Candy Kid (7 page)

It was well. The old man’s mouth would have been sour on the glass.

Jose took a deep breath when he stood outside the door again. To expel the odor of mold which had seeped from the old man. The smell of the perfume he couldn’t escape. It wasted its cheap headiness on the still, dusty air of the mean little street, the fragrance seeping through the heavy green paper. His hands would be stained with it. Tosteen would have no difficulty following him now no matter what back streets Jose covered.

It was the thought of Tosteen which held him to the protection of the doorway for that long minute. Whether it was better to retrace the length of the street or to round the corner here. The lay of the street was visible; what he would find around the corner was problematical. As far as he knew, no one was aware he had come to Praxiteles, much less why. Except for the blonde. The trouble was he didn’t know very much.

Out of past experience, remembering other murky alleys, Jose hushed the rise and fall of his breath to listen. Where before the drift of metallic music from the street of the turistas had been ephemeral, it now rattled with perverse frenzy. Drowning out any faint footfall, obliterating the heartbeat, the muted breath, the trickle of blood through veins. The spoor of those who lurked in dark places. Yet without eyes and without ears, he knew. He was no longer alone on the little burro’s street.

The darkness stirred, a waver of dark against dark in the doorway of the house next door. Even as his eyes distinguished this, his nose sniffed through the reek of perfume another odor. The sweet cigar smell of a Mexican cigarillo. Around the corner.

He was caught then, between a cigarette and a shadow. It was up to him to choose. Or to step out boldly and let the choice be theirs. If it weren’t for the damn package, he’d take a chance on either one. If it weren’t for the damn package, he reflected wryly, he wouldn’t be here. The perfume was too bulky to push into his coat pocket, one hand must be engaged with hanging on to it. He wasn’t accustomed to arguing with just one hand. But if he set it down it would be the last time he’d have possession of it. By now he wasn’t doubting that someone wanted that package like crazy. Someone other than the blond dame.

He hadn’t any idea what he was going to do but he moved. Moved before Senor el Greco brought up the rear.

The whisper was softer than breath. “Senor!”

He stopped, balancing on the teetering step.

“Senor!” The sound, if you could call it a sound, came from the doorway of the next house. The shadow stepped away from the shadow and was a little thing, a
sorbita.
He didn’t believe it but he was off the steps, against Senor Praxiteles’ wall, and edging toward her.

“For the mercy of God,” he breathed. It was the girl, the sloe-eyed child, got up in a mourning shawl that covered her long black hair and most of her face, all but the eyes; that also covered her brown shoulders and thin white blouse, hanging down over her red flowered skirt. In the dark the skirt was black.

She said, “There is no time. Give to me the package.”

With his free hand he shoved her back into the doorway, flattened himself beside her. “What package?”

“The one you carry.” Her thin little hand reached for it.

He closed his free hand over hers. “Listen to me, Sorbita. I have here perfume for my girl, get it? I’m not giving it to you or anyone.”

She was breathing soundlessly but too fast. He realized all at once that she was terribly frightened. Her hand, despite the firmness of his clutch, was trembling.

“You will not return to your friends with that package. You will not be permitted. Give it to me and I will bring it to you safely. I swear by Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

He didn’t believe her. He wasn’t expected to believe her but it was a brave try. He played along out of pity for her inexperience in these matters. “How is it you can carry it safely?”

“No one will see.” He could feel the trembling all over her fragile body. “Beneath my shawl.”

“Each man has a nose.”

One small flicker of amusement lifted her voice. “I will smell only like a girl of Juarez.”

He wanted to help her, to warn her to get out of this tumble; whatever it was, it wasn’t for a kid. Also he wanted to find out what she knew about it. If the unknown who smoked should peer around a corner, he would see only a man with a girl, eluding the watchful eyes of those who had forgotten what it was to be sick with love and separation. This close they stood together in the doorway.

At his silence, a sudden bleak anger was in her. “I will not steal it. I have sworn to you.” Her hand touched the package.

He held on. “What’s so important about it?”

The waft of smoke seemed sharper as he spoke. She twisted the package out of his hands.

“Sorbita!”
He exclaimed aloud in his anger, reaching out for her but this soon she had melted away. He could hear no disappearing footsteps. The anger rose up hot in him and then burned out. There was nothing he could do now. He wouldn’t know which way to start out chasing her through the labyrinth of dark streets. He could only hope hopelessly that she had meant what she said. If not he’d find her even if he had to put the seersucker man on the job.

Right now he was free to investigate the cigarillo. And incidentally give her time to get safely away. He whistled as he rounded the corner, making sure his approach was announced. Nor did his step falter when he discerned not one but two men leaning against the side wall of the Praxiteles tienda. He walked directly up to them. “Hey, Bud,” he used American, “which way to the market?” He put a cigarette in his own mouth, struck a match.

They were Mexicans, hirelings. Not good Mexicans, youths corrupted by the evil that washed back and forth over the bridge. They wore like suits, bluish purple in this unlight, pinched at the waist, sharp-lapeled. Their shirts and ties were garish in pinks and greens, their dark homburgs shaded their faces. Jose shook out the match and pitched it to the ground. Their shoes were narrow and pointed, patent leather.

“El Mercado?” one said.

Jose was not the man they were waiting for. He carried no box of perfume.

“You go this way,” a thumb jerked in the direction he was headed. The accent continued, “Then you go this way and then you follow the signs.”

The other said, suspicious, not certain of Jose, “The market she is not open this late.”

“You sure of that? They told me—” He slid his sleeve, looked at his watch. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s after nine, closes at nine.” They might jump him for his wristwatch and his possible wallet. He had a cigarette for weapon. “Then how do I get back to the main drag?”

Directions were reversed. The opposite direction, follow the curve of the street at the next corner.

“Okay, thanks, Mac.”

He made a wide wheel before putting his back to them. And he walked off with the cigarette glowing, slanting across to the opposite side once he’d passed the entrance of the burro’s street. From his sidelong glance, there was no sign of the small girl. If she were there, she wouldn’t let herself be visible.

Once he was out of the hirelings’ sight, he walked fast. Putting as much space as possible between them before they got new orders or started thinking. It wasn’t their job to think. The music was increasing in volume and he could see the lights ahead now. After a short block, the side
-
street shops, lighted ones, let him catch his breath. But not until he was again on the Avenida did he actually slow down. He cut across it and was inconspicuous among other white suits and light suits and seersucker suits.

Calle Herrera wasn’t deserted. Looking down it he could see two couples emerging through the garden door. He passed them midway. He walked by but was stopped by the “Hey, Jo,” called after him. He hadn’t noticed in his hurried passing; it was the two business men from Santa Fe with two fairly good-looking Texas dames. “Did your friend catch you?” the plump one asked. He was Wade, Wade’s Plumbing Fixtures.

“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.

T
HE 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.