A Thorn in the Bush (6 page)

Hoblitt gritted his teeth. Abruptly, his eyes snapped open. He glared up at Mrs. Ross. “Well, if it isn’t Kodiak Kate!”

Mrs. Ross shot bolt upright with shock.
That hideous name! He knows!

“You didn’t quite get me, did you?” rasped Hoblitt. He clenched his teeth as Dr. Herrera cut away the shirt, exposed a chest covered by blond hair, a muscular arm. There was a mottled blue area spreading along the corded line of his shoulder.

Mrs. Ross put a hand to her cheek.

“Have to give you credit for trying, though!” panted Hoblitt.

Mrs. Ross’s lips worked, but no sound came. All she could think was:
God in heaven! He knows! He knows!
And then:
Thank God these others speak no English.
She shot a glance at the Romera house, saw its blank, sealed face.

Hoblitt arched his head backward in anguish as Dr. Herrera began taping a board across the shoulders. Mrs. Ross gulped, felt a pang of remorse.

The artist gasped, took a deep breath, stared at Mrs. Ross. “You’re going to pay for this!”

“Of course I’ll pay for it,” whispered Mrs. Ross. She cleared her throat, spoke louder. “It’ll all go on my bill.” And she thought:
What if he tells? How they’d laugh here in San Juan!

“That’s not what I mean,” said Hoblitt.

Dr. Herrera smoothed a last length of surgical tape into place across Hoblitt’s chest, stood up, spoke to Mrs. Ross. “I am going to administer a sedative. Will you ask the young man first about his family, whom to notify, which hospital he would prefer?”

Mrs. Ross found momentary difficulty in shifting back to Spanish. She swallowed, said: “I will take care of all expenses.”

“What’s he saying?” demanded Hoblitt.

The anger of desperation overcame Mrs. Ross. She squatted beside Hoblitt, demanded: “How did you find out about me? Who else knows?” And she thought:
Does Serena know? Jaime? Is this what they really gossip about?

Hoblitt gritted his teeth. Perspiration stood out along his forehead. “Can’t he give me something to stop the pain?”

“He is preparing something,” said Mrs. Ross. “How long have you known?”

“At the art show in Mexico City,” whispered Hoblitt. He squinted, wet his lips with his tongue. “I showed a portrait of you—the one Don Jaime had me make for him—only I changed it the way he wanted: made you look younger.”

Mrs. Ross put a hand to her throat. “Like the sketch you sent me?”

“Yeah.”

Just as I feared
.
Oh, why didn’t I do something then?
Through dry lips she said: “Who saw the picture?”

“Tourist,” panted Hoblitt. “Old guy. Named John Sullivan.” He subsided, breathing in shallow gasps.

Old John!
thought Mrs. Ross.
God in heaven!

She said: “What did he tell you?”

Hoblitt’s lips trembled.

Behind Mrs. Ross, Dr. Herrera said: “Please do not take too long, Señora.”

Mrs. Ross ignored the interruption, hardly heard it. “Did you tell this tourist where I live?”

“Wish I had,” whispered Hoblitt. “But after he told me who the portrait looked like … I told him you were … dead … you died years ago. He wanted to buy the picture, but Don Jaime wouldn’t sell.”

“Did you tell Don Jaime what the man said?” asked Mrs. Ross.

Recognizing the name, Dr. Herrera said: “Don Jaime has already been summoned, Señora.”

Hoblitt said: “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“What … did Sullivan say to you?” she whispered.

Hoblitt held his head rigid, turned his eyes, stared directly at her. There was sharp clarity in his attention, and his voice came out strongly: “He said my portrait was the spitting image of Kodiak Kate, who used to run the best house in Juneau. He said you were the smartest business woman he ever met: everything in your house was for sale … except Kate herself. That’s what he told me!”

Dr. Herrera cleared his throat. “Do you have the necessary information, Señora?”

Mrs. Ross answered without turning: “One moment, Doctor.” She shifted back to English, attention fixed on Hoblitt. “What do you intend to do with this information?”

Hoblitt spoke in a low, musing voice. “Been thinking. At first I wasn’t going to do anything. But since …” He swallowed, and a muscle rippled along his chest. “What’d you hit me with?”

“A flower box fell off my balcony,” said Mrs. Ross.

“Fell!” grated Hoblitt. His attention wavered past her, came back. “What happened to that thing I was carrying?”

Mrs. Ross had lost all contact with her previous suspicions. “What thing?” she asked.

“Model. Little wheelchair. Sold portrait of Paulita. Sent part back with Don Jaime … braces … her legs. Rest … money for wheelchair. Making special one.” He blinked, focused on Mrs. Ross. “I was nerving myself to take the model over to Miss Romera when …” He closed his eyes, fell silent.

Dr. Herrera bent beside Mrs. Ross. “I must administer the sedative now. It is not good to leave him thus.” He swabbed a Merthiolate-odorous daub of cotton across Hoblitt’s bare arm. A red smear appeared on the flesh behind the cotton.

Mrs. Ross could not take her attention from Hoblitt’s face.
What a fool I’ve been!
she thought. She said: “What are you going to do, Mr. Hoblitt?”

The artist opened his eyes, swallowed convulsively as Dr. Herrera sank the hypodermic needle into his arm, depressed the plunger. Presently Hoblitt began speaking in a low voice: “In the old days artists had their patrons. You’re going to become a patron of the arts.” He stared at her, a cold, commanding expression. “Right here in San Juan. You’re going to support a starving young artist. Won’t cost you much. Couple thousand a year. Give me time to paint what I want … like those portraits.” He cleared his throat, attention yawing across her face. “What’d he give me? Feel woozy.”

He’s going to blackmail me!
thought Mrs. Ross.

Hoblitt found a reserve of consciousness, held his gaze on her face. “Not gonna walk under your balcony ever again!”

“That was an accident,” murmured Mrs. Ross. And she thought:
He’s going to blackmail me for the rest of my life!

Dr. Herrera lowered one ham-like hand, pulled her upright—gently, firmly. “We must put him on the stretcher now.” He patted her shoulder. “Do not feel too badly. The bones will heal.”

Hoblitt stared up at Mrs. Ross, eyes, glazing from the narcotics. “Tell y’ somethin’ else,” he slurred. “Gonna marry tha’ g’l across’ street!” He summoned inner reserves, “Don’t care what you or her crazy aunt think!” He fell silent while Dr. Herrera and the police shifted him onto the stretcher. Bits of dirt fell off his trousers onto the cobblestones. Then, “All y’r dough! Never gettin’ her a wheelchair!”

Mrs. Ross watched the police carry the stretcher up the sidewalk, around the corner. Dr. Herrera remained standing beside her. “Which hospital, Señora?”

“The Foreign Clinic in Guadalajara,” murmured Mrs. Ross. “Specialists should be called in, if you believe it advisable. See that he has the best of care. Anything he requires.”

Her mind was resuming its usual alertness. She thought:
Blackmail? He’ll see. I’ve never met the man yet I couldn’t beat in a deal.
She squinted.
He sold the portrait of Paulita. And Jaime bought the one of me. That means the work is marketable. Given proper handling, he can get top prices.
She began mentally calculating how much commission she could charge. And part of her mind started working out a plan to get her portrait away from Don Jaime.

Dr. Herrera cleared his throat.

But Mrs. Ross’s attention was lost in her plans.
Can’t let Hoblitt enter any more mixed shows,
she thought.
Divides attention too much. He’ll need some one-man shows, good advance publicity.
She nodded to herself.
This could become quite profitable—much better than a couple thousand a year just in commissions.
She suppressed a smile at the thought of self-supporting blackmail.

Another idea struck Mrs. Ross. She turned to face Dr. Herrera, who was studying her with a puzzled frown.

“You feel all right, Señora?”

“Perfectly all right,” she assured him. “How long before the young man will be able to resume his painting?”

“How
simpático!”
blurted Dr. Herrera. He shook his head in wonder at this magnificent woman whose thoughts were only for the young man injured in the regrettable accident.

“How long?” demanded Mrs. Ross.

“It is the left shoulder,” said Dr. Herrera. “He paints with the right hand, does he not?” The doctor nodded. “He should be up and around in a week or so. Wearing a cast, of course.”

“Good!”

And Mrs. Ross thought wryly:
Well, it won’t be the first time I’ve sold beauty!

“Perhaps you should go inside and rest for a while,” said Dr. Herrera. “Your illness …”

“I’m fully recovered,” said Mrs. Ross. “You run along now and take care of that young man. There must be no complications. See that he gets everything he requires. And put it all on my bill.”

“Well … if you’re sure you feel all right,” said Dr. Herrera. “But do not stand too long in the sun of noonday. And call me immediately if you feel dizzy, eh? Or any pains of the stomach?”

“I will call you, Doctor.”

“I’m sure you will.” He executed a little bow, gave her his English notice of departure: “Goodbye now.”

Mrs. Ross watched until he rounded the corner. A shudder passed through her.
I might have killed that young man!
she thought. And there was in the thought a touch of the same feeling she experienced at the possibility of waste or mis-handling in any of her financial empire. She took a deep, relieved breath.
Well … this will shake down in time.

A metallic gleam in the dirt at her feet caught Mrs. Ross’s attention. She stopped, removed a crude model wheelchair from a hole left by a missing cobblestone. The model appeared undamaged, preserved from trampling feet by the hole in which it had lodged. She shook off the debris of parsley and dirt that had partially concealed it, stared at the model: a pathetic little thing, the kind used in window displays.

How can I face Paulita?
she wondered.
After what she saw.

Mrs. Ross glanced across the street where both door and window remained closed, bolted. She felt old, ashamed: the shame much more involved in Hoblitt’s indictment of her than in her error of judgment about the artist.

I’ve been an old fool
, she thought. Then:
Well … we’re never too old to learn.

Don Jaime’s lank form skirted the corner ahead of Mrs. Ross. The mayor bore down on her almost at a trot. His narrow face was drawn downward in a look of dog-eyed melancholy. His severe black suit looked just a little disheveled. He pulled up in front of Mrs. Ross, wiped perspiration from his forehead with a white handkerchief which he returned to a side pocket.

“Good morning, Jaime,” said Mrs. Ross.

“Emma,” pleaded Don Jaime. “What have you done?”

“It was an accident,” said Mrs. Ross. She felt stirrings of anger at Don Jaime, thought:
Why does he have to intrude just now?

“Aiiii!” wailed Don Jaime. “Another accident!” He stretched out both hands, palms up. “Emma, I asked you not to do this! I knew in my heart the young man was harmless. From the moment I first began dealing with him, I knew he was a good young man, very sympathetic, very …”

“Jaime, please,” she said. “Not now.”

“There will be another letter from the Turismo,” he accused. “And what can I tell them?”

Mrs. Ross took a deep breath, hefted the model in her hand.
I’ll have Serena wash this off before I take it over,
she thought.
Yes! And I will tell Paulita what Hoblitt said about marrying her! That will take her mind off anything else.

She felt the entire situation settling into place. And abrupt insight struck her as she recalled what Hoblitt’s painting had revealed about Paulita: the latent coldness, the cruelty, the pride. Serve him right if he does marry her!

“What am I to tell Turismo?” insisted Don Jaime. He wrung his thin hands.

Mrs. Ross half turned away, stopped, looked back at the mayor.
To think that I could have married him once,
she thought.
God watches over women and fools.

Inspiration filled Mrs. Ross. “Tell Turismo,” she said, “… tell them that San Juan is the fairest flower in all of Mexico’s tourist attractions. But tell them that every such blossom must have around it a bush of thorns. Everything of beauty must have at least one flaw in it. Otherwise people do not realize how beautiful it truly is. That is what you must tell them. Tell them that I—Emma Ross—I am the thorn in San Juan. Tell them that!”

And she reflected:
How right I am! And now I’m saddled with that artist. What a complicated thorn!
She mentally shrugged, thought:
Well … anyway, I still have the sunshine.

A roll of thunder crashed from across the lake.

Looking toward the noise, Mrs. Ross saw a line squall moving toward her over the darkening water like a black wall.

“Good day to you,” she said to Don Jaime, who still stood there staring at her, his brows furrowed in puzzlement.

Then, she hurried inside before the rain struck.

***