Candy Kid (20 page)

“They’re probably both wanted items.”

Adam squinted into his glass. “Have you tipped off our
Jefe
?”

Jose shrugged. “Why bother our police? When Harrod wants them picked up, he’ll do it. A smart operator, Harrod. You can bet Tim Farrar and his boy friend are loose for one reason only, they aren’t important enough. Harrod’s on a trail.”

“Great God!” Adam exclaimed softly. But it wasn’t for Jose’s dissertation. He was gazing at the doorway. “Didn’t know you had company.”

Francisca had materialized, a small, silent, clean ghost. The clothes were somewhat large but not enough to notice. Her hair was wet and shining, as if she’d just run in out of the rain.

Jose said, “I brought her up from the ranch.” He could have told Adam the truth but he didn’t want Francisca to think he was selling her out. It was a good time to try out the story. “She’ll go to the Academy this winter and help Mother after school.” His mother had educated plenty of country girls. No one should suspect that Francisca wasn’t another of them. While he was talking, she faded out as silently as she had appeared.

“Spooky,” Adam decided. “Buy her some
guaraches.
Give you warning before she shows up. She might embarrass you some night.”

It should have been comfortable sitting here, listening to Adam tell old tales while the rain rained and fire colored the fireplace. But Jose could not rest in the quiet pool of peace; his thoughts muddied the waters. If Adam had asked what he was thinking of he couldn’t have told. A blond girl and a dark child, cheap perfume and a musky old man, a man for hire whose wrinkled seersucker suit was his shroud, an immigration officer who was troubled about atoms, and Beach who was too curious. If he could have made words from it, he would have unburdened himself to Adam. Instead he listened to the tall tales and the rain.

At four it was over. The gray of the sky became blue; a few white clouds, harmless as cotton, hung above the horizon. Adam said, “Got to go home.” He urged, “Come along with me.”

Jose said, “I’ll wait for Beach.” He couldn’t go anywhere until he’d had a report of the day. “See you about seven.”

“See you.” They returned to the hallway. The wet jacket wasn’t on the floor, it was hung properly from the back of a chair. The way a woman would hang it.

Jose watched Adam avoid the biggest puddles on the bricked courtyard, like an elephant trying to be dainty. Adam was a funny guy. You’d think he’d have something better to do than sit around here killing a rainy afternoon, even if it was sitting in the Cantina where he could have a bigger audience. Adam liked a lot of people around him. Maybe that was why he’d never married, maybe he was afraid a wife would try to close him in. Lou would make him a good wife; she wasn’t that dedicated to being a hotel career woman that she wouldn’t leave it if he said the word. So Adam was dedicated to prowling Mexico on the trail of hoary ollas or herb-dyed weaving or hammered silver? It wasn’t good enough. After twelve and more years of it, you’d think he’d know it wasn’t good enough. And it wasn’t that Adam wasn’t aware of Lou’s yearning, it was rather that he refused to know it.

Oddly enough, good friends as they were, it was something Jose had never talked over with Adam. Not so odd when you got down to it, the cupboard of Adam’s personal life had always been labeled Do Not Open. He’d never mentioned his family, not even in the midst of the abundance of Aragon family. It might be there was a wife in the background, trouble he didn’t want to remember. Before the war it wasn’t surprising he wouldn’t talk to the Aragon kids of anything but his travels, with a touch of the Munchausen which made the kids his faithful followers. But the space of years which separated them had closed up with the war. It was man to man now, equal footing, but still no reminiscences of the past, never a hint of the man’s own troubles.

It was a damn shame, whatever it was that kept Lou and Adam separate instead of bedded comfortably under the same roof. He was a homey man, hadn’t he even built himself a little house on a secluded road outside of town, a homey little house? A house that lacked nothing for comfort but a woman? To be sure, Lou wasn’t as young as she once was but neither was the old Adam. They deserved to be together and, by the grace of God, once Jose got himself over this hump with the Candy Kid, he was going to give Adam a real shove. It was high time Adam stopped being a shy guy.

Jose stood on the threshold sniffing the rain-sweetened afternoon until he heard the last faint echoes of the truck motor down the hill. When he turned back into the hallway, Francisca was watching him. She ought to be belled.

Francisca’s eyebrows were black as thunder. “What did you tell that man?”

“You heard me. I brought you here from the ranch to go to school. That’s what I’m going to tell everyone.” He headed for the library. She walked on silent feet after him. “There’s only one hurdle to jump. You
sabe
hurdle?”

She didn’t say whether she did or not but he didn’t bother to explain.

“There’s an old woman who comes in every morning to clean. Old Juana. She’s a privileged character, used to be the cook. Don’t let her know anything about you, just stick to the ranch. And the same goes for her
nietas
—she brings them along to help out. You do what Juana tells you but don’t talk. No talk.” Actually he was wasting his words, no one could be less talkative. “If I buy you some
guaraches,
will you wear them?”

“I do not like shoes,” she frowned.

“I did not ask if you liked them.” He capped the bottles. As he started out of the library, she was again behind him. He turned on her. “I’m going to have a shower and get dressed for dinner. I go out to dinner.” It was like speaking to a block of wood. He said it plainly, “Don’t follow me. Go out in the kitchen and feed yourself. Go in your room and take a nap. Go play the radio. But don’t follow me!”

He almost ran for it. Twice crossing to the bedroom wing, he looked over his shoulder, fast. As if he’d catch her slinking behind him. He didn’t. He locked the door of his bedroom. She’d probably be curled up on the floor outside when he emerged.

He didn’t believe for one minute that she’d come here to warn him he was in danger. Whoever took Tustin’s place in the quadrille had undoubtedly offered her another handful of pesos to get the package again. Tustin’s failure meant little. There were hundreds of Tustins ready to carry on. Too many men were for hire, you had to know no more than what would tempt them, a place in the sun, or dollars, vengeance or a dream or a few pesos. Jose could buy Francisca to his side. But only until a better offer came along. She’d had too much experience to respect a bargain.

It wasn’t safe to keep the candy and perfume in the house now. Tomorrow he’d move them to Tio Francisco’s vaults. Sunday or no, he’d have the vaults opened. For tonight the credenza would have to do, not that anyone entering his mother’s room wouldn’t know the perfume was there. What to do with Francisca tonight was the problem. He’d be damned if he’d take her along to Adam’s, like a dowager lugging a pet poodle. Preferably he’d take along Dulcinda’s souvenirs. Or skip the dinner. He was tired enough for bed. If Beach were late, he’d have a legitimate excuse to offer Adam.

He was just finishing his shave when he heard the phone. He ran for it, pushing the bolt and opening his door in one move. For her own safety she shouldn’t answer it. She wasn’t on his doorstep but he almost ran over her in the gloom of the corridor. He said, “I’ll get it,” not that it deterred her. She was in the doorway when he spoke, “Hello.” The voice on the other end was that of the Chief of the State Police, Danny Moreno.

At first he didn’t understand, half of his mind was on the
sorbita,
watching him, listening. He had to ask a repetition, to repeat dully, “… Hill road … accident….” When he hung up, he remained there, clenching the phone, not believing it. Refusing to believe it. Beach. Beach wasn’t dead. Beach was alive, the most alive person he knew. She came into focus again, she and her watchful eyes. “Accident,” he said. And shouted it, “Accident!”

He pushed her out of the way. Blindly he made for his room, buttoning his shirt as he ran from the house, struggling into the jacket as he plunged down the muddy hill. At Canyon Road he picked up a ride with a kid, one of Marcelino’s, headed for Saturday night fun on the Plaza. He could have asked the kid to take him to Danny Moreno but he didn’t want conversation about it. He dropped off at the Museum, cut across to Jack’s taxi stand, and caught one just coming in. He didn’t wait for the driver to check with the office; he said, “State cops,” and maybe it was his destination that eliminated argument. The driver bumped through traffic to the highway, deposited him too soon at the handsome adobe-colored building. Its apron of grass smelled wet and sweet after the rain.

Jose walked in. “Danny here?”

He didn’t see the fellow he asked. The officer said, “Yes. Gee, Jo, I’m sorry—” Something must have cut him off, something in Jose’s face. His hand finished the sentence aimlessly, “—he’s in his office.”

Jose walked past and opened the door marked
Capt. Dan Moreno.
Danny got off the desk. He, too, began, “Jo, I am so sorry—”

Jose said, “I want to go out there.”

“He won’t be there, Jo. They’re bringing him back now.”

“They can’t bring him back. He’s dead,” Jose said cruelly. “I want to go out there.”

“There’s no use, Jo. The boys have a full report on it.”

“Will you take me?”

Danny was a little man, he didn’t look like the head of the state cops. He looked like a half-pint pinon-picker. His eyes pitied.

“I’m going out there.” Jose was grim. “Will you take me or do I call a cab?”

Danny decided, “I’ll take you.” He nodded to the other officer; Jose hadn’t known he’d come in the room. “Take over, Ike.” He picked up his cap, set it just right on his black head. “Come on, Jo.”

Danny didn’t try to offer conversation as they headed through town and out the Espanola road. Not until they passed Tesuque did he begin to talk about it. “That road’s bad enough without a cloudburst.”

“Beach knew how to drive a car.”

“He skidded, it happens plenty times.”

“What about the other men?”

“What others? He was by himself.”

“He wasn’t when he went up there this morning. The only reason he went was because some tourists wanted to go.”

Danny said, “They must have stayed on the Hill.”

“Why? Because they knew Beach was going to have a wreck?”

“Listen, Jo,” the cop’s voice was mildly surprised. “Are you trying to tell me this was not an accident?” He reassured himself. “It was an accident. My boys they gave me a full report over the phone. The car skidded and went off the road. You know these mountain roads.”

“Beach flew fighters in the war.”

“Many times it happens this way. A man does dangerous things and is safe. He slips on a cake of soap or falls from a ladder….”

“Who called in first?” He had to keep talking. He mustn’t hear the scream of an ambulance passing; he mustn’t notice a pile of junk being hauled in to the graveyard.

“Some fellows who work on the Hill. On their way home.”

“I want to talk to them.”

“Sure, Jo. They will come in and tell me personally about it. You may listen to what they say.”

“Where did they call from?”

“Maybe it was Espanola. Maybe they live in Espanola.” Danny didn’t care. He was turning off the highway, beginning to climb the Hill road. It was past sundown, passing twilight, almost dark. The days were growing shorter. Danny said so. The clouds were mushrooming again over the northern horizon. They were pearl gray, not black or white. Little shivers of lightning ran through them.

The after-work traffic from Los Alamos was gone. Only occasional pinpoints of light pricked from above, to materialize later as descending cars. Off to a Saturday night party in town or a party in the Valley. He should have called Adam. It wasn’t important, Adam would know the Aragon cousins weren’t coming to dinner. Someone would have called him, Adam was always the first person in the Valley to be told about things. Jose didn’t want to see even Adam tonight.

He said, “It isn’t very slick.”

“It was earlier, Jo. It hadn’t stopped raining up here. It was slick then.”

Danny pulled off to the side of the road. This was where it had to happen, where it was steep enough for an overturned car to mean certain death. The mud was churned by cars and boots and curiosity. Jose got out of the car and walked to the wide smudge on the rim. Yes, it was steep enough. He came back to the car and climbed in.

“You see how it was, Jo.” Danny was gentle.

“I want to go on up.”

“But, Jo!” He pleaded. “Why?”

“I want to go up there while it’s hot. While everyone who saw Beach today or spoke to him remembers. I want to know everything he did. And I want to know where Tim Farrar and Rags Ragsdale are now.”

Silently Danny slid the car forward. “All right, Jo,” he agreed, still gently. He knew that a man stricken with grief was a man not himself. And he knew the Spanish people grieved more deeply than others because they loved more deeply.

From town the Hill of Los Alamos was a lovely coronet of golden lights suspended in the darkness. From the road the entrance lights were blinding white, a part of security. There was no trouble about passing the security officers at the entrance. Not with Captain Dan Moreno at the wheel and him requesting a pass for Jose Aragon.

“Up here about that accident?” the young officer at the desk queried, and then he noticed the name he was writing. His eyes slid up to Jose’s face.

“Yes,” Danny said hesitantly.

Jose asked, “Do you remember when he left?”

“I wasn’t on duty.” The young fellow thought back. “Staub and MacReady would have been on before six.”

Danny took over. “Where do we find them?”

“Ask at the barracks. Mac was going to the dance but it’s early.”

Danny pulled the car along. They were lucky. They located the two who’d been on duty. Young officers and keen but they didn’t remember. “At five o’clock everybody’s leaving the Hill.” Mac rumpled his hair. “It was wet.” They’d collected passes but that was routine. They didn’t remember a certain convertible. It wouldn’t look convertible anyway, closed by the rain. No one would have noticed if Beach was alone or accompanied.