It could have been that the Senora had given the cigarettes into her care; it could have been that she thought he was stepping out to buy some on the Avenida, being neglected here. But she didn’t move over to the tray to supply him, she stood there in front of him, silent, like a field servant brought to the house in the days of the great rancheros.
He shook his head, giving her a pleasant smile for reassurance. “No, small one, I have pockets full of cigarettes.” He turned back to the door but she moved more softly and more quickly than he, and again she stood in front of him, blocking his path.
“You do not go? Your dinner, it is ready.”
She hadn’t asked if he were going; she’d said he wasn’t going. Her interception wasn’t accidental. Again his eyes swiftly circled the room. But there wasn’t anyone paying attention to him. Beach and Adam were still occupied; Beach by now had moved over to the table of the girl with the husband or father or rich patron. Beach was getting along swell. Adam was having a drink with Carlsbad.
Jose returned his attention to the girl. She hadn’t budged. There was no more expression to her face than to the face of an Aztec carved in stone. Somehow she knew about him, and although it was incomprehensible, knew what he was about. Whether she belonged to the seersucker man or to Dulcinda Farrar or to Praxiteles or to a yet unknown didn’t bother him particularly. What did was that she was wasting his time, and he hadn’t much time to pull this stunt.
He leaned closer to her and invented. “There is a beautiful lady I must see for a moment, and alone.” Romance should be the best appeal to a thin, young girl who so far could have known nothing but dreams. He indicated his companions. “They must not know or they too would wish to see this beautiful lady of whom I have spoken and I would be unable to whisper to her the words in my heart. For there are men who laugh at the anguish of love—”
She was listening to him. Whether she was believing him was something else again. But if she was in on the other business, her knowledge would be slight. She was too young to be trusted with conspiracy; she wouldn’t be told why she was to detain him. It was up to him to sow doubts that he was the man she had been asked to watch for, this caballero with love, not intrigue, in his heart.
He spoke rapidly. “If my friends inquire, I will be back so soon. They must wait for me. You understand, they must wait for me. But say nothing unless they inquire or unless they would go.” He set her aside, his hand on her thin shoulder, a shoulder deeper brown than that of the other girls here. She was not of Spanish roots as were the others, hers were more ancient in this country. What was Spanish in her would have been by right of conquest a brief three centuries ago. The conqueror blood, despised and hated, burned out in smoldering centuries, until there remained a breed more pure for its defilement.
In no way did she give indication that she accepted what he said. She had been bred by countless ancestors to wear the stone mask. She might be thinking, “These crazy Norte Americanos are crazy.” She might be thinking, “I spit on this man whose fathers brought blood and fire to mine.” She might even be wishing she were the beautiful lady he was going to meet, or she might be wishing he’d buy a pack of cigarettes. But her face, including the polished black eyes, was blank.
He stopped thinking about her as soon as he stepped into the pink glow of the patio. The oleanders patterned the flagstones, the lanterns quivered in the motionless heat of the night, but he shied at no shadows. There was no one visible in the patio and he crossed it swiftly and silently. As he reached the gate, he remembered the jangling its movement set up. He could have scaled the wall, it was rough adobe, but there was no necessity for such antics. He was permitted to come and go from the cafe as he desired; he was an American tourist who visited Juarez as did any tourist, to glimpse a foreign land.
The Mexican police were very careful that the North Americans should be safe here. The men of business of Juarez would permit no incident which might upset the flow of dollars. If there were little puffs of trouble now and again, it was because the visitors had left behind their manners or their judgment, and the pobrecitos, God pity them, were tempted beyond the guardian of their consciences. The little puffs would wisp into nothingness in the sobriety of daylight, with profuse apologies from the Mexicano officials and acceptance of these by the Americanos. After a night in the Juarez juzgado, transgressors were inclined to be gracious beyond their wont. That there were uglier things which occurred, things which could not be erased by apology or dollars, was known on both sides of the border. Of these things one did not speak, Mexico and the United States being good neighbors now, and both north and south of the border there being a will to prolong this happy state. As an Americano, Jose was as safe as on the streets of any village, safer than on the streets of some cities. The Norte Americano prestige was a golden halo gracing his head; the envy and greed with which it might be observed was held in check by men of policy.
The only actual danger he faced was that of being overtaken by his cousin. Adam wouldn’t follow, not surrounded by that good food. As yet the cafe door had not reopened; Beach hadn’t missed him. He had this much head start. He needed more. Therefore, he eased the gate ajar, the bells merely tinkling, and he slid quickly through the small aperture into the pool of red and green and orange light.
The narrow street would have slept in darkness but for the sign. On either side of the road the walled houses, old houses, once fine homes of fine families of Juarez, were an unbroken shadow. Jose stepped out of the colored light and turned toward the Avenida. There were no walks, Calle Herrera was laid with uneven bricks. The street itself was scarcely wider than the pavement in front of the Chenoweth where he’d been standing at noon minding his own business. If he had any mistaken idea that it was the tilt of the walls which narrowed the street, it was dispelled when the egress to the Avenue suddenly closed. In a simple fashion. A man stepped into the frame, blotting out the brightness beyond. The man could have been a tourist, standing there to get his bearings or to rest his feet. Gazing out at the kaleidoscope of Avenida Juarez. He wasn’t. He was a big shapeless man in a seersucker suit.
His back was given to this small street of the Cafe Herrera. It would seem that he didn’t know Jose was approaching his seemingly defenseless rear. But Jose had no illusions in this respect. Mr. Tosteen was there with intent.
Jose walked quietly, decreasing his pace for thinking time. He couldn’t hear his own steps and was conscious for the first time of the rubber-soled shoes he’d worn tonight. He was as pleased upon the realization as if he’d chosen them deliberately for this purpose. The white suit was not such a careful choice, in the dark he would have the luminosity of a ghost. So much for his vanity.
The man hadn’t moved. His big frame, in the loosely draped, wrinkled coat and wilted, sagging trousers, had the implacability of a cop on the beat. The comparison struck Jose like a snapping whip. This man wasn’t necessarily the enemy. He might well be the law. It was Jose who was dabbling outside the pale of respectability. Whoever he was he wouldn’t have declared his shoulder holster at the border.
Jose moved the last few paces with additional silence and with speed. He spoke the moment he was behind the big shoulders, “Your pardon, Senor.”
The man swiveled ponderously. He didn’t unblock the exit, he merely reversed his position. Jose was wired for quick movement, to dodge away, to duck through the opening into the safety of the Avenue. But there was no opening. Tosteen stood where he was; nothing moved but his pale blue eyes. They were photographing the size and shape and features of Jose Aragon. He gave no indication that he’d ever run into Jose before. He might have been observing a complete stranger.
Jose repeated, gesturing toward the street, “Your pardon, Senor.” And out of whim, surely for no other reason, he converted to the Spanish tongue. “Step aside, you great mountain of warm chicken fat,” he directed. “Allow a true gentleman to pass beyond the stench of your uncleanliness.” All of this he spoke in gentlest fashion,
smiling courteously the while, bowing in compliment.
The man gave no indication that he understood. Not one of his sparse eyelids twitched. He did stand aside, but only as if it had just permeated his thick brain that Jose wanted to go by. He said nothing at all, not so much as a grunt of apology.
Jose passed, murmuring, “Mil gracias.” He turned left, he had no idea where lay the street of the Female Burro but it wouldn’t be to the right, the bridge lay to the right. Tourists were coming across it in a constant trickling line by now. The time by his watch was eight-twenty. He would not inquire directions as yet; if he went as far as the Plaza it would be no more than a brief and entertaining walk. A man might need a breath of fresh air and moonlight away from this perfumed section of town. There were shops on the Plaza, shops that did not depend on Americanos, where he might make his inquiries with more discretion.
By this hour the pavements were crowded. He threaded his way through those men who would sell and those who might buy. The din of those who cried their wares, and those who babbled of the heat and the smell and the prices and the postcards they must send to the folks back home, the added blare from the loud-speakers of the big cafes across the street, did not permit a man to speak to himself of precaution. The large woman in the damp print dress, the large man with wet circles under his arms, a wet swathe across his shoulders, did speak a warning. The same kind of jostling might remove an envelope from a pocket. Jose slid his hand into his pocket and kept it there. Without the envelope, he could not receive the package from Senor Praxiteles.
He had moved one block only when his path was again barred. And again it was deliberate. But this time it was not because of the envelope he carried. The barrier was a small staunch man, incredibly dirty from his shapeless straw sombrero to the gunny sacking laced about his feet. Not because shoes were difficult to steal, from a borracho it was nothing, but because shoes hurt the man’s toes. Hung from his neck was a battered accordion, an equally battered cornet, a flute which had once been polished, and two small brassy cymbals. He clanked when he moved, he had clanked from the doorway of a liquor store just before Jose approached. He was called Canario.
He swept his dirty hat from his dirty head and he bowed with a renewed clanking before Jose. “It gives me pleasure,” he pronounced in Spanish, “to make music for you, Don Jose.”
Jose had not expected the old brigand to remember him after so long an absence. It was true that Canario had helped him and a couple of fraternity brothers escape the police on a night out in long ago college days. But the memory was as far away as childhood to him. How Canario could carry one face in memory, out of the hundreds he saw come and go on the bridge, was little short of incredible.
Jose gave him bow for bow before apologizing, “Later, my good friend. I am in haste at the moment.”
He might as well have saved breath. Already the flute tootled from Canario’s lips, his elbows squeezed the accordion, a string wound about his tapping foot clanged the cymbals.
“Later,” Jose repeated impatiently, meanwhile attempting to crowd by. But Canario would have none of it. He pulled away the flute and began to sing in cracked falsetto. It was a moment before Jose listened to the words:
“Take care when you walk the Avenida Juarez,
Take care, take care, my old friend;
There are girls who will wink at you,
There are men a little drunk,
There are men who follow you….”
It was the last line which stung Jose’s ears to attention. When the nut-brown eyes in the wrinkled monkey face observed the attention, he broke off the song, snapped the cornet to his lips and blared a brassy grin.
Jose said, “I would hear the song again.” As soon as Canario began inventing a new chorus, he spoke softly. “Perhaps it would give you pleasure to make music for the man who comes behind me? It is possible?”
“It is possible,” sang Canario, “that the band will play when the man walks down the street—”
Jose tossed a silver dollar into the cup as Canario shuffled by. He himself slid ahead of two stolid couples who were stacking Juarez up against Alton, Illinois, to the detriment of Juarez. A fresh cacophony from the Canary’s band gave him courage to twist his head about. Tosteen was blocked by music.
Jose moved on quickly. He did not believe that Canario could delay the seersucker man for long. The musico was not brawny enough for that. Jose wasn’t particularly surprised that Tosteen would follow him, obviously he had blocked the exit from Calle Herrera for a purpose, and also obviously it hadn’t been to stop Jose from proceeding on his errand. Jose could have eliminated the pursuer after he knew where he was going. Until then the chase would be an aimless one guaranteed to tire the wilted man. Nevertheless, he was grateful for Canario’s assistance. If he could get away now, all the better. And it looked as if he were going to make it. The music had halted in the middle of a phrase, an altercation was ensuing. Not a quiet one, an uproar. From a jewelry stall, sly comment was offered, “Canario performs again.”
There was going to be a chance to duck across the street under cover of a trolley trundling bridgeward. Jose timed it. As he darted out, he managed to glimpse the distant hubbub. Tosteen wasn’t watching him. He was surrounded by a pawing, gesturing, gabbling throng. If the man actually had no Spanish, it would take the police to straighten out the affair. By then Canario would be so innocent of starting trouble and Tosteen so impatient of delay, the matter would be dropped. By then, Jose hoped to have executed his mission with success.
The opposite side of the street was not crowded. There were dark houses to pass, the shops were soon left behind. It didn’t take long to reach the Plaza.
Neon was not the decoration here. There was moonlight instead. On the steps of the old church, a few old men rested, a few women wandered inside, and a few women wandered out. There were children everywhere, babies in arms, little boys running after each other in shrill games, little girls rubbing against the protective black skirts of their mothers. The movie theatre was a bright spot; there was a double feature, Maria Felix in one offering, Cantinflas in another. Lads lingered under the marquee, waiting for their particular carita, or for any carita.
Jose walked close to the darkened shop windows. There was no one following him. There would be as soon as Tosteen could proceed. He must move fast, he was too easy to follow, the white suit was a glimmering beacon. He could ask anyone on the street the way and be directed to Calle de la Burrita. He could ask the way to Senor el Greco’s but that would be less circumspect; the reputation which surrounded the Senor’s name was not savory. His particular concern at the moment was whether mention of the street would automatically point to the seeking of el Greco’s shop. Why else would a fine gentleman wish to be directed away from the bright lights? He would be less suspect if he asked directions to the cribs.
He made a quick decision because he must. He beckoned a street urchin sitting on the curb. The boy, small and cheeky and ragged, came without haste. “Gimme dime.” He stuck out a hand encrusted with dried, dirty juice of the watermelon. “Gimme cigarette.”
Jose measured the boy with his eyes. “Chico!” he commanded.
The boy dropped his hand. Suspicion clouded his eyes.
Jose spoke in the boy’s tongue. “I have need of a guide. I will give you a dollar if you will serve me.”
The suspicion didn’t go away but greed crowded it.
“What do you say?”
The boy muttered. “You will give me a dollar?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot go far,” the boy hesitated. “The old one, my grandfather, leans on me.” Jose followed the gesture to the bent shoulders and gray hair of the man who stood beside the tray of watermelon slices.
“Is the Street of the Little Burro far?” Jose inquired.
“But no.” Suspicion vanished in a smile. “He will not know I am gone. Come, Senor.”
The boy squirmed away, taking care his grandfather did
not observe the departure. Jose followed, cutting across to the opposite corner, in the direction he had come, but not on the Avenue now. Up a darkened side street. They had gone but a brief way before the boy stopped and faced him.
“You will give me the dollar now.”
“That I will not do,” Jose answered coolly. “If I give you the dollar, you will not lead me to the street of the small she-burro. You will run back to your grandfather.”
“If I lead you to the street, you will need me no longer,” the boy argued. “You will drive me away without the dollar you have promised.”
Jose pushed the boy forward, following behind him. “You do not trust me. And I do not trust you. But because the reward is great, you will show me the way and hope I am an honorable man. Which I am, Chico.”
The boy’s bare feet dug into the pavement. “If you are an honorable man, give me the dollar now.” Jose began to shake his head but the boy’s grimy finger pointed. “This is the street you desire.”
The words flaked on the wall, Calle de la Burrita. Jose walked quickly to the corner, peered into the narrow passage. “My dollar,” the little boy wailed, tugging at Jose’s coat.
“Yes.” He reached into his pocket, drew forth a silver cartwheel and pressed it into the small hand. The boy’s eyes rounded with disbelief. The Senor had been an honorable man. It was not often so in his experience. Jose warned, “Say to no one where you have found this.”
The boy clenched his fingers over the prize. “I will tell no one nothing,” he gurgled. Jose understood. The chico would not risk losing the dollar to someone stronger than he.
Jose turned into the alley. It was as narrow as the street where the Cafe Herrera stood but it was not elegant, not even in a faded fashion. The houses here were not walled, they crumbled on the street without protection. The street was not paved with tipsy bricks; warm dust sifted over the hard-packed dirt. It had one advantage over Calle Herrera, it was not dead end. At the far corner it twisted into another lane, much like the one he had just traveled with the boy.
Candy Kid Page 4
