sent you to the cafe to keep an eye on me, to warn him when I was finishing my dinner. But I didn’t finish dinner and you had to play sick, make a quick dash to pass the word. Was it then he decided to let you get the package from me? I hope he paid you in advance. Because he didn’t show up to collect the package. He couldn’t. He was dead.”

“I didn’t kill him!” she vowed. “I know nothing of this.”

“I’m not saying you killed him.” His hand tightened. “But when you learned he was dead, you were as scared as if you had. Because you were sure el Greco had had him killed, which may be true, and you didn’t know how much the old spider had found out about your doings with Tosteen. That’s why you didn’t go home last night. And that’s why you returned the package to me, it was too hot for you to hang on to. With a dead man’s touch on it, it was even too hot for you to try to sell it. You had to get rid of it fast. How you got it across the bridge without any papers, I don’t even care. I suspect that dumb Jaime or that smart Pablo had something to do with it. I suppose el Greco buys boys too and that they hate him almost as much as you do. There’s one thing I do know. If the old man should find out your part in this, he’d kill you no matter how much money he paid for you.” And he didn’t know what he could do to help her.

She muttered defiance. “I am not afraid of him. I have run away from him.”

“He’ll find you. He’ll pay to find you. Just as you said.”

“He will not find me this time. I have many place to hide.” And then she began to tremble. “You will not tell him you have seen me?”

“I wouldn’t tell him the right time.”

She was puzzled at the words but she accepted them as good. It was then he made the mistake of releasing her wrist. Only to reach for his wallet, to give her enough to help her until he could think of some way to get her out of this dirty business. But the minute his hand moved, she ran, fleet as a deer, fleet as an Indian.

As quickly as he was on his feet, calling, “Wait!” she had already disappeared into the street crowd. And by the time he reached the corner, she had vanished as completely as if she had never existed.

There was no particular reason to call upon Senor Praxiteles now. It was nothing but bravado leading him away from the street of lights into the dark byways. El Greco would tell him nothing new. Yet here he was, the dirt of the curbing brushed from his gabardine suit, his shoulders squared in Norte American style, stubbornly looking for trouble.

The shadows grew deeper, the sounds of human life fainter, as he approached the Calle de la Burrita. With nightfall, it was again deserted, silent, terrifying in its emptiness. Jose walked proudly, daring to whistle a tune, daring to intrude the red circle of a cigarette tip into the dark. He walked direct to el Greco’s door, he pulled the bell, and impatiently pounded on the stout, ancient wood. There was someone on the premises, he had noted the ghost flame of light as he passed the shop window.

It did not appear that his pounding was to be attended, and for that neglect he hammered harder and rejangled the bell rope. He didn’t intend to give up, not if he waked the dead who might be cowering behind the walls of the other houses on this shabby street. He was beginning to doubt the virtue of boldness before the door was jerked open. “What you want ringing the bells, knocking down the door?” An old voice quavered, “You can not come in. Senor Praxiteles is not open.”

Jose did not allow the door to be closed on him. He pushed into the vestibule while the old woman was speaking. In the near darkness he could discern only that she was very small and very old. The smell of her, too, was old, musky. “Tell the Senor that Jose Aragon is here to see him,” he directed imperiously. He strode on into the shop.

She followed on small, protesting feet. “He is gone to bed. You come back tomorrow.” Her shoes were scuffed, the black of her dress rusty. It was too heavy a dress for a hot night but she was too old to feel heat, her skin was dry as her bones. On the top of her head was a little skirl of gray hair, her scalp gleamed yellow beneath it.

He swaggered, “He saw me last night; he will see me tonight. Tell him—Jose Aragon.”

She went away only because she hadn’t the strength to eject him personally. She might deliver the message; she might summon the goons. But he didn’t believe the goons were in residence. Praxiteles wouldn’t trust strong-arm men to dwell in his house. It would be too easy for them to take advantage of a man who was fragile as a dried pea pod.

He was not too surprised that Praxiteles appeared. Curiosity would fetch him. Not fear, fear wouldn’t figure in it; the old man was too rich, too important to be afraid. The shuffle of his carpet slippers had whispered his approach. He might have been in bed, he was robed in wine-colored velvet brocade as ancient as he. Fifty years ago it must have been a handsome piece. “What is it you want?” he inquired harshly. “Did not the Senora tell you, the shop is closed at night?”

“She told me, certainly,” Jose answered insolently. He accented his words Spanish fashion. “But it is true that last night I received here a bottle of perfume. I have come for another bottle of the same perfume.”

“I do not sell perfume,” Praxiteles began, and his eyes narrowed. It was the first time he realized that Jose and the lout who inquired for perfume this afternoon were one and the same. His voice grated. “Did I not tell you this?”

Jose curled his lip. “Does it matter what you tell me? Last night I came for perfume. You supplied it.”

The old one was trying to ferret out Jose’s purpose in making the request. Searching through his endless channels of memory for a like demand. He couldn’t find one. He said, “It was a favor, no more. I do not sell perfume.”

“A favor for a young lady?” Jose was flippant. “For a most sweet young lady—
muy dulce.
” He shrugged. “That is why you must
por favor
supply me with an identical bottle.” He smiled angelically at the ugly old man and then drew down the corners of his mouth in grief. “The first one I have lost.”

He had timed the revelation for shock purposes; he was happy with the result. Praxiteles didn’t quiver, he shrank deeper into his shrunken skin. His lizard eyes alone were alive, balefully alive. “You lost it!” He didn’t believe it; he believed what Jose said but it was too incredible for belief.

“It is most sad,” Jose agreed cheerfully. “So careless of me. You understand how it is, Senor. I stop at a bar here, and a bar there, I meet a few friends, somewhere I set down the package and forget it until this morning.” He laughed at how amusing was his carelessness. “Today I return to look for the package but no one remembers it. It is not strange. Someone has found it, some boy who will perhaps make a few centavos selling it to a turista.”

The old man was becoming more and more rigid. Jose felt that if he should poke a forefinger at him, he would disintegrate into dust. Jose continued, “The young lady paid well to have the package delivered to her. No doubt she had exhausted her quota of purchases for the month, this perfume someone else must carry across the bridge for her?”

The voice scraped from the scrawny throat. “You have told her it is lost?”

“How could I, Senor? She has gone north this morning.”

“Without the package?”

“But how could she carry with her the package when I have lost it?”

Praxiteles trembled with fury. “You were to deliver the package to her last night. She would know last night you have lost it.”

Jose smiled slyly. “She does not know. Last night she does not want the package. She asks that I deliver it to her in Santa Fe.”

This was news to Praxiteles, news that shattered him further.

“It is quite natural therefore that I do not tell her it is lost but plan to search for it today.” He sighed, “But I do not find it,” and then he smiled again. “You understand now why it is essential you supply me with an identical bottle?”

Praxiteles said nothing for too long a time. He might have died standing there. Finally he whispered, “How is it you know what is in the package?”

Jose’s nose wrinkled. “I smell what is in it. That smell, never would I forget it!” He added gratuitously, “I do not understand why such a lovely girl as Miss Farrar, one who could buy Chanel by the bucket, would select such a perfume.” His nose repeated its distaste.

Again he waited for Praxiteles to speak. When it came it was too agreeable. “Wait here. I will get another bottle of perfume for you.”

Jose waited until he could no longer hear the shuffling slippers. No longer than that. Holding the bells silent while he opened the door, he quietly let himself out of the shop, so quietly that he did not bother to close the door behind him. He was not such a fool as to remain until the Senor could summon his henchmen to do away with one who knew too much and too little.

Nor was he foolish enough to linger longer in the border city. The Juarez curtain had fallen, the next act would be played in Santa Fe. He took himself back to the Avenida as fast as possible and across the bridge. He was lucky enough on the Norte side to request a taxi-sharing with a plump, respectable couple who could only be from Wichita, Kansas. He was wrong, they were from Topeka, but they were naturally staying at the Chenoweth. They always stayed at a Chenoweth hotel in any town which boasted one. He did not exchange names with them, only his gratefulness for the ride.

He hadn’t expected to find Lou behind the desk, she didn’t take night duty. But she was there, and some of the anxiety went out of her face when he came in. He knew then with a welling of gratefulness that she’d been waiting for him. He further knew she hadn’t expected him back so soon or in one piece.

He waited until the Topekans had collected their key and made for the elevator. Then he came grinning to her. “It wasn’t so tough, after all, was it?”

She rallied. “No bullets, no knife cuts?”

“Not even a skinned knuckle. Juarez is highly overrated, Missy Lou.”

“Don’t be so smart. You tempted fate and won—this time.”

“I never avoid temptation.” He remembered his private debate of the day before. It seemed years ago. “That is for weaklings. What about the Mintons?”

She looked at the clock. “They’ll be here at ten-thirty. They went out to dinner.” She touched the call bell. The bellhop was neither Pablo nor Jaime. An old man, disinterested. “Take Mr. Aragon’s bags. When the car comes, let us know.” She waited until he had ambled to the street door. “Captain Harrod went through your stuff.”

His head snapped away from the bellhop. She must have misread the expression on his face for anger because she defended herself hotly, “I couldn’t stop him. He’s the law.”

“I hope he enjoyed his trip through my dirty laundry. Did he find what he was looking for?”

“I don’t know what he was looking for. He took nothing. I stayed with him the whole time.”

The old fellow was limping back to the desk. “The car, it is here now.”

Jose tipped him.

Lou said, “Goodbye, Jo. Nice to have had you.” While they clasped hands, curiosity broke. “Where did you get that stinking perfume? And why?”

“It’s for old Juana, our cook. Her favorite brand. ’Bye, Lou. Thanks for everything.”

“My best to your mother. Invite her to come see me when she gets back from Europe. And tell Adam I’m through with him. He didn’t even come in to say goodbye before he went back to Santa Fe.”

The car, a faded sedan, was humming at the curb, the door half-open for him. Jose’s hand had pulled the door wide before he saw that the driver was not old Minton. It was Captain Harrod.

H
E DIDN’T HAVE TO
get in. But he did. It wasn’t important who drove him to Santa Fe. The important thing was to get there. There was no reason for him to avoid the law even if it were possible. Let Harrod pry; the Spanish could gab the while they held their tongues.

But resentment burned at the betrayer as he slammed the door behind him. “Lou—”

“Doesn’t know,” Harrod said. “I fixed it for the Mintons to be delayed over dinner. That’s the good part of living in a neighborly town. You can always fix things.” He added dryly, “Should think I’m better company than that yawping Minton female.”

“Could be.” Jose offered a cigarette.

“I never smoke after ten at night,” Harrod said as if he’d invented self-control.

Jose lit up. “Where you headed for?”

“Santa Fe.”

“On business?”

“Yes, business.” Now that he’d settled the car on the road, Harrod didn’t seem to care about being good company.

Jose persisted. “I shouldn’t think you could take off in the middle of an international murder.”

A secret smile touched Harrod’s mouth. “That one’s over.”

Jose’s surprise echoed. “Over!”

“Yes.”

“Who knifed him?”

“Oh.” Harrod was surprised that Jose could be so ignorant. “It wasn’t murder. Just another drunk in the river.”

Jose eyed him to see if he meant it. He did. “So that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“That’s the way it is,” Harrod corrected.

Jose gave a short laugh. “If I ever want to get rid of a guy, I’ll know how to do it. And where.”

Harrod was mild. “Did you ever kill anyone, Aragon?”

“Plenty.” He jutted his chin. “It was that easy, too. I got medals for doing it.”

“How did you make it right with your conscience? Don’t tell me you haven’t a conscience. You learned the Commandments just like everyone else.”

“War doesn’t have much to do with what any of us learned. It has its own commandments. Like kill or be killed.”

“So you killed. Sure. Only it’s a little different, isn’t it, in the CIC? You aren’t just a guy with a gun in your hand standing up against a guy with a gun in his hand who happens to speak a different language. In the CIC sometimes you have to go looking for guys to kill, don’t you? Part of the time you’re lucky. They don’t know about you until you’ve stuck them in the back.”

“So what?”

“So what does your conscience say about that one?”