Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
Candy Kid (28 page)
She clambered the opposite bank like a mountain goat. He followed laboriously, scraping his hands, ripping the knees of his trousers. But he followed. And joined her at the top. He caught her hand and ran with her into the deep shadows of a protective building. “We made it,” he panted. He caught her up in his arms and hugged her. “Baby,” he exulted, “we made it.”
Lou clutched her bathrobe around her as she opened the door of her suite. “For God’s sake, what happened to you?”
They were a sorry mess to barge in on anyone at midnight. Muddy, bloody, but unbowed. They’d walked the back streets to the hotel. Not daring trust a cab. He held tight to Francisca’s reluctant hand. “Fell in the river. Got a drink?” The box was on the table. In plain view, unwrapped. Cactus candy packed by Praxiteles and Company. Still holding on to Francisca, he reached for it.
Lou went to the bar, poured him a straight one. She watched him pick up the box. “Jaime brought it. Said to give it to you.”
“Thanks.” He took the drink. He released Francisca but was careful to stand between her and the door. Even now she might bolt. “Better give the kid a glass of wine. She’s had it rugged.”
Lou poured a glass. “That’s what a girl gets messing with you. Trouble.”
“Where’s Harrod?”
“Should I know?” She refilled his glass.
“I was hoping you would.” He was ready to fall on his face without the drink. Francisca ought to be keeling over. He said, “How about letting us wash up, Lou? So we can rest on your fancy chairs.”
“Go on. Sit down.”
“My mother raised me better. You go first, Baby,” he told Francisca. “Bath, shower, get clean.”
“Shampoo?” She touched her head.
“Yeah, the works. Lend her a robe, Lou.”
Lou said, “You and your ideas,” but she went to her bedroom, fetched the terry robe.
Jose wheeled Francisca to the guest room, pointed the door beyond. “Go on. Scrape off the mud.” He closed the bedroom door on her. She couldn’t skip out for a while now.
“Where did you find her?” Lou asked.
“At el Greco’s. The old devil has some good stock.” His fingernail was ripping at the cellophane of the candy box. “See if you can locate Harrod, Lou.” She got on the phone. But she watched what he was doing. He lifted the lid from the shallow box. If he was expecting something fancy, this wasn’t it. The rounds of cactus candy were packed neatly. He took one, bit it in two pieces, put it back in the box. It was nothing but candy. He started on the second piece.
“Hungry?” Lou wanted to know.
“Sweet tooth,” he grimaced. The second piece was candy. He began on the third.
Lou replaced the phone. “Harrod isn’t in. His wife says he’s in Santa Fe. The office isn’t that talkative. He’s out.” She gestured. “Sit down, Jo. Before you fall down. Dirt washes off.”
He opened the evening paper, spread it on the couch, and rested gingerly on the edge of it.
“And pass the candy.”
“Uh-uh. This is mine.” He’d bit into something. He ripped the sticky sweet away from it. Microfilm. A minute roll. He pushed it into his pocket, picked up another sweet. The knock attacked the door before he could bite. “Don’t answer it!”
“But, Jo—”
He caught her wrist. “You don’t have visitors at this hour. Not unless they ring up from the desk.” The knocking continued. “Ask who it is.” Adam wouldn’t dare cross the border. There was too much against him. He’d have to send someone after Jose.
Her voice was uneven. “Who is it? I’m in bed.”
“It is the police.” The voice was accented.
Jose dumped the candy into his pockets. He said under his breath, “You haven’t seen me. Stick close to the phone.” He grabbed up the empty box and retreated to the guest room. The door remained open a hairline crack.
“Just a minute,” Lou was saying. She was refolding the newspaper, placing it on the table, before she crossed to open the door.
They were very polite. They were so sorry to disturb her. Through the crack he could observe them. Two purple blue suits. And Senor Praxiteles. Yes, Praxiteles would dare come. He would know nothing but that he had delivered a package at the request of the
mas importante
Norte Americano, Senor Adamsson. Not for pay,
por favor,
Senor. No one had ever pinned anything on the wily old man. No one but St. Peter ever would.
He was saying, “I am most sorry to disturb you, Miss Chenoweth.”
Lou was ironic. “Police?” The purple suits faded back.
Praxiteles bowed his sly head. “The plainclothes police like in the United States, no? Special deputies, you will see.” His sharp elbow jabbed the nearer one who rustled a dirty paper from his pocket. “At my request, for my protection …” Praxiteles murmured.
Lou said, “I must say I don’t understand this at all.” She ignored the dirty paper. “There are certain house rules about allowing anyone to come to the rooms without a call first from the desk. And it seems to me there are certain international rules about your police crossing the border.”
Senor Praxiteles said boldly, “I have permission to call upon you. My police prevailed upon your clerk to make no announcement. I am seeking a girl who has been tempted to run away with an evil character.”
Jose had to turn away from Lou’s hauteur. Francisca was emerging from the bath. He crossed to her swiftly, spoke into her ear, “Stay in there. Lock the door. El Greco is here.”
It wasn’t fright that turned her face to stone; it was hatred.
“Do as I say,” Jose ordered with fury. He returned to his peephole while Lou was concluding, “I fail to understand why you believe you’d find the runaway girl in my apartment?”
Senor Praxiteles bent down over the rug. “She is here.” He was pointing to the footprints of mud. He folded his hands together piously. “You will tell her, her
abuelo
has come for her.”
Lou couldn’t go on with it. She didn’t know enough. Jose opened the door just enough. He stood in the aperture.
El Greco was not surprised. “
Buenos noches,
Senor,” he bowed. To Lou he said, “This is the man who has taken her away.”
“Prove it,” Jose swaggered.
The old man spat at his men, “He has hidden her. You will find her here.”
Jose filled the doorway. “You won’t find her here. Unless you’re looking for trouble.”
No one moved toward him. The goons might be brave in a dark alley but not in the Hotel Chenoweth. Not on the wrong side of their border.
“What do you want with her anyway?” Jose laughed at the old one. “She gives you nothing but trouble.”
“She is a thief! I want what she has stolen!”
“This?” The empty box was still in his hand. He pitched it at the old man’s feet. El Greco wasn’t wearing the carpet slippers. For this foreign call he had taken the pains to change to black patent-leather oxfords, networked with cracks, salvaged from some ashcan long ago.
Jose knew Francisca could move without sound; he’d thought his angry command would keep her out of this. Until she slipped under his arm. She must have had the knife with her all this night. He caught her just in time, his arm swung her to safety. His right hand immobilized her wrist.
“I will kill him! I will kill him!” she screamed.
Praxiteles shrank between his protection. He rubbed his scrawny neck at the spot the knife point had touched.
“Let me kill him! I am no thief!”
Jose held her as fast as one could an eel.
It could have been Ramirez who asked dubiously, “This is the girl you want?” He hoped not.
“Go get her,” Praxiteles croaked malignantly.
“You can’t have her,” Jose stated. “The American side wants her. You’ll have to wait until Captain Harrod gets here.” He appealed to Lou. “For God’s sake, can’t you run Harrod down?”
Lou swallowed. Again she picked up the phone. Her hand was shaking. She hung up at once. Her voice wouldn’t sound. She finally forced it. “Harrod’s just coming into the lobby.”
Praxiteles said unctuously, “If Captain Harrod wishes this girl, I would not interfere.” He began to bow himself toward the door. “I wish to make no trouble on the border. I am a peaceful man.” His lidded eyes sought Jose. “You will not return my property to me?” He knew the answer. “I can wait, Senor. I can wait,” he threatened softly.
Jose said to the goons, “Go with him. It isn’t safe for el Greco to wander around by himself.” He emphasized, “On either side of the bridge.”
They were in a bigger hurry than el Greco. They crowded the old one out of the door.
For a brief respite they were alone, he holding fast the rigid girl, Lou slumped in the opposite chair.
Lou said, “You could have held them.”
“What for? Harrod knows more than I do about the Greek. When he wants him, he’ll take him.” His voice was tired. “You’d better get out the brandy,” he told her. “It isn’t over yet.”
The door was ajar. Harrod walked in, closed it. “What was el Greco doing here?”
“Does it matter? He’s gone.” He released Francisca now. She wouldn’t run. Not until she was sure el Greco was across the border.
“You have the lists?”
Jose emptied his sticky pockets on the coffee table. “There’s one. On film. You eat the rest of the stuff. There may be more. It’s important?”
“Yes. We think so. The names of some troublemakers who have come over the bridge. And some who are planning to come.” Harrod began to bite into the remaining pieces. “Adam was a stationmaster.”
“Adam?” Lou’s voice caught.
“Drink the brandy,” Jose said sharply. To Harrod, “Where is he?”
“Headed south. I talked to him before he left. He knew I couldn’t force him to cross the bridge. We may be a long time getting him. But it doesn’t matter. He’s no use any more.”
“Rags?”
“He’d already skipped. He’s not important. He didn’t know anything. Just did odd jobs for Adam.”
“Adam,” Lou trembled again.
“Why, Harrod?” Jose cried. “Why did he do it?”
Harrod said heavily, “How do we know? How does any man know what motivates any other man? We keep our thoughts in secret places. Maybe he really believed his side was working for peace. Maybe by the time he found out different, he was in too deep. Or maybe he’s never found out different.” He’d bit on another roll of film. He spat it into his hand. He said, “Nice to have known you, Aragon. Any time you want to get into harness again, let me know.”
“I don’t want to,” Jose returned quietly. “I hope to God it won’t ever be necessary.”
Harrod moved toward Lou. But he didn’t say anything. The hand he lifted dropped. He went out.
Lou stirred at the closing door. She wore her years like a yoke. “You’re staying tonight?”
He nodded. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Let the kid have the bedroom.” He went to her.
As if it were a compulsion, she repeated the name. “Adam.”
“He killed Beach.”
She didn’t say anything else. She went slowly into her own bedroom, closed the door.
Jose turned to the
sorbita.
“You can go to bed now.”
She glared at him. “I am not a thief. You will not give me to this policeman. I will run away.”
“I didn’t say Harrod wanted you. I said you were wanted on this side. You are. I’m taking you home with me.”
“Why?”
He wondered himself. “I’m going to send you to school.”
“I do not think I want to go to school.”
“Well, you’re going,” he snapped. “That’ll fix it with immigration. And Lord knows you can do with some polishing.”
She was lost in the bathrobe. She came over to him, looked up into his face. Hers was thunderous. “You will put me in school and you will bring that blond
asquerosa
into your house. You will call her sweet names. You will put your arms around her. You will—”
“Listen!” He took her by the shoulders, held her firmly. “I’ll probably have three dozen blondes before you grow up. But they won’t mean a thing. If I wait for you … you’ll snap your fingers at me and grab yourself a young guy.”
“No,” she said. The silver hearts in her ears quivered.
“No?” He grinned. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Now go to bed …
querida.
”
Reluctantly she went to the bedroom door. She turned there. “I am not a baby,” she said.
He sighed and shook his head.
“Manana,”
he told her.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1950 by Dorothy B. Hughes
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
978-1-4804-2701-3
This 2013 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
