Johnny Goes West

by Desmond Cory

  She looked up sharply from the cards, her eyes focusing somewhere straight in front of her. “Yes,” she said. “Another.”

  This was a freak hand, there was no denying it. Fedora held four cards for five and a half; Gracia fiveft^

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  cards for . . . there was no knowing what, but certainly something very near seven . . . unless she had passed the mark and was now bluffing it out in the hope that Fedora would do the same. Both players were holding a fist full of court cards, that was obvious; at every call now, the odds of receiving a high-value card leaped sickeningly upwards. At the moment, Gracia had the better chance; for she held her fifth card, while Fedora had still to call. But this time, in a sense, the decision was easier; he had little chance of beating a five-card hand with only five and a half points, and if Gracia had already gone over the mark, then the game stood to be drawn. Which would be a satisfactory result, on as awkward a hand as Fedora’s. . . .

  “Another card,” said Fedora.

  There was another reason why the choice was a good one. If it came off, it threw the call back to Gracia; and there was a chance that her nerve would go, that in desperation she would make a call where no call was to be made. She was smoking marijuana now, and that meant . . . yes, but Fedora was taking a risk, too. . . and the card was the five of swords. A five, giving a total of ten and a half, totally overshooting the limit. Fedora added the card to his collection reflectively, scratched the tip of his nose, looked towards Gracia . . . who was staring at him as though hoping to see the numbers of the cards reflected upside down in his eyes. It was no use, though; they weren’t. Gracia’s lower lip jerked slightly; she took a long, slow drag at her cigarette.

  “Another card,” she said. “Make it a good one.”

  It may have been a good one, but it wasn’t good enough; six cards was the maximum, and in this case it was one too many. In that second in which her eyes flickered over it, Fedora knew that the hand was drawn; one by one, he flicked the cards on the table before him face up. “Ten and a half,” he said. “A little too many.”

  Gracia, with an irritated gesture, threw her cards down on top of his. Trout looked at them intently; she, too, had had an extraordinary sequence. A three and two aces, five; a pair of kings, six . . . and a six, twelve. Galdos expelled his breath sharply.

  “Why didn’t you stay at six? You’d have won. . . .”

  Gracia shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. Oh, come on. . . . Deal ‘em again.”

  Galdos gave the pack of cards in his hand a vindictive slap and dealt once again; his mouth was quivering, as though he were about to burst into tears. Johnny took a second card, glanced at it, turned them both face up; a seven and a queen. Gracia looked at them in silence for a time, without moving; then picked her own cards up, laid them down again. A four, a five. Her face remained absolutely blank; she raised her cigarette, inhaled it deeply.

  “My lucky night,” said Fedora. “Ah, well. That’s the way it goes.”

  Galdos, who had been leaning far over the table to examine Fedora’s cards, suddenly uncoiled like a whip; his hand smashed Gracia’s cigarette from her fingers, sent a shower of sparks flying wildly through the air. “I said you should have stayed on that six,” he said, in a soft, purring whisper. “You and your bloody hemp. Can’t you spend a quiet evening, once in a while, without getting on your . . . bloody he-emp. . . .?” His voice died away; he sat back in his chair again, looked towards Fedora. “That’s the trouble with women. I say that’s the trouble with gambling with women. Women aren’t made for gambling. No. Women are made for—” He grabbed the banknotes at Gracia’s elbow, drove them furiously across the table to Fedora with a movement like the thrust of a piston. “That’s the only thing that this one thinks about. She can’t keep her mind on anything else, not even on twenty thousand bloody bolivares. And that’s why I love her! You hear? I say, that’s why I love her.”

  Trout watched him with marked disapproval. Unlike Fedora, Trout had received a formal education at one of the severer and more exclusive Public Schools in Scotland; and of late, he had found himself mixing more and more frequently with companions whom he would have been decidedly reluctant to present on a formal occasion to the Reverend the Provost. At times, indeed, he wondered how he could possibly dare to put in an appearance on Prizegiving Days again. Fedora, who had no such inhibitions, winked cheerfully at the frozen mask of Gracia’s face and began to stuff folded banknotes into the depths of his wallet. . . . He was keeping, for all his apparent casualness, a wary eye on Galdos. Galdos was in an ugly state of mind. Unable to do to Fedora all those unmentionable things .that he obviously wanted to do, he was obviously working up to vent his chagrin on other, less adequately-defended points of the outside world. Slashing the unfortunate Pedro in the face had offered him no more than a temporary release; he needed something much more satisfying. What he did to Gracia West was, Fedora reflected glumly, entirely his own business; all the same, it would be better if he could contrive to wait until they got home before he really set to work on her. Trout had old-fashioned ideas of chivalry and was unlikely to tolerate any obvious and flagrant infringements of the Marquis de Sade’s copyright; if it came to that, Fedora reflected even more glumly, another little free-for-all was in the offing. And he, personally, had had quite enough excitement for one night.

  Meanwhile, Galdos was urgently addressing him.

  “. . . You don’t know a thing about women, Fedora. I can tell that just by looking at you. You may be good at what you’re good at, but you don’t know much about women. Take this little bitch here.” His hand moved up from Gracia’s waist, began to caress the brown skin above her breasts. “Quite the society lady, isn’t she? Hey? I mean, civilised and all. Well, that’s what you think. That’s because you didn’t see her face when you smashed in old Pedro’s nose for him. That’s what she likes. That’s what gives her an itch. Gangster films—gunmen— that’s what she goes for. You hear? And that’s why I love her.” He pressed his mouth hard against her neck. “Blood. That’s what gives her a thrill. And then she has to go on the hemp to keep herself hotted up. And all the time she’s pretending she’s cold as ice.”

  Trout gave a little nervous giggle, which seemed as appropriate a comment as any on the situation. Galdos jerked his mouth away from Gracia’s collarbone and stared hard at Fedora; presumably he had something else of importance to impart.

  “Women are awful,” he said. “They’re really shocking. They just aren’t made like us at all.”

  “I had got as far as to notice that,” said Fedora. He reached out and caught Galdos by the wrist, just in time to prevent his striking his paramour a most fearful wallop on the nose. “Right now, I think the party’s over. Better get back home and curl up with a good book.”

  “John Knox,” suggested Trout helpfully. “Or Nietzsche.”

  Galdos glared at them balefully. “A party is over,” he said slowly and distinctly, “when I say it is. Not before.”

  “But we have to pack it in,” said Fedora. “You haven’t got any money left. None at all.”

  “That’s right,” admitted Galdos. “That’s right.” He took his hand away from Gracia’s thigh and rubbed his forehead plaintively. “You won it all, didn’t you? . . . You’re a good boy, Fedora. You want to watch out, though. That manner of yours’ll make you a whole lot of enemies.”

  “It’s the friends I make that worry me more,” said Fedora.

  “You answer me back, and I don’t like that. All right, so I don’t like it. You’re still a man I could use; and so’s your pal, if it comes to that.” Galdos was suddenly neither angry nor drunk any more; his eyes were cold, thoughtful, calculating. “I’ll give you boys a last chance. And if you don’t take it. . . then perhaps you’ll just take a tip from me. And leave. Pretty damned quick.” His eyes swivelled from Fedora to Trout and back again. “Think it over. You’d do all right. Money. Drink. Women.” He jerked his head contempt
uously towards Maria, who now sat in the shade with her back to the wall, apparently fast asleep. “That one’s all right—I admit it. But you ought to see the bunch I have in Caracas. I had them imported specially. Brazilians.”

  “Where the nuts come from,” said Fedora.

  Galdos watched him, his plump, hairy hands flat on the table, his mouth half-open in what, if circumstances favoured it, might turn into a smile. Then his lips came abruptly shut with a faint smacking noise; he turned in his chair. The door opened. In came Hendricks.

  “Sorry,” said Hendricks, surveying the company. “Turned up a bit late, haven’t I? I got lost.” He stumped tiredly over to the table, sat himself down.
  “This is the big pot himself,” said Fedora. A muscle twitched in Hendricks’ cheek, and then he nodded slowly. “Trouble?”

  “Not yet,” said Fedora. “We won all his money and we beat up his bodyguard, but so far he’s behaved himself like the fine old-fashioned gentleman he is.”

  Hendricks looked up towards Galdos. “Name of Hendricks,” he said; and the conversation shifted back to Spanish.

  “Glad to know you, Señor Hendricks. A hard day’s work, by the look of things. Prospecting?”

  Hendricks nodded. In view of the equipment he carried, there was very little point in denying it. “Down by the river and the hills beyond,” he said vaguely. “Difficult country.”

  “Difficult. . . and dangerous,” said Galdos smoothly. He looked at Fedora. “It’s a funny thing nobody said anything about prospecting before.”

  “Why?” said Fedora.

  “People always tell me these things.” Galdos wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “You said you came here to see your uncle. And I thought you were telling me the truth.” His voice sounded almost reproachful.

  “I came here to see my uncle. He came here to do some prospecting.” Johnny remained professionally unruffled. “And Trout’s hunting polar bears for the London Zoo.”

  Galdos, who had been nodding thoughtfully, stopped it. He looked at Gracia West; who, since the abrupt extinction of her reefer, had remained motionless in her chair, her face without expression, only her eyes moving to and fro with a kind of false alertness. The effect of marijuana on a high whisky jag can, of course, be alarming. Galdos slipped his fingers through her hair and tugged it, so hard that her head jerked back and the muscles jumped in her throat; then looked up, sharply, at Hendricks. “I don’t suppose you found much of interest. That area was combed pretty thoroughly, oh, some fifteen years back.” His eyes dropped to the specimen box on Hendricks’ lap. “But mining’s a funny business. One never knows.” He released Gracia’s hair, reached for the whisky bottle.

  »“Careforadrop?”

  “I think I’ll eat first,” said Hendricks. He turned towards Trout. “You leave me any supper? Where’s Maria?” Galdos leaned farther forward, swept the specimen box neatly off Hendricks’ knees. It rattled.

  “You collected a sample or two, hey? Did you?” said Galdos, pulling back the lid. His thick fingers dived clumsily, spilt out on to the table the single fragment of stone that had been placed in the box. “Caramba. What’s this?”

  He picked it up, raised it to the light. A piece of light sandstone, yellow in colour and thinly veined with red markings; its surface was crumbly and showed the ridge that a testing penknife had made. It was about the size of a packet of twenty cigarettes. Galdos stared at it, puzzled; lowered it to the table again; frowned at Hendricks. “What is it?” he asked again.

  “A sandstone fragment,” said Hendricks casually. “I was inclined to suspect gosson, but I’m not so sure. More likely stains from a local trash pocket.”

  “So it’s gold you’re after, then,” said Galdos slowly.

  Hendricks shrugged. “I’m after whatever I can find,” he said. “I don’t believe your combine holds any claims on that territory.”

  “No,” said Galdos. “Not that that means anything.” He tapped the fragment with his fingernails, which he wore long and pointed like a woman’s. “I’ll take it along with me, if you like. Get it analysed.”

  “Thanks,” said Hendricks. “I make my own analyses. Always.”

  Trout realised with a shock that he was watching Galdos’ actions much too closely. It really seemed that he hadn’t guessed at the fragment’s importance, not as yet; but he might well suspect something if . . . or unless. . . . Fedora was idly shuffling the pack of cards one-handed, eyeing Gracia West the while. . . . “Maria,” said Trout quickly. “Maria! Señor Hendricks’ supper—if you please.”

  Galdos watched Maria as she padded silently off towards the kitchen; his expression was abstracted. , “There’s no gold round these parts, Hendricks,” he j said. “No diamonds that we don’t know about already, i You’re wasting your time.” He drained his glass of whisky, rose to his feet; his right hand took Gracia by the shoulder, forcing her to her feet beside him and J almost effortlessly. He was strong. He was strong, all] right.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Hendricks.

  “I don’t like to see a man wasting his time,” said Galdos bleakly. His head turned towards Fedora. “That offer I made you, Fedora: you didn’t take it. And now it’s closed. I don’t want you three around, not any more. So you better get out.” He blinked, as though the light were hurting his eyes. “Better get out, all three of you, by tomorrow night. That’s all. . . . That’s all.”

  He turned and, pushing the woman in front of him, walked over to the front door. Trout, in the silence following their departure, heard the faint rumble of his voice as he spoke to Gracia; but, if she replied, what she said was inaudible. He got up and went to the window; saw the two dark forms, merged together in the near-darkness, moving away towards the final blackness of the trees. Satisfied, he went back to the table. Fedora was still shuffling the cards; Hendricks was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, and staring moodily into the empty specimen box. “Blast it,” he said bitterly. “Blast it. Of all the bloody luck.”

  “It doesn’t make the hell of a lot of difference,” said Fedora soothingly. “We’d got his back pretty far up before you came along. And he didn’t seem to know what it was. . . .” His voice faded slightly on the last words; he was looking at the object on the table, within easy reach of his right hand. “Is that. . . it?”

  “Yes,” said Hendricks. “That’s it.”

  “My God,” said Trout. “That’s incredibly good work. I thought it’d be a matter of weeks.”

  Hendricks extended his legs tiredly, began to unlace his boots. “It may be yet,” he said. “I only found it. It must have been West who dug it up.”

  Trout didn’t understand. “How d’you mean?”

  “I told you, didn’t I? I was going to do the round of likely points—well, I did. I found five. The last one was a little lean-to he must’ve built to give himself shade from the sun; there was a geologist’s hammer there, and an empty tin of pressed beef. . . and this.” Hendricks picked it up, weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “It’s carnotite, all right. And a beautiful specimen, at that.”

  Johnny said, “That pins down the area a bit, doesn’t it? It stands to reason. . . .”

  “Yes,” said Hendricks. “It does. The odd thing is that that section struck me as the least promising of the lot; that’s why I left it to last. I was hunting round there till it got dark—that’s how I missed my way back—but I couldn’t see a single hopeful sign.” He sighed and stretched himself. “I’ll analyse it first thing tomorrow. That may give me a lead.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Fedora, “here’s your dinner.”

  There was a faint suggestion of coolness that night, drifting in from the river. Trout and Fedora sat on the verandah with their shirts unbuttoned, smoking their last cigarettes and watching the sky alive with a thousand stars. There was no wind: yet they were aware of a curious, intangible movement all about them, the movement of the
dry earth relaxing after the heat of the day, of those pale white flowers that open||A at night in search of the hungry moon, of the tendrils that move by infinitesimal degrees around the trunks of giant trees and slowly, remorselessly, choke the life from them. In the room behind, Hendricks was snoring slightly; from time to time they heard the soft plap! of flesh on flesh as he swatted mosquitoes in his sleep They talked unhurriedly, in low voices, drawing steadily on their cigarettes and breathing out columns of smoke into the heavy and scented air; while above them, the stars wheeled slowly around in their perpetual quest for infinity.

  “He’s put us on the spot,” said Trout. “We’re on the spot, all right.”

  He said this with a kind of lugubrious satisfaction, either at the event itself or at the intimate knowledge of racy slang which his comment revealed. “Yes,” said Fedora. “I expect he has.”

  They were talking about Galdos.

  “And just how bad does that make things?”

  “Pretty bad,” said Fedora, considering. “I don’t see how we can get out of here—that’s the hell of it. We’ll just have to stick with it until Hendricks comes up with the goods. Of course, he may climb down and do nothing. But it’s more likely he’s sent for his gunmen, not half-comics like he had with him tonight, but the genuine boys in black. And then we’ll be for it.”