Candy Kid

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “Friend? What friend?”

  “Some guy at the hotel. Just missed you. He was asking the bellhop where you were. I just happened to be standing there.”

  “So you made yourself useful.”

  “I asked Lou. She told me to try Herrera’s. She thought I was looking for you, see?”

  Jose swallowed the words gagging him. He asked patiently, “Who was he? What was the name?”

  “I don’t know.” Wade might have had more to say but the babe was dragging at his arm. Wanting some Paris perfume out of him while he was still feeling good. His wife would get some too, solving the conscience problem.

  “Thanks, pal.” Jose lifted his hand, made it fast to the gate while the guys and their one-nighters were sauntering away. He didn’t care about the warning bells now. Nor about the shadows of the patio. As a matter of fact, there were couples in the patio, loud-talking ones. “… don’t see why we couldn’t string up lanterns around our barbecue … they’re so …” and the inevitable “quaint.”

  Most of the tables were empty, the dinner hour was over. A scattering of late-comers and wine-bibbers lingered. Neither Adam’s massive shoulders nor Beach’s taffy head was among those present.

  Jose went to Senora Herrera, following her until she put away the silver she was carrying. When she saw him, her black eyebrows sailed high. “Where have you been, Don Jose? You did not finish the dinner you ordered.”

  He gave her the smile with which Beach charmed the older generation. “I had a small errand … and was delayed.” He pushed the smile harder. “Now I am hungry. You will serve me?” He had to wait around for the girl.

  “You think my chicken mole will keep while you run yourself all over the town? I do not serve food which is so cold I must wear a shawl to carry it.” But she would bring him fresh food out of cook’s pride.

  “What happened to the other fellows, Senora?” The small girl was to have held them here, instead she’d come running after him.

  “Senor Adam has returned to El Paso.”

  Jose groaned. Adam had meant it.

  “Senor Beach is out looking for you.”

  In the bars. He knew what that meant. Following the elusive cousin from spot to spot, always one jump behind him. A night of it. And him hanging on to a smelly package which advertised itself to the ones who were after it. But first he had to get the package.

  The Senora herself brought the chicken. “I’m keeping you late,” Jose apologized.

  She shrugged. “I do not close when there are customers.” Her eyes measured those who remained. “Sometimes it is very late before they will all go home. If it is difficult, my son Marcelino is firm.”

  “You won’t have to throw me out,” he promised. “Did Beach say he’d look in here again?”

  She was dubious. “He say he will find you,” her mouth pursed, “—and a beautiful blonde.” She began to gurgle, tapping Jose’s shoulder. “The blonde was otherwise engaged, no?” Jose, his mouth melting with mole, permitted himself to wink at her.

  He finished the dinner, finished two cups of coffee, finished the sweet, and knew comfort of body but disturbance of soul. The small girl hadn’t shown. He’d delayed as long as possible; it was past ten o’clock.

  The Herrera girls had gone, there was no one left but two dallying tables, the Senora and himself. He went to the desk where she tallied the day’s accounts. He was reluctant to question, knowing the curiosity it would prod in the woman, the questioning of the girl which would later ensue. The sorbita was too young to stand up to the iron of the Senora. While he pulled out his wallet to pay, he tried to make it sound unimportant. “Where did the small one disappear to?” Senora Herrera didn’t understand and he had to describe further, “The cigarette girl. The one with the straight hair.”

  “Francisca,” the Senora identified. Her lips set narrowly.

  He was gallant. “I noticed her because she seemed not of your family, Senora. The Herrera beauty was not there.”

  She muttered. “Francisca. I give her a job because I am so sorry for her, half-starved little rabbit. And what occurs? She is so ill! While we are most busy, she must go home right away.”

  “And she went home?” His stomach, well-filled though it was, suddenly appeared to have a big hole in it. “Like that?”

  The head nodded direly. “Like that, she goes. Running. So fast one would consider the devil himself is on her heels. She can be trusted no more than her abuelo.”

  His mouth hung open. Warily he repeated, “Her grandfather?” He wanted to wad cotton in his ears. He wanted to kick himself in the seat of his white linen pants.

  She wasn’t waiting for his reaction. Fire waved from her nostrils. “That wicked old one. It is he who sent her here, to run my business that he may put a mortgage on the name of Herrera.” Her hands beat the air. “And I, a woman of charity, have pity for her, so hungry-looking, so sorry that he beats her, that she is afraid of worse things he will force on her. I say to her—”

  He broke in, refusing to believe his belief, insisting it be said, “Senor el Greco is her abuelo?”

  “Of whom am I speaking but that foul spawn of the evil one and the lies he has put into her mouth to ruin a hard-working lady of family—”

  Again Jose broke her words. With demand. “When did she begin to work for you?”

  “But I have told you. It is this evening she comes to me and she tells me—”

  He wasn’t listening. And he’d hesitated to inquire about the girl, fearing she would suffer from the Senora’s wrath. The dirty little liar.

  Two

  THE AVENIDA DINNED HIS ears. But not as raspingly as the names he was calling himself. The bright guy. The kid with the medals. The prize package of the cloak-and-dagger boys. So he stood there and handed the package over to the old man’s granddaughter. Whoever didn’t want that package delivered didn’t need to strongarm Jose Aragon. No, sir! All he had to do was ask for it. The girl wasn’t even a babe.

  He went into the Paris to waste time. Their perfumes were Parisienne, he smelled a case full of amber bottles and they all smelled luxurious. For Miss Haughty Paris’s trouble, he bought the Chanel she recommended. If Lou was overstocked, she could give it as a door prize at her party. This bottle was lost in his pockets; his ideas and that of the lady tourists on the bargain price of perfume didn’t jibe. He’d have had to sell an acre of the ranch to buy Chanel of the size of Praxiteles’ bottle. It could be the lost bottle was important just in itself. It might be better to give up right now, to find the blonde and confess all. Only he wasn’t going to do it. Whatever it cost, he was going to keep her lulled until he could find the sorbita again.

  Having so decided, all he had to do was drop in at every perfume shop on the street. And to long for the cool, clean smell of beer. You couldn’t fool a dame on perfume. Why the blonde wanted such blatant-smelling stuff wasn’t his business. Her package was going to contain the right one if he had to sample every bottle in Juarez. The small matter of locating Beach would have to wait until this mission was completed. There was no sense in wasting his strength combining the two; the shops were laid like dominoes on this side of the street, the big saloons were on the opposite side.

  He tried two more shops without any luck. In the third, which was given over to guaraches and sombreros and glittering Chino Poblano skirts, his spirits soared. The girl who flirted over to assist him reeked of the right stuff. She was too plump for her flimsy blouse and teetering red heels, too old for the flower, artificial, stuck in her thick black hair. Her hair was oily, it smelled dirty. Her red lips breathed garlic. But the overall smell was the perfume.

  His manners were those of a gentleman, he tempered enthusiasm with courteous dignity. “Would you be so kind, Senorita, as to tell me the name of the perfume you wear?”

  The question surprised her. Certainly no turista had asked this before and no one of Juarez would inquire, they would know. Her mouth opened, emitting garlic more strongly. “It is
La Rosa.” She tilted her head flirtatiously. “La Rosa del Amor.”

  “I wish a bottle.”

  She shook her head. “We do not sell it here. We do not sell the perfumes.”

  “Where can I find it?”

  “Any place,” she shrugged.

  “Not at the Paris.”

  “The Paris!” She sniffed. “You can buy it any place on the street, I think, not at the Paris.” The Paris was for los ricos.

  He thanked her and hurried out. He found what he wanted at one of the open booths. La Rosa del Amor. He bought the big bottle in its cheap cardboard box, a bright pink rose decorating the label, the name wiggling around in gold letters. Made in Mexico. Made for the Five and Ten. It cost five pesos, possibly because he was North American. About a dollar. He insisted on having it wrapped, brown paper for this one. And dirty white string. Dulcinda Farrar wouldn’t know about the wrapping; she’d know only she had the perfume she was expecting. Her nose would know.

  He carried it openly, there was nothing else he could do. Now he could take up the problem of Beach. It would be a problem to get his charming primo-hermano steered back to El Paso. Yet unless he wanted to leave Beach on the loose here, which would mean they wouldn’t get started home in the morning, he’d have to cozen him into calling it a day. You’d think Beach would want to call it a day. The six o’clock start from the ranch this morning was too long ago. With the strain of this night piled atop it, Jose was ready to flop.

  He cut across the street, making his way in and out of the noisy palaces and their reek of music, booze, and jabber. He didn’t stop for a drink at any of them, a drink would make him fall on his face the way that the weariness was eating through him. He wasn’t discouraged. The Cock and the Central were just ahead, the biggest and best. Beach was a true Aragon; he preferred the best.

  Jose was leaving the Caballo when he ran smack up against Tosteen. He could have said, “Excuse me,” and gone around him, the man wouldn’t start anything in a crowd. But Jose didn’t. By then he was sick of the sight of anyone connected with Senor el Greco. This time he blocked Tosteen and with mocking courtesy said, “I keep running into you, Senor.” Out of contempt for the man, he put on a Mexican accent.

  The big, sagging man looked twice as tired as Jose. He also looked startled, as if the last person he expected to run into was the man he’d been following, Jose Aragon. Or Jose Aragon carrying a bottle of rose perfume.

  “Or is it you seem to keep running into me, Senor?” Jose showed his nice white teeth. “I do not like it. I do not like you. Remove yourself.”

  He might not have been so bold in a dark alley but here in the safe din of the Caballo with the police only the roar of a fight away, he swaggered. Tosteen didn’t say a word. He didn’t move his hand to his armpit. He wasn’t interested in Jose, only in the package Jose carried. His eyes were damp on it. Almost eagerly he stepped aside.

  The encounter had revived Jose. He strode next door to the Cock. The old Cock had been a small place, away from the hurly-burly, a favorite spot. The new one was as popular, it coined money enough to live up to its name, but it was a Christmas tree not a comfortable beer parlor. Through the rhythmic shoulders of the rumba dancers he found the one head he was seeking. He started directly for it, gesturing aside the waiters who would have led him. It wasn’t until he reached the other side of the dance floor that he saw what ringside party Beach had joined. Actually he saw only one member of the party, Dulcinda Farrar. Beach wasn’t there by accident.

  It was too late to retreat. Beach was calling across the intervening space, “Mira, Jose! I found your blonde!” With a firm hold on the brown-paper parcel, Jose reluctantly put one foot in front of the other until he reached the table.

  After what had been transpiring, he was more critical in his study of the blonde than he had been in the gay noon-day sun. But she was just as lovely as she’d been then, the patrician face wasn’t marred by the rigors of a night in Juarez, the eyes were as golden-brown, the mouth as bold. She was wearing something filmy in gray, something that dived daringly when you stood, as he did, above her. The mist color accentuated her suntan and she wasn’t wearing La Rosa. There was something about her that stirred his pulses, something that made the poetry he’d woven about her earlier no longer a joke. And it wasn’t the provocative dress.

  Her glance flecked over Jose as it would over any stranger. Beach made offhand introductions, “My cousin, Jo. Dulcy Farrar, Tim Farrar, Rags …?”

  “The name is Harvey Ragsdale.”

  “Jose Aragon,” Beach concluded. “Pull up a chair, Jo. Where have you been?”

  Dulcy continued to appraise Jo as if she’d not seen him before. “Your cousin has been searching everywhere for you,” she commented with faint amusement.

  A scrawny waiter had brought up another chair, inserting it between Beach and the girl. While Beach was ordering a new round, Jose slipped into it. “Make mine beer,” he put in. He set the package on the table, keeping it near hand touch. “I know,” he told Dulcy. “He has searched in every glass and in the eyes of every pretty girl. And he couldn’t find me.”

  Beach was sailing high and would be happy to soar higher. If he’d been drunk, Jose could have walked him out of here; if he’d been sober, a word under the breath would have been enough. Unfortunately, being neither flesh nor fowl, it would take some figuring. Unless Jose could procure allies. The two men with Dulcinda weren’t happy about the Aragon cousins.

  Tim Farrar must have been a younger brother. His face was very young, what he hadn’t buried in a yellow-brown beard. His features were hers but the supercilious sneer descending the slender nose, burying itself in the beard, was his own.

  Ragsdale was a big brute and he didn’t need to get to his feet to prove it. No fat, brawn and muscles; Tim was a matchstick stacked beside him. A Tim would need a Rags. Ragsdale’s window dressing was okay, the right clothes and the right crop to his curly hair, dark as Jose’s own, but he was out of his class. He belonged in the ring or in the oil fields or on the docks, not with the Farrars. Nor the Aragons.

  Beach, the order given, demanded cheerfully, “Where did you disappear to, Jo? All of a sudden, you’re gone. Without a trace. Adam went on home.”

  “I ran into some old friends,” Jose explained easily. “I left a message, didn’t you get it?”

  “No messages.”

  “You probably didn’t miss me until that senorita ran you off. Or was it she had a husband who objected?” He told Dulcinda, “My cousin was very busy with a young lady when I left him.”

  Beach managed to glare. “Don’t you believe anything he says, Dulcy. He has a pretty, lying tongue, beware of it.”

  The three of them might have been doing a scene on a stage with Tim’s sneer and Ragsdale’s square blank face for audience. Dulcinda’s companions were that interested and that disinterested. Rags was drinking tequila straight, out of a tumbler. Unless it was pulque. His tastes would have developed before he latched onto the Farrars.

  Dulcinda tilted her eyes at Jose. “Why has your cousin insisted that I am your blonde? I’ve told him we never met, can you convince him?” There was no hidden message in those clear eyes; she was clever.

  “Convince me,” Beach grinned. “If she’s not your blonde, she’s mine.”

  “Perhaps then I do not wish to convince him,” Jose said softly to her. He didn’t like it that he could have meant what he was saying.

  “But he has a blonde stached out somewhere,” Beach warned. “That’s why we’re not in Santa Fe tonight.”

  “You are from Santa Fe?”

  Jose said, “I am. Beach is the California branch.”

  “We’re headed for Santa Fe,” Dulcinda said casually. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other up there.”

  “We will.” He looked deep into her golden eyes, as if he were just another guy bowled over by her fascinations. Not one who didn’t intend to be. As if he didn’t know that she’d known where he was from and th
at somehow it was important to her. It was after the Fernandez brothers had yelled their nickname that she’d returned to hire him.

  “I’m warning you to pay no heed to him,” Beach insisted. “You can’t trust this burlero. Women have learned that to their sorrow from Cape to lonely Cape. Isthmus to Isthmus. Peninsula to Peninsula.” He was enjoying his tongue trouble with the words.

  Jose lighted her cigarette. It was natural to bend his head to hers. “Perhaps we will run into each other before then?”

  She smiled. “Quien sabe?” It must have been her special smile. Despite decision, Jose’s heart or whatever it was in the mid-hollow gave a special bump. Dulcinda could be dangerous.

  Beach was paying off the waiter. Neither Farrar nor Ragsdale had made a pass at their wallets or said thanks for the drinks. Jose told him, “Drink up, chum. We’ve got to get back to the hotel.”

  Beach opened his eyes boy-wide. “What’s your hurry? The night hasn’t begun.” He ogled Dulcinda pleasantly.

  “It’s ended for me. I’m out on my feet.” He didn’t have to strive for a convincing sigh.

  The beard murmured, “Don’t let us detain you.”

  Beach hadn’t noticed or he was used to Tim’s distaste: “Run along,” he told Jose. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “No.” He was firm. “Your sainted mother told me to watch over you. Besides we’re taking off early for Socorro and I don’t intend to drive it alone.”

  “Socorro?” Dulcinda’s eyebrows were curious, too curious. “Not Santa Fe?”

  He outlined it. “We return a truck to the ranch. We pick up my car—and then homeward bound.” He promised, “Where we will meet.”

  She gave him a hint of the smile again. Just enough to keep him hopeful. If she’d been an innocent, she wouldn’t have spent it on him. Not with Beach around. It was Beach the dames went for. For tonight he’d had enough of Dulcinda’s game, whatever it was. He set to work on Beach, a stubborn Beach.