Jose halted Canario at the corner. “Play now,” he ordered. “Play fine and strong, the old songs that all may sing with you. The lively tunes for dancing.” Under his breath, he said fiercely, “Tell them you come to play for them. Make them happy to sing and dance. I will be watching.” His hand gestured to his pocket.
Canario’s head bobbed like a strawman’s. He clanged the cymbals, he blew the cornet, he trilled the flute. The children were beginning to gather around him. Jose stepped back against the wall. No one would notice him. It would not be often that Canario left the tourists of an evening to play for the people of Juarez.
Jose waited until the circles widened about the songbird. He moved with the swiftness of a shadow. To the side of a boy. He whispered, “Five dollars American to speak with Francisca.” The boy turned black stone eyes up at him. He darted away. Jose moved to another. “Five dollars American to speak with Francisca.” He weaved in and out of the throng. Whispering where he thought it was wise. And not too unsafe. When he’d completed the circle he returned to the black shadow of the wall.
Canario wasn’t frightened any longer. He was enjoying his art. Jose didn’t have to prod him to continue the concert, he had forgotten the instigator. But it wouldn’t go on forever. The old bones of the viejos would begin to ache for the bed. The little ones’ eyes would hang heavy; the fathers and mothers would remember the work to be done tomorrow. The lovers would seek darker corners.
And Jose waited on against the dark wall. He was stricken with the hopelessness of it before a boy sidled to him. “What is it you want with Francisca?”
He restrained the surge of excitement. He spoke quietly, “Only to speak with her. Five dollars American. The same for her.”
“You are not the police?” The boy was an innocent, a wise one would not have dared ask.
He said, “If I were the police, would I offer dollars? I would demand you take me to her. Five dollars,” he tempted.
The boy couldn’t refuse. “I will see if I can find her.”
He could find her. He wouldn’t have approached the stranger if he hadn’t known where she was. But she would have more than one hiding place. If endangered, she would disappear into a deeper hole. Jose couldn’t risk that. How to send word without speaking his name. It wasn’t safe to speak it lest the whisper reach the Calle de la Burrita before he was ready. He hesitated. “Tell her it is one who needs her help.”
He didn’t know whether it would work. He didn’t know why she’d run away. If, inconceivably, it had been because she was frightened of him, she’d be scarcely less frightened that he had followed her. If it had been because she had come to him for one purpose only, to steal the Praxiteles’ package, she’d have a price on it. Unless she already had had her price. He had no facts, nothing but a mouthful of ifs. If she wanted to sell him out, he was here waiting for it, a sitting pigeon. Yet he dared not move to a safer spot. He must be waiting when the boy returned.
The merrymakers were still clustered about Canario but already they were dwindling. It wasn’t heat that made Jose’s shirt cling to his shoulders; after sundown it wasn’t that hot. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him but you could never tell. Others too could be hiding in shadow. To break the tension, he cupped a cigarette and lighted it.
He’d taken but a few draws when he spied the skulking boy. Whether the same one or not, he didn’t know, even when the muchacho sidled against the wall toward him. It could have been the cigarette he desired. Jose dropped the cigarette and the boy swooped it up. But he muttered, “Come.”
Jose didn’t follow too closely. He thought he’d lost the kid as they edged through the crowd and then he saw the shape of him half a block ahead. He knew it was the right one from the little wraith of smoke wisping from his mouth. After another block Jose had lost him. He was alone, an open target in a part of the city which belonged to the people. Where he was an intrusion. And he heard the whisper from the deeper dark of an alley, “Come,” saw again the small carmine circle in the dark.
He followed on, twisting through these hidden warrens as did the boy. He had no idea where he was, he could never find his way back to the square without a guide. No longer could he hear the faint tinkle of Canario. Overhead there was the clean dark of the sky and the whiteness of a million stars but these were too far away to light his path. When he came to a stop in the meanest of the alleys, it was because he had bumped into the boy. The nino didn’t say, “Come,” this time; he said, “Gimme.”
For one sickening moment Jose called himself fool. The boy didn’t care whether he led the way to Francisca. Why should he? A fool had five dollars to throw away; why shouldn’t a pobrecito accept it? Or more, with a knife in a dark alley. The boy was young but no one was young who lived on the streets of a border city. Jose tensed himself, ready to spring, to strike, when her voice came to him. “What is it you want with me?”
He couldn’t see her. She was somewhere in the deep darkness, somewhere beyond the boy.
The boy whined softly, “You say you will gimme five dollars.”
Jose fumbled for the boy’s hand. The child, suddenly ugly, said, “You give me paper.”
“It’s a five-dollar bill,” Jose snapped. He turned the small shoulders to face the last curve they had made. “Wait for me back there.” He mustn’t lose his guide.
The child passed him on soft feet. Jose moved in the direction of Francisca’s voice until he could see the shape of her against the crumbling wall. Until he could hear the muted tinkle of her earrings.
“Keep away from me,” she whispered.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said angrily. “You don’t want me to shout what I must say.”
“Stay where you are,” she insisted. But she moved a few steps closer, not too close. She was wearing the clothes he had given her.
“Why did you run away?”
She was sullen. “You do not want me. It is the gringo you want in your house.”
“What gringo?”
“The one who comes to you at night. With the hair—mantaquilla—”
“Oh, no!” Jose breathed softly. The answer couldn’t be that this guttersnipe was jealous of Dulcy. “Oh, no!” he repeated. It couldn’t be for this that the pack had had to run full tilt for the border.
“It is not true?” she raged. “With my own eyes I see her. She say she will wait for you—”
He broke in. “Wait a minute. When did she come?”
“After you went away. When the accident happen. But she will not stay. Before your friend came, she was not there.”
He was trying to make it fit. “You didn’t skip out then. You were there when I got home.”
Out of the silence came her smaller voice. “I did not know. Until you sent me away that night. Because it was not me you wanted.” She spat the words, “It was The Blonde!”
He sighed, “Quica.” But he let it alone. He said, “You have the perfume. And the sweets.”
She maintained sullen silence.
“You didn’t take them because Dulcy came to my house. You had taken them before.”
She muttered, “I didn’t steal them.”
“I didn’t say you stole them. But you took them from me again. I know this is true. If any of the others had them, they wouldn’t have had to come to the border to find you.”
“They are seeking me?” She moved a little closer to him.
“They’re seeking what you have. And they know you have it.” He remembered briefly, without emotion, the men who lay dead. He said, “You don’t matter any more to them than—than anyone else who’s been in their way.”
She blustered, “They will not find me.” But fear whistled through the words.
“They’ll find you. Senor el Greco will pay much to find you.”
Again she shivered closer. They’d said all these words before, not so long ago, yet long ago. Then there had been time for words.
“Where is the perfume?”
“I hide i
t.”
“It wouldn’t take you long to find it, would it?” He didn’t know how to appeal to her because he wasn’t sure yet why she had taken the things. He had to ask, pleading a straight answer, “Why did you take them again, Francisca? Why?”
She said, “It was better that you do not keep these things.”
“Because you knew they were dangerous to me?” He said, “I’m in worse danger now.”
After a moment she whispered, “Go away. Go home.”
“I can’t. Unless I end this. Running away won’t help. Death can run faster than I.” He spaced the words evenly, as if he’d committed them to memory. He might have been discussing a piece of bread. “Before I visit Senor Praxiteles, I wish the perfume.”
She whispered quickly, “You will not go there.”
“I must. To make an end to all of this.”
“An end to you.”
“I don’t think so.” If he were wrong, he wouldn’t care very much.
“You do not go there,” she touched his sleeve. Most lightly. “Let the police take care of him.”
“I wish I could.” He meant it. “It isn’t that easy. Not on the border.” And there was a part of it that had to be his, that no one else could pay off. “Well?”
She said reluctantly, “I will give the perfume to you.”
He didn’t hear her leave him. He didn’t know she had gone until he realized that he could not longer distinguish the rise and fall of her breath. He was alone in this ugly, hostile dark. He needed a cigarette to quell the beat of his nerves but he was afraid to make a light. He leaned away from the wall just enough to peer up to the bend of the narrow alley. The blur must be the boy who had led him here. The boy would hang around only as long as his patience permitted. He was missing the cabalgata. He already had more money in his jeans than he’d ever had at one time, even if he couldn’t believe the piece of green paper was as good as silver cartwheels.
The night was warm, too warm for comfort. The minutes passed with sticky slowness. She might not return. She couldn’t fail to realize the importance of what she held, not with everyone concerned shuttling back to the border after it. She could decide to hold it for a higher bid. And again, she might not return because she couldn’t. There wouldn’t be a kid on the Plaza who didn’t know where she was hidden. Among them there could be one who would sell her out to Praxiteles, or let loose a foolish word. If she didn’t return, Jose would have no idea where to search for her. He could search but he would never find. His nerves were unraveling when he felt her beside him.
“This is what you want?”
His hand fumbled for hers, closed over the roundness of the bottle, removed from the cheap cardboard box. The insidious scent was already filtering into his nostrils. “That’s it.” He slid it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks. There’s one thing more, ninita.” He hoped he could put it across without making it sound important. “I want you to meet me on the other side. Later. Can you make it?”
“I can.” She had no hesitation about the answer. But for him she was disturbed. “You will not be there.”
“I’ll be there,” he vowed. “Go to the Chenoweth.”
“They do not want me at the Chenoweth.”
He repeated with emphasis, “Go to the Chenoweth. To Lou. Tell her I send you and that she’s to keep you safe for me.” He added, making it casual but definite, “Take the dulce with you. You will do this for me?”
Her answer came slowly. “Yes. I will do this.”
“I’ll meet you there.” He glanced up the street. His small guide was still leaning against the corner house. He was no more than a shadow against the darkness but he was there. “Until later,” Jose murmured. He started to move but her hand caught his sleeve.
“My five dollars,” she demanded. “You tell this boy five dollars for him, five dollars for me, if I talk to you.”
He’d forgotten. “Sure,” he said. It was too dark to distinguish one bill from another. Just in case this was a signal of betrayal, he stooped to his haunches before he struck a light. He extinguished it almost at once. But there was no activity from any direction. He extracted the five he’d thumbed and passed it into her hand. “There’ll be more,” he said quietly, “if you bring the sweets to me at the Chenoweth.”
She didn’t respond. She had already faded away into the deep dark.
IV
There was no longer song and dance on the Plaza. No longer did Canario chirp his merry tune. Only a few quiet ones strolled together. Jose gave the guide a silver cartwheel, it made up for the disappointment of the piece of paper.
Canario would be searching for Jose. Because of the five dollars promised to him for the concert and yet unpaid. But the musico wouldn’t be searching the back streets, he’d be again on the Avenida, collecting from the turistas while he watched for Jose. Canario could watch a bit longer.
Jose remained on the corner until long after the boy had disappeared. He didn’t want to do what must be done. It wasn’t that he was afraid. It was the sickness of his spirit which held him motionless.
It was necessary that he force himself to set out. No one followed. No one wondered why a solitary man was stumbling across the wide street. It would not be remembered that he had passed this way. He didn’t approach the Street of the Little Burro in customary fashion. Tonight he would not wait politely outside to be admitted to Senor Praxiteles’ humble shop. His entrance must be a surprise to those gathered there. He could move softly, so softly that the echo of music from the Avenida would muffle the impress of his foot.
This was the rear wall of the Senor’s casa. He lifted the latch of the gate silently. The courtyard was open to starshine. He crossed it, made silent ejaculation to his patron saint as he touched the back door of the house. It wasn’t like any Mexican to lock his doors against his neighbors. But no matter how much he owned of Ciudad Juarez, Praxiteles was not a Mejicano. Either luck held or the good saint had interceded with a heavenly key. The door opened under Jose’s hand.
There was yet the risk of running into the old woman before finding the room in which the Senor entertained his guests. From the entryway, Jose could hear no voices. He padded the closing of the door with his hand, stood in house darkness. He felt his way through the kitchen to another door. It squealed faintly as he edged it open. He waited without breath but the sound evidently had not carried beyond his own ears. He was in a corridor now, without light, but he was moving in the right direction. He could hear the voices ahead of him. And after a few more steps, a mote of dusty illumination sifted into the hallway.
The door was ajar. He approached it, rubbing against the wall. He could smell over the perfume in his pocket, the sweetness of Mexican cigarettes and the sour-sweet of the Senor’s cheap wine. Praxiteles croaked, “Do not be impatient, Senores. She will be found.”
“When?” was the impatient demand. “We have other things to do besides hang around here all night….”
If it had been expedient, Jose would have remained here listening. But his must be the offensive, there was too much risk of being discovered. He took a breath and showed himself in the doorway.
The three he expected were here. Senor el Greco, dressed for important company in his rusty black frock coat and carpet slippers, rocked in a chair as old as he. In the big sagging leather armchair was Adam. And in the corner was Rags. It was Adam whom Jose faced.
Jose said, “Hello.” He was a surprise. He knew it from the frown that curdled Adam’s eyebrows. Rags was quick on his feet. Adam gestured him back into the corner.
Praxiteles agitated, “How did you get in here? What do you want?”
Adam ordered, “Quitate!” and the old man hushed. But he rocked a little faster. To Jose, Adam said, “You knew before you came here?”
“Yes, I knew.”
“Captain Harrod?”
“No. I figured it out.” He didn’t want to talk about it, he wanted to hear the ranch bell clanging and wake up to another day of the
cattle, to laugh this off as an evil dream. But he couldn’t. “When I found Tim, I was sure.”
“He asked for it,” Rags snarled. “That little louse, trying to muscle in—”
Adam said, “Shut up. I’ll do the talking.” He turned his eyes again to Jose. “He was a louse. I lost my temper.”
“I knew it happened that way with him. But not Tustin. Or Beach.”
Adam opened his mouth, but Jose didn’t give him a chance to speak. “I should have known sooner. You were the only one who could have taken care of Tustin. But I thought you’d really started home. I had a brush with him just before I went into the Cock that night. Rags and Tim were already at a table, they didn’t leave until after I did. Tustin was dead by then. Senor el Greco wasn’t strong enough to heave a body around. And he wouldn’t have dared ride a dead man through customs. His reputation isn’t good enough. It had to be someone like you.” His smile was twisted. “And it never occurred to me that you weren’t my best friend.”
Adam said, “Tustin was a hired spy.”
Jose didn’t pay any attention. “You too had just come up from Mexico. But that didn’t mean anything to me, you were always traveling back and forth on business. It didn’t mean anything to me that you know everyone below the border the same as you know everyone above it. That you must have known Rags. No one suspects a big, easy-going, friendly guy of dirty business.”
Adam’s face looked as if Jose had struck him.
“You’re the one who grabbed the chance of using Tim’s trouble to smuggle something too hot for you to handle personally. You told that exporter’s clerk what to do. With Rags on the spot to watch the Farrars, it must have looked foolproof. I was a mistake.”
“Yes,” Adam monotoned.
“You didn’t know about me until you saw the Senor that night, did you? After he’d given me the package. I didn’t say anything to you or Beach because I didn’t want you two to be involved in trouble. I knew it was trouble. I’d caught Tustin searching my room.”
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