County Kill

by Peter Rabe

  Then Glenys was coming across the dry grass with a bottle of Einlicher for each of us, and I began to feel less disturbed. That Einlicher, it won’t solve your problems, but it will put them into easier focus.

  “Anything?” she asked me. She took a chair near mine.

  “Nothing. I have a very fragile permission from Chief Harris to continue without getting the gas chamber. I have a feeling his blessing might be revoked any second.”

  “June could have Jim put in a word for you,” she said. “Jim was mayor here for one term.”

  “I know. But James Edward Ritter is not likely to want Skip found, is he?”

  “What do you mean? That was rotten, Brock.”

  “I withdraw the statement. Isn’t he in love with June?”

  No answer.

  “And isn’t June in love with Skip?”

  “I certainly hope she isn’t. I — ”

  She broke off as Bud came around the corner of the house. He had a scraped bruise under one eye. “Well?” he asked.

  “No luck today, partner. What happened to your eye?”

  He looked at his Aunt Glenys and down at the dry grass.

  “How about the second wise guy?” I asked. “Was there one?”

  He shook his head. “You were right.” He took a breath. “Could I go with you tomorrow when you look some more?”

  “Sorry. I always work alone.”

  He looked at the glass in my hand. “I didn’t know you drank, too.”

  “Only beer,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

  Nothing from him.

  I said, “The Dodgers won today.”

  “I know.” He took another breath. “Brock — do you think that — I mean, you think he’s all right? Maybe — ” He broke off, his chin quivering.

  “I don’t know anything yet, Bud,” I said gently. “I won’t know anything until I find him.”

  “But you’re going to keep looking, huh?”

  “Absolutely.”

  His mother called him then, and he went off with a wave.

  When he was out of the range of our voices, Glenys said, “Send the bill to me, Brock.”

  I shook my head stubbornly. “Nope. This one has to be on the house.”

  “You’re a strange man,” she said.

  “And proud to be,” I assured her.

  FIVE

  I ATE DINNER at a downtown restaurant. The local paper I had bought gave me no information on the death of Chavez that I didn’t have and gave only last-line notice to the report that Lund was still being sought by the police.

  If I was still under Department surveillance, my half-trained eyes could not observe it. There was no human resembling a cop in the restaurant and I hadn’t been followed from Monte vista, I was almost sure.

  Of course, I hadn’t known I’d been watched before until the chief had admitted it. My mind went back over the day. What had I accomplished for my client? Nothing. Perhaps if Mary Chavez learned what Skip’s “business” was, as she was going to try to do today, it would be a stronger lead than I’d had so far.

  Unless he was beyond newspaper, radio, and TV communication, he had to know that he was wanted. And if he knew but didn’t reveal himself, what could that mean? If it meant what it seemed to mean, I was doing Bud no favor.

  At the motel, there had been a long-distance call for me, according to the note under my door. I phoned the operator’s number.

  It was Jan who had phoned. She said, “I can’t make it, Brock, damn it! The Kesselrings insist I spend the weekend up at their ranch.”

  “To hell with the Kesselrings,” I said. “They bought your time and talent, not your soul, lady.”

  “Brock, this is the biggest commission I’ve lined up in a year. You simply don’t say no to people like the Kesselrings.” A pause. “Only an economic idiot would refuse the Kesselrings.”

  Personal, she was getting. I said, “Or a person of integrity. Just remember this — I wanted you here. The decision not to come was made by you, out of greed.”

  “Oh?” Her voice was an arctic wind, cooling an iceberg. “Are you threatening me with something? Something like adultery, perhaps? Some aging bar girl, maybe, has succumbed to your porcine charms?”

  “Try not to be vulgar,” I said. “Good night, moneybags.” I hung up.

  Outside, it was dark now. Car doors slammed and toilets growled and TV eyes went sock, sock, sock, bang, bang, bang. I sat their sulking, missing my girl. We would never be married — never.

  The ring of the phone startled me.

  The voice was feminine and deep, and because of the faint accent I thought for a moment it was Mary Chavez.

  But she identified herself as Juanita Rico. She said, “I have a place called Chickie’s at the other end of town from where you are. Could you drop in and talk with me tonight?”

  “I could. Are you the friend of Mary Chavez?”

  “I’m one of her friends. She has many. You might mention that to Sergeant Vogel next time you’re together.”

  “Did Vogel mistreat Mary?”

  “Not physically. He was rude and insulting.”

  “I see. Chickie’s, eh? What’s the address, Miss Rico?”

  She gave me the address and told me it was Mrs. not Miss and said she would be there all evening.

  I had lamented a wasted day, but it wouldn’t be over until midnight and perhaps it would still bear fruit.

  • • •

  It was in the Mexican district, a long stucco building with two steps leading up to the double front door. In the window a red neon sign identified it as Chickie’s.

  There was only one other customer this early in the evening. He stood at the far end of the battered bar, a lanky, redheaded man in jeans and sport shirt. In a far corner a thin-faced Mexican with bony fingers played a soft and melancholy guitar.

  The woman behind the bar was olive-skinned with a strong face and full-bodied figure, though not in any sense fat. She was a shade on the buxom side for my taste but plainly all woman.

  “Mr. Callahan?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m Juanita Rico.”

  “How do you do, Juanita. And who is Chickie?”

  She frowned. “The man who used to own this place. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  A pause. “Drink?” She glanced meaningly toward the man at the end of the bar. “We will talk later. It won’t be long.”

  “O.K. Beer. Draught beer if you have it. Otherwise a bottle of High Life.”

  She poured a glass from a spigot and set it in front of me. I sipped it slowly, listening to the melodic lamentations of the guitar. In a few minutes the redhead finished his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out without a good night.

  Juanita Rico made a face. “He never says a word, that one. He walks in, orders two double bourbons, drinks them, walks out. Maybe he don’t like us, huh?”

  “Maybe he’s a mute,” I suggested. “What about Skip Lund, Mrs. Rico?”

  She ignored the question. “He’s no mute. He’s got a voice when he orders.” She made another face. “Angloes! Phooey!”

  “I’m one,” I said. “What about Skip Lund?”

  The sound of the guitar stopped. I turned to meet the stare of the lanky man with the thin face. He stared back without animosity or interest.

  Juanita said something to him in Spanish and he began to play again.

  “If I tell you about Skip,” she said, “you will have to tell the police, no?”

  “It depends upon what you tell me. My interest is his son, but I can’t work in opposition to the police.”

  “My interest is his son, too,” she said sadly. “That is why I phoned you.” She sighed. “Skip is a nice boy; he could be a better father.”

  “And husband,” I added.

  She made a face again. “Phooey! Who can be a good husband in Montevista?”

  “Skip’s alive, then?” I asked.

  She no
dded. “I’m sure he is.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “If a man is out of sight, how can you know he’s alive? The manager of your motel, do you know he’s alive right now?”

  “You’re quibbling,” I said. “And Johnny Chavez? What did Lund have to do with that?”

  “Nothing. He was not with Johnny when he died.”

  “Mrs. Rico,” I said gravely, “if you can prove that, your duty is to tell it to the police.”

  “There are reasons why I cannot. And if you tell them I said that, I will call you a liar and bring witnesses to fix you good in this town.”

  I stared at her.

  She smiled. “You are not the police. You are working for the boy. I will see that Skip contacts the boy.”

  “And what good will that do,” I protested, “if he’s still on the wrong side of the law?”

  Her brown eyes flashed and her full body was rigid. “Can you prove that Skip Lund is on the wrong side of the law?”

  “Not right now. His buddy had a record.”

  “Skip has no record.”

  The guitar stopped again. I gave him my attention once more and he returned the favor.

  I looked back at Juanita. “What is he, the suspense orchestrator or something?”

  “He came to the end of the piece,” she said calmly. “He stops before he starts another. Are you nervous, Mr. Callahan?”

  I said, “I came here in good faith for a charity client. I wasn’t received in good faith.”

  “How can you be? Haven’t you admitted you must work with the police?”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Have another beer,” she said, “on the house.” She took my glass and poured another.

  “And you don’t?” I repeated.

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “It puts Lund in a bad light if you don’t.”

  She exhaled heavily and stared at me in anger. “Mr. Callahan, though you are a stranger here, I offered you perhaps the first help you have been offered in this town. And you immediately make noises like a cop. In this place, we do not like cops. Does that put us on the wrong side of the law?”

  “Generally, yes.”

  “Good night to you,” she said. “Drink up and go. To hell with you.”

  I thought of my client, waiting for a word, any word. I thought of the unreasonable Chief Chandler Harris and the belligerent Sergeant Bernard Vogel and the only man who had smiled at me down at Headquarters, the Mexican patrolman.

  I said humbly, “Believe me, my only interest in this case is to find the father of my eleven-year-old client. Where did I go wrong with you?”

  “Drink,” she said, “and go. I should have realized when you informed the police Mary came to see you last night that you could not be trusted.”

  “I swear to you, Juanita, that the police found that out by themselves. They have had me watched here ever since I brought Bud back to his mother.”

  Her eyes widened. She went to the window and looked out. She said something in Spanish to the guitar player and he carefully laid down his instrument and went through the swinging door that probably led to the kitchen.

  She came back to ask, “Do you think they followed you here?”

  “I doubt it. I couldn’t see anybody. But I didn’t see the man when they were watching me.”

  “Perhaps, then,” she suggested, “you are not such a great friend of the police?”

  I said evenly, “I can’t fight them and stay in business. But I am a better friend of young Warren Lund.”

  She stared at me as though she was reading more into my statement than I had intended. Then she said, “Callahan, there are moral acts which are illegal and legal acts which are very immoral. Can you believe that?”

  “Is it a riddle? I’m not good at riddles.”

  “Isn’t that your business, riddles?”

  I smiled at her. “I suppose. I am not very good at my business. I am only strong and stubborn.”

  “You have a nice smile,” she said. “You don’t look anything like a cop when you smile.”

  “Let’s see your smile,” I said.

  She took my glass and refilled it. She smiled. “Some enchiladas, perhaps? I make the best enchiladas in town.”

  “Not now,” I said. “Maybe later.”

  There was no point in crowding her. She was a strong personality and this was mañana land. And where else did I have to go?

  The guitar player, who had gone out through the kitchen, came in again through the front door and spoke softly to her in Spanish. She nodded and he went back to the guitar.

  “All clear?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I sipped my beer. “That Mary Chavez is a sweet girl, isn’t she?”

  “An angel. They will be married, she and Skip. He is already taking instructions from the priest.”

  “From the priest? When I was a Catholic, Juanita, divorced people could not be married by a priest.”

  “You were a dumb Catholic, Callahan. If the parties were originally married outside the Church, they are not married in the eyes of the Church. Skip was not married before to a Catholic.

  She was wrong, I felt sure. But it was not a time to argue religion. Nor was I qualified. And though the love life of Skip Lund was none of my business and Mary Chavez was a sweet girl, and though I was sure that Lund had sound reasons, I was sad.

  Because Bud, like all boys, needed a father, a father of his own blood.

  The door opened and the redhead was back.

  Mrs. Rico stared at him and then at me. This was obviously a change in the man’s routine, and it had startled her.

  He didn’t go to the end of the bar. He came over to stand next to me and say gruffly, “Double bourbon.”

  “I know,” she said. “I ought to by now, huh?”

  He nodded without looking at her.

  She poured it and went over to talk with the guitar player.

  The redhead said quietly, “I usually get out of here before all those spies come in. But I figured if you can take it, I can.”

  “If you’re bigoted,” I said, “why come in here at all?”

  “Bigoted? What’s that? That mean you don’t like Mexicans?”

  “That’s one of the things it means. Nobody’s forcing you to come in here.”

  He studied me doubtfully. He had a big, ugly, freckled face and faded-blue eyes. I could guess he had been in a few bar fights in his time and won his share.

  “A wise guy?” he asked ominously.

  “No. Only puzzled. Is the whisky better here? Or maybe cheaper?”

  His smile was cynical. “Why are you here?”

  “On business. Why else?”

  Juanita was back behind the bar now and Red’s eyes moved slyly that way and I got his message. There was lust in the slyness, a mute, aching lust.

  Juanita began to wash some glasses.

  I said quietly to the redhead, “She’s married and she doesn’t like angloes. It’s hopeless, Red.”

  “Married, huh? Where’d you hear that?”

  “It’s Mrs. Rico, isn’t it?”

  “That don’t mean she’s married now. I been in here plenty and I never saw no husband around.”

  Some more people came in and Juanita moved down the bar to serve them. The guitar moved into more cheerful melodies to match the cheerful patrons, laboring men and their perfumed wives trying to ignore tomorrow.

  In one corner a young couple danced, close and well and oblivious. Juanita watched them smilingly.

  “Think she’d like to dance?” the redhead asked me.

  I shrugged.

  “Whyn’t you ask her?” he suggested. “And then I can cut in.”

  I shook my head.

  He grumbled something I couldn’t understand and called to Juanita, “Another double here.”

  She came down to pour it. She stood in front of us and poured his drink and then ignored him, asking me, “Happy people, aren�
�t they? Not like Montevista.”

  Was she putting in a word for Mary Chavez, a word against June Lund? I smiled, not committing myself.

  Red said hoarsely, “Could I buy you a drink, Juanita?”

  “Why not?” she said, and looked at him without interest. She poured a shot and held it high. “Your health, Mr. — ?”

  “Hovde,” he said shakily. “Lars Hovde. My friends call me Red.”

  “Your health, Mr. Hovde,” she said, and downed her drink in one swallow. She smiled at me and went to the other end of the bar again.

  “Hard to get, huh?” Red scoffed. “She don’t fool me.”

  “Patience, Red,” I said. “Be smooth.”

  “Sure.” He looked down at his faded jeans and fingered the wet spot on his cheap sport shirt. “I got better clothes than this, but I didn’t want her to think I was too fancy. They don’t like that, when you’re fancy.”

  “Women don’t like it when you’re fancy?”

  “Not spies,” he said.

  His bigotry was annoying enough. But the way he was hoisting the doubles he was bound to get louder. And this was no place to use that ugly word loud enough to be heard.

  I walked up to where Juanita stood and told her, “This redhead is beginning to annoy me. I could belt him, but we don’t want any cops, do we?”

  “I could tell him to leave,” she suggested.

  “No. I’ll go. And about Lund …?”

  “I’ll phone you tomorrow, if I decide to take the chance,” she said. “I couldn’t help you tonight anyway. I don’t know exactly where he is tonight.”

  “I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow,” I said. “I’d better call you.”

  “Any time after noon,” she said. “Amigo, you may tell the boy his father is no killer and he will hear from him.”

  “Has he been away?” I asked. “On a trip?”

  “Your nose is long. Tell the boy what I told you.”

  I went out without saying good night to Lars Hovde. The night was cold and clear after the hot day and I stood for a few seconds, breathing it in.

  Behind me, the laughter of the happy people — and I hoped Hovde wouldn’t change the mood in there with his loser’s hatreds.