Ride the Pink Horse (15 page)

5

He might have been conscious the entire time he lay under the blackness. He heard the sound of Fiesta the entire time or thought he heard. And he thought he heard roar of thunder and splash of sheeted rain; he thought Zozobra’s evil ghost had returned to spoil the fun.

All of this was in the dream, if it were dream, and he a mite floundering through the storm, trying to push through the blackness to the tinkle of music and shimmer of flower-like lights which grew beyond. When he fought most furiously he found he could open his eyes and he was lying where he had lain, on Pancho’s dirty blankets. The merry-go-round was motionless, save for the sway of one gondola, the one where Pancho sprawled contemplating his own bare toes.

Sailor sat up, brought his wrist quick to his eyes, remembering as he moved that he should move warily. But there was no sudden pain, no pain at all but a vague smarting under his shoulder blade. The herbs weren’t half bad. And it wasn’t yet midnight, only a bit after eleven. He stretched up to his feet, picked up his hat from the earth, dusted it and set it on his head.

“Hola!” Pancho said. “You feel better, my friend?”

“Feel fine.” He swung over to the gondola, leaned on it. “Business over early?”

“For me. The little ones must get some sleep. Tio Vivo does not stay open late like the saloons and the movie pictures.” He removed his feet for Sailor to sit down. “Besides there was a little shower.”

He hadn’t dreamed. The wetness of rain smell was in the night. Sailor said, “I’m hungry. I don’t know when I’ve eaten.” Besides there was nothing to do in this dump to kill time waiting on the Sen but eat and sleep.

The bandstand was dark and only a drift of people was left wandering under the heavy wet leaves of the tall trees. In the street, there in front of the museum, a group was singing. “Ai, Yai Yai Yai,” they sang, and they danced while they sang, a country dance, lively as Tio Vivo. Their laughter scrawled across the quiet Plaza. Behind them, against the museum wall, was the dark frieze of the Indian women and children, scornful in their immobility.
Ai, Yai Yai Yai. . .

“How about a little food, Pancho?” There was time before the Sen.

“I think yes,” Pancho said happily. He stuffed his feet into the dust-colored shoes, let the frayed laces dangle. “We will go to Celestino’s booth. His wife, she makes the most fine chile on the Plaza.”

Sailor had meant food, a steak and French fries, maybe a piece of cherry pie to top it. He didn’t say anything. Maybe he was too tired to walk farther than the nearest thatched booth. As if Pancho held to his hand, he followed the brigand. Pancho was smarter than he. They could keep an eye on the merry-go-round, could see any stranger who approached it.

They sat on a wooden bench, sat in a welter of smells, garlic and onion and chile and cheese, coffee, fried beans and garlic and chile. Pancho bellowed flowery compliments at the woman behind the counter by the hot coal stove. She was big and billowing, black-eyed, black hair bound with a kerchief, a white apron, specked with chile red, over the billows. Sailor knew Pancho was being flowery from the toss of her head and the flirt of her black eyes. She wasn’t young, her breasts were big with suckling, her arms were soft and brown but muscled like a man’s. And her eyes were bright as a girl’s. She was giving Pancho good as he gave her. He turned good nature to Sailor. “For me and you, my friend, Juana has fix the finest of enchiladas. And frijoles with the best chile.”

“And coffee,” Sailor said.

“And coffee. Fresh tortillas she will make for me, and for you because you are my friend. I tell her we do not want the slop she feeds the touristas. We are hungry men.” He drummed his fists happily, sang in echo, “Ai yai yai yai. . .”

Sailor said, “You get around, Pancho.”

The big man giggled. “I have known Juana since we were little fellows. And that Celestino, that no good. Drinking sotol with Ignacio when he should be washing the dishes for his good esposa. He is my primo, is Celestino. Primo—how you say—my cousin.”

“You get around,” Sailor repeated.

Pancho growled content. The woman’s hand slapped the thin, round, white-and-blue tortillas. She sang, “Hoopa, hoopa, hoopa—” Her bare hand flipped over the tortillas on the hot range.

“Maybe you can find out who knifed me.”

Pancho’s face was round and innocent as a baby’s. And as sad. “I should know that?”

“No,” Sailor denied. “I’m sure you don’t know anything about it.” He insinuated, “But maybe talking around the way you do, you’d hear who did it.”

Pancho shook his head. “It is better you do not know. All this killings, they do no one good.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Sailor protested. He spoke slow truth. “I just want to ask him one question. Just one.” Pancho’s eyes were curious.

“Who paid him.”

“Don’t you know that?” Pancho asked with disbelief.

“Yeah, I know.” His hand dropped to his pocket, to the reassurance of steel. “I know but I want the guy to tell me. I want to hear him say it.”

The woman set the bowls before them, red as fire, hotter than the flames of hell. The first mouthful scorched Sailor’s throat, steamed his eyes.

“Take it easy,” Pancho warned. “With the tortilla, so!” He folded a spoon of muddy blue, shoveled up chile and beans, opened his mouth. His face glowed happily. He had a spic throat for spic food.

Sailor stuffed white tortilla into his burning mouth, swallowed coffee. He took it easy after, hungry as he was, hungry enough to eat a horse, a raw one. But not hungry enough to burn up his mouth and throat and stomach with food tasting like lye. This wasn’t chile and beans on Randolph Street. He took it easy and the devil food became good to eat. Enchiladas, with cheese and raw onions smothering the egg; tamales, the corn husks steaming; the bleached white kernels of posole. Pancho slathered everything with the chile gravy; Sailor went warily and the heat of food began to warm him, to fill the hollow curves of his insides. Pancho shoveled gluttonously into his mouth and the big woman leaned her big arms on the counter and smiled on the big dirty man.

When he was gorged, Sailor lit a cigarette, drew deep and good, shoved the pack at Pancho. “How about it?” he asked.

Pancho said, “Muchas gracias.” He offered the pack to the woman before helping himself.

She said, “Muchas gracias,” and her smile was crimson velvet.

Pancho smiled back at the black-eyed woman. Pancho was in a familiar place with the comfort of a woman who spoke his own sweet tongue, his belly distended with the foods of his desire; the sweet sad singing, faint across the wet-leaved night, turned into lullaby by his own peace. Sailor dwindled into a loneness more intense than his dream; he was the wayfarer, the stray, the lost. He flipped away the butt, gathering his loneliness into a hard ball of anger. He stood, dragging bills from his pockets. He flung them on the counter. “Let’s go,” he said. He’d been knifed, he had the hand behind the killer to meet within the hour, but Pancho could dally with an old dame and ignore his needs.

Pancho, with a final burst of Spanish, a flowery doff of his battered old hat, lumbered after him. The brigand wiped the palm of his hand across his mouth. “It was good, muy bueno, no?” He unlocked the gate enclosing Tio Vivo, made for the gondola. He settled there, an elephant of a man, rubbed off his shoes and belched garlic.

Sailor leaned against the pole. He couldn’t sit down; his nerves were too quick. He stood with his back protected, in an angle where he could watch the corner of La Fonda from where the Sen would come. If he came. He’d come because he thought Sailor was cut down.

There was a shape crossing cat-a-corner from the hotel. Sailor’s eyes pried into the night. But it wasn’t the Sen. It was a bigger man and he turned and passed the botica on the corner. Sailor’s hand relaxed.

Pancho sighed. “When first I see you, you are alone and a stranger. I welcome you, the way it is the Spanish people welcome a stranger. My house is poor but I make you welcome. My house is your house. I give you my friendship. Perhaps you too will give the friendship.” He sighed again. “Why did you come to Fiesta with a gun in your pocket?”

“I didn’t come to your lousy Fiesta,” Sailor flung at him.

Pancho’s eyes were sad, “Ai yai,” he keened.

Sailor grimaced but his mouth tasted bitter. “Maybe I got a gun so I’ll stay alive. Maybe you might figure it that way. Sort of looks like I was right, doesn’t it?”

It was past midnight. The Sen ought to be coming. But the street was dark. Even the hotel corner was deserted. The Sen wasn’t coming. The Sen thought he’d taken care of Sailor; he didn’t have to come. He thought no one would know there was to be a meeting at the Plaza tonight

“Ai yai.” Pancho grieved. “You are too young to die.”

“That’s what I think,” he swaggered. “That’s why I keep a gun handy.” He’d have to go after the Sen again. With a handy gun. This time he’d get the dough. Even if he had to rough up the Sen, he’d get it. Time to leave this dump while he was still healthy. Healthy enough to leave. He tilted his hat.

Pancho came out of his sorrow. “Where do you go, Sailor?”

“Business.”

“It is late.” The old guy was scared for him. “Better to wait until tomorrow. Mariana. We will drink tequila and then we will sleep. We are tired. Tomorrow the business.”

“I’m not tired. I feel fine. You drink the tequila.” He’d never felt better. Now was the time. When the Sen wasn’t expecting him. “See you later.”

“You will come back?”

“Sure. I’ll bring you a present.” He’d give Pancho a fin, maybe a C note when he got the dough. For caring what happened to him. For fixing him up tonight. He’d give it to him just to see the guy’s brown eyes get as big as moons. “Don’t wait up,” he laughed. “I may be late.”

Under his breath Pancho said, “Vaya con Dios, Sailor.”

The hotel lobby was quiet quiet as a hotel lobby in a hick town that had never heard of a Fiesta. The night clerk didn’t even look up from his ledger. The blue-smocked kid mopping the tiled floor looked but he didn’t care. The news-and-cigar stand was shuttered with a steel fence. Sailor passed it walking down the dim right-hand portal towards the elevator. At the far end of the portal someone stirred on the dark couch.

Sailor’s hand caught the gun tighter, pointed it through his pocket. The voice of McIntyre came from the darkness, the ordinary voice of McIntyre. “I’d almost given you up.”

His hand dropped the pocket into place before McIntyre could notice. “What’s the idea?” he asked.

“I’ve been waiting for you a long time.” Mac’s voice was a little tired. “I’d almost given up. Thought maybe you weren’t coming.” He stepped quietly as a shadow to Sailor’s side. “Ready to talk yet?”

Sailor made something like a laugh. “I might. A little later.” He nodded his head towards the elevator sign.

Mac took his hand off Sailor’s arm. “I wouldn’t go up,” he said.

When a cop like McIntyre said he wouldn’t do something, said it like that it was better to agree. To pretend to agree. Not to snarl: what the hell is it to you? The way he wanted to snarl it. He’d waited too long for the Sen to see it his way; he was ready for the showdown and McIntyre had no business sticking his snoopy nose into it.

Sailor set his jaw. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Mac was casual. “I’m interested in keeping you on your feet.”

“For a witness?”

“Could be.”

He couldn’t bolt to the elevator. He couldn’t knock Mac out and get away with it. He had to stand there with frustration tying him in knots. Until he could get rid of Mac.

McIntyre said, “After tonight I should think you’d like to talk.”

“What about tonight?” he demanded.

“Sort of a close shave, wasn’t it? If it had been a gun, someone who could shoot straight. . .”

He hadn’t seen Mac. Not in the church or the procession or at the Cross of the Martyrs. He hadn’t seen anyone; only white skirts and the brown mass of faces. He hadn’t had his eyes open. He demanded, “How do you know about it?”

Mac said, “I’m interested in keeping you alive, Sailor. You and the senator both.” He ran his eye down Sailor’s coat to the right-hand pocket.

“Who stuck me?”

Mac shook his head. “The local police have him. For being drunk. A kid with a record. He isn’t important.” He touched Sailor’s arm. “Come on up to my room. I’ve got a bottle. We can talk it over where it’s comfortable.”

He had better sense than that. Letting Mac feed him booze, loosen his tongue. But it was a way to get rid of Mac. Go up for a drink, then say goodnight. Get to the Sen.

He said, “I don’t drink.”

Mac said, “I do. And I need one.”

He went along. Not back to the elevator. To the front staircase, up a long flight, down a long dim corridor. This was a hotel room, just a hotel room, nothing grand and Spanish like the Sen’s.

Mac said, “Found a room yet?” He flung his hand towards one of the twin beds. “Get comfortable. Take off your shoes. Maybe you’d like to bunk here tonight. Be more comfortable than lying on the ground.”

He scowled. Mac even knew that knew he’d slept wrapped in Pancho’s dirty serape. He ignored the bed for the stiff armchair. Fat chance he’d sleep with a dick. Talk and drink until you were tired enough to say anything, to spill. He wasn’t going to spill until he got his hands on the money. If he didn’t get the money, he’d talk. He lit a cigarette and threw the match on the rug.

Mac poured himself a slug. “Want to change your mind? Should think you’d need one after tonight.”

“No, thanks. Strictly beer.”

Mac said, “I prefer rye.” He carried his tumbler to the bathroom, filled it with water. He came back and he wanted the chair. He wanted Sailor on the bed relaxed and himself in the chair. Sailor had outsmarted him there. Mac sat on the foot of the near bed holding his glass. “I prefer Irish, matter of fact. They didn’t have any downstairs.” He switched off the conversation. “Why does the senator want to rub you out?”

Sailor was flip. “Maybe he doesn’t like me any more.” This wasn’t going to be hard. Mac was too tired to keep it up long. His eyes were wrinkled; when he took off the silly hat and hung it on the bed post his head sagged.