Words were working in the Sen’s mouth but he didn’t say any more. He scurried away on his bandy legs. Sailor watched him away. He was playing in better luck than he’d hoped. Mac here. The Sen torn up between trouble and a silver blonde. The Sen couldn’t put all his weasel brain on the ball with a blonde taking up most the room. The blonde was important to the Sen. So important he’d crawl over the body of a dead woman to get to her?
Revulsion filled his mouth. Iris Towers was too clean to lie in a bloody bed. What would she want with the Sen anyway? What would any decent woman want with the Sen? He had dough; that explained the tramps. Dough and a big name. But Iris Towers had more and better of both than Senator Willis Douglass. Ex-Senator Douglass. Maybe she felt sorry for him, the tragic death of his wife. Easy to see what the Sen wanted with her. He’d married one rich woman but she got old; he was rid of her. He could have a gorgeous blonde now. But he hadn’t paid off.
Sailor’s hand tightened in his pocket. The Sen would pay off, pay in full. He’d pay off tomorrow, before McIntyre moved in. McIntyre was waiting for something or he’d have moved before. McIntyre would like to know what Sailor knew. If the Sen tried to welch . . .
He heard his own heels thudding above the tinkle of Fiesta. He was by the ledge of the museum again and anger was knots in his belly. Anger at the dirty, cheap, welching Sen. Playing it big, fine clothes, fine car, fine hotels, society blondes. Screwing the price down on a job and then skipping out without paying off. Thinking he could get by with running out on a deal. If Sailor hadn’t read the society page, emulating the Sen himself, he wouldn’t have known where to collect.
One little note in the gabby society column. “The popular young Senator, Willis Douglass, is vacationing in . . .” Popular with whom? Not with the guys who did his dirty work. Young was a laugh, a belly laugh. The Sen wouldn’t see fifty again if he did have a barber who browned up the gray in his hair and beard. Gabby had only one thing accurate. Where to find the Sen. And Sailor had caught up with the Sen. Because once he’d thought the Sen was big potatoes, once he’d had an idea of being like the Sen, and reading the society page was a part of it.
A thousand bucks. What was owed him. She’d had an insurance policy that paid off fifty times that. If he’d known that beforehand he’d have stuck to the two thousand asking price. Or a percentage deal. The Sen wasn’t taking any of the risks; he should pay.
A thousand bucks was small change to the Sen. He’d spend more than that on this Fiesta jaunt, putting up at La Fonda, buying champagne, making a play for Iris Towers. Dressing himself in a black velvet monkey suit. You can bet the Sen didn’t ride across country in a stinking bus. A drawing room on the Superchief was his style.
The knots tightened and envy gnawed raggedly at his guts. All he asked was his due, a thousand bucks. A thousand berries to take across the border to Mexico. A man could live like a prince in Mexico with a grand. Zigler said so.
He’d set up a little safe business of his own in Mexico, making book or peddling liquor, quick and easy money, big money. He’d get himself a silver blonde with clean eyes. Marry her. Maybe she’d have dough too, money met money and bred money. All he wanted was his just pay and he’d be over the border. Not that he wasn’t safe; the Sen had fixed it so he was perfectly safe. That part of the deal was on the level. He hadn’t trusted the Sen on that; he’d seen to it with Zigler himself.
He wasn’t going to be put off any longer. The Sen would pay up tomorrow. He’d pay up or— His head turning, Sailor’s eyes met the black stone eyes of Pila. Sweat broke under his arm pits. He didn’t know how long she’d been standing there beside him watching him; he didn’t even know if he’d been muttering out loud. The fear that sweated him wasn’t anything you could put a name on; it was formless, something old and deep. He’d had it once before and the memory of that occasion recurred now, recurred so sharply he could smell the cold washed corridors of the Art Institute. He’d been second-year High and for some reason the teacher had taken the class of mugs to the Institute.
There’d been the granite head of a woman in one corridor. He’d looked at it, it hadn’t affected him at all in that first look, just a hunk of stone, a square hunk of stone with lips and eyes chiseled on it. The teacher had herded them by and he’d scuffed along. What returned him to that stone head, he didn’t know to this day. But he’d looked backward and he’d returned. As if he were seeing a picture he could see himself, a skinny kid in a limp blue shirt and shabby gray pants standing there staring at an ugly hunk of stone. Until he was as cold as the stone head, he’d stood there. Until one of the guys was sent to drag him back to the class.
He’d known fear, real fear, for the first time in his life as he’d stood there. He’d thought he’d known it before. Fear of the old man’s drunken strap, fear of the old woman’s whining complaints, fear of the cop and the clap and the red eyes of the rats that came out of the wall at night. Fear of death and hell. Those were real fears but nothing like the naked fear that paralyzed him before the stone woman. Because with the other things he was himself, he could fight back, he had identity. Before her, his identity was lost, lost in the formless terrors older than time.
He had to say something, say anything fast to take that stone look from Pila’s face. He said, “Where are your friends?” His voice came out like an old husk.
“They have gone to the Federal Building.”
When she spoke he heard again the shrill, accented voices of Rosita and Irene. Heard them in other painted girls flouncing, giggling by. Pila’s accent was heavier but it was a part of her, it was the speech of this land. Her voice was sweet, gentle, almost a singsong. He knew for the first time that the stone woman was Indian. He knew Pila was Indian.
He said roughly, avoiding her face, “Why didn’t you go with them?”
“My father he would beat me.”
He looked quickly again at her but there was no emotion, nothing but black eyes in a square brown face. He said, “What for? What’s wrong with the Federal Building?”
“They lay with the boys.”
Again he avoided her face, her terrible eyes that saw everything and saw nothing. She didn’t move. He could see her scuffed black oxfords, cheap shoes, under the bedraggled hem of the limp flowered skirt. He realized now that she was very young.
“How old are you?” he asked.
She said, “Fourteen.” She stood there unmoving, her black eyes unmoving on his face. He couldn’t tell her to go away and leave him alone. He could but the words wouldn’t speak. She had fastened to him as if he were the one familiar thing in this waning scene. He, the stranger. He said, “Come on, I’ll buy you a pop.”
She didn’t say anything. She followed him, walking behind him, to the thatched stand. The old crone was washing up the dishes. “A pop,” he said.
He rang the dime on the counter while the old woman uncapped the bottle. She handed it to him. He pushed it to Pila. She didn’t ask why he wasn’t drinking, she lifted the bottle and tipped it up. She took it from her mouth, rested a minute, tipped it again. Behind the booth, within the park, the merry-go-round spun tiredly; the music was faint There were a half dozen children still riding this late, dark boys in faded overalls, a girl of about fourteen with eyes crossed together. Pila sucked from the bottle.
He said, “You’re Indian.”
She lowered the bottle. “I am Indian, yes. San Idlefonso.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came for the Fiesta.”
“Did you want to come?”
She laughed at that her whole face laughed at him. It was startling because he didn’t know she could laugh, that she was human. Some of the rigidness left his spine.
“I want nothing so much as to come,” she said. “Always I want to come to Fiesta.”
He saw it out of her eyes for the moment the brightness, the music and dancing, the good smell of red chile, and the chill of pink pop, the twirling merry-go-round, the laughter and the happ
iness, flowered skirts to cover old black shoes. He said, “Come on, I’ll give you a ride on the merry-go-round.”
She set down the bottle. She was reluctant. ‘Tio Vivo is for children. Only for the children. Rosie would not be caught dead riding on—”
He said harshly, “She’d be better off caught dead there than where she is. Who’s Rosie anyway?”
“She is my cousin. My uncle and her aunt are man and wife. I am sleeping at Rosita’s house for the Fiesta.” She seemed to think it was an honor.
He was angry without knowing the reason for it “I suppose she dressed you up in those clothes?”
“Yes. This last year was Rosie’s costume. She has loaned it to me this year.” She was pleased, proud as punch of the dragging, faded skirt; of the blouse where the reds and purples and greens had run together in the wash. “I have not before had the Fiesta costume.”
Remembering the Indian women, he said, “I should think you’d like your own costume better than this.” His gesture was back towards the Indian frieze.
Pila understood. She spoke with something of scorn, something of pride. “I do not wear Indian clothes. I go to the Indian School.”
They had reached the red palings and words were silent. Her eyes were following the turning horses. The eyes of a child; his eyes looking at a shiny new bike behind Field’s window, a bike for kids whose folks could buy them bikes at Field’s. He said, “Well, do you want to ride?”
She began to say, ‘Yes,” then she said, “I am too big.” She didn’t say it with any emotion, she accepted it
He shook his head out of that troubled anger. “The boss is a friend of mine. He’ll let you on if I say so.” He studied her face. “Haven’t you ever ridden on a merry-go-round?”
She said, “No.”
“Is this your first time at Fiesta?”
Again she said, “No. When I was little I came with my family.” Her head turned to the Old Museum and back to him.
“But you never had a ride?”
“No.”
The horses were moving, slowly, slowly moving, they swayed and were still. The girl with the crossed eyes slid from the green pony and stubbed awkwardly out of the enclosure. The dirty little boys set up a Spanish jabber. Pancho stood, arms akimbo, talking back at them. “Vaya!” he shouted. “Vaya.”
Pila said without disappointment “It is too late.”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Sailor repeated.
He waited until the boys were shooed away, threatening, scolding, swearing in spic. Kids like he was once, street kids, nothing to go home to. Pancho saw him standing there as he banged the gate. He lumbered over. The night air had dried the sweat of his shirt. He wiped his fat arm across his forehead. “You think I have no customers?” he winked.
“Yeah,” Sailor said. “You got a customer now.” He pushed Pila forward.
Pancho shook his head. ‘Tonight it is too late. Mariana. Tomorrow.”
‘Tomorrow is too late,” Sailor said. “Rosita will be around again tomorrow.” Pancho didn’t know what he was talking about But he knew the dollar that Sailor pulled out of his pocket.
“I am old and tired,” he began. ‘Tio Vivo is tired. Mariana—”
”One ride,” Sailor said.
Pancho shrugged. He took the dollar sadly, opened the gate.
“A full ride,” Sailor warned. Pila walked to the horses, put out her hand to one, to another. He saw beyond her the old withered man encasing his fiddle. He dug for another dollar. “With music. Gay music.” Sailor called to Pila. “Ride the pink one.”
He felt like a dope after saying it. What difference did it make to him what wooden horse an Indian kid rode? But the pink horse was the red bike in Field’s, the pink horse was the colored lights and the tink of music and the sweet, cold soda pop.
The music cavorted. Pancho’s muscles bulged at the spindlass. Pila sat astride the pink horse, and Tio Vivo began its breath-taking whirl. Sailor leaned on the pickets. He didn’t know why giving her a ride had been important. Whether he’d wanted to play the big shot. Whether it was the kid and the bright new bike, the bum with his nose pressed against the window looking at the clean silver blonde beyond reach. Whether it was placating an old and nameless terror. Pila wasn’t stone now; she was a little girl, her stiff dark hair blowing behind her like the mane of the pink wooden horse.
4
He’d never be rid of her now. She stood before him and she said, “Thank you.” As if he were a great white god.
Pancho came up behind her. “It was a good ride, no?”
“Yeah,” Sailor said. She didn’t say anything. Her black eyes were fathomless on Sailor. He tried to be jaunty. “Come around tomorrow and I’ll buy you another ride. And another pink pop.” He settled his hat and he strode off, to get away, not that he had any place to go.
He’d been too intent on springing the surprise of McIntyre on the Sen to remember he hadn’t a place to lay his head. All of his anger flared up again, refreshed, and with it the added fuel of remembering the Sen trotting off after Iris Towers, leaving him with an Indian girl in a tart’s hand-me-downs. He found himself in front of La Fonda and he strode inside bumping past the couples on their way out. If his money could buy a merry-go-round ride for an Indian, it was just as good for a beer at La Fonda.
There was still noise in the lobby and the patio, a scattering of couples, none of them sober. He walked over to the cocktail room. It was closed, the door locked. He hadn’t paid any attention to the time. He saw now it was past midnight. A dark youth in a blue smock was wet-mopping the floor. The revelers in the patio sang mournfully off key.
The clerk at the desk was a woman now, a woman with yellowed white hair and a dyspeptic mouth over her receding chin. He could ask the Sen’s room but she’d want to know why. She was the kind who’d call the hotel dick if he told her where to head in. He didn’t want any trouble. Not tonight. He was tired, so tired his head was turning around and around like Tio Vivo. He wanted a cold beer.
He was out of the hotel on the darkened street before he faced the truth. He could have called the Sen’s room, and with the number in his head, made his way there later. The way he’d planned it before he ran into McIntyre. What had stopped him this time was a girl with clean blue eyes. He was afraid she might be on the same floor with the Sen; he knew the scene the Sen would stage if he returned and found Sailor on his doorstep. He didn’t care what the Sen said to him alone, the things were now he could give it back with change. But he was ashamed to have her witness it, to have her eyes see him as a bum. A dame he’d never seen but once in his life, a dame that was as far away from his touch as the dim star way up there almost out of sight—he didn’t want to be a bum in her eyes.
He walked straight on down the street, past the hotel where his bag was stashed. His eyes slid through the plate-glass window. There was another guy behind the desk, a tough-looking bouncer. He wasn’t the kind who’d take to bums sleeping in the lobby. For that matter there weren’t any lobby chairs that he could see. Nothing but pinball machines. He walked on by. He turned and crossed at a drug store and walked on the far side of the Plaza. Dark shops, deserted walk. In the Plaza there were still stragglers. Sitting on the benches and on the circular low stone wall around a memorial slab. On the corner was a deserted garage and he cat-a-cornered across to the museum side again. But he didn’t turn under the portal of the Indians. Up this street, halfway up, he’d seen a neon sign, red and orange wiggles, spelling it out. Keen’s Bar. It wasn’t closed. He could hear the raucous noise this far away, the sardonic blare of a juke box, the muffled roar of men mixing with liquor, the shrill screams of women mixing with men and liquor.
He didn’t hesitate. He walked straight towards the sign. A dump. A dive. There was where he belonged. Not with the swells in their snotty hotel. He wasn’t that good yet. Not on the street with spies and squaws. He wasn’t that bad off. He opened the screen door of Keen’s and went in.
The pack ar
ound the bar was yelling over the juke. The air was fog blue with smoke. Every table jammed, the square of dance floor jammed. Everybody drinking, everybody screaming, the only silence a scowling spic waiter, scuttling through the narrow space between tables, a tray on his uplifted paw. There wasn’t a chance for a beer here.
Black rage shook him. He hadn’t a place to sleep, he hadn’t had food, he couldn’t even get a beer in this goddamn stinking lousy town. He was ready to turn and walk out when he saw wedged at a table against the wall, McIntyre. In the same silly hat, the red sash. Mac hadn’t seen him yet. Mac was watching the dance floor. Sailor knew then that the Sen was here. The Sen and Iris Towers. He took his stance in the room.
The waiter had pushed under elbows to the bar. By some trick he was coming out again balancing his loaded tray. Part of the load was a bottle of Pabst, a cold bottle, the drops of moisture still beading it
Sailor stuck out his hand and lifted off the bottle. The ape began to sputter out of his warped mouth. Sailor said, “Stow it.” He clinked a half dollar on the tray. “Crawl under and get another.” He put the bottle to his mouth and his eyes warned the ape what he could do if he didn’t like it. The burning ice was heaven in his throat, down his gullet, into his hollow stomach.
He walked off, the malevolent black eyes following him. He took another swig and bumped through the narrow space towards McIntyre. He was himself again. The noise, the smoke, the dirty glare was all part of the usual to him. Even McIntyre, alone, watching, waiting was part of it. He felt good. McIntyre wasn’t waiting for him. He shoved on until he reached the wall. Mac looked up at him. Not surprised to see him.
He said, “Hello, Mac. Enjoying yourself?”
Mac was alone at the table which might have been a table and might have been an ash stand with a wooden top put on it to take care of the Fiesta trade. Sailor reached out and swung an empty chair around to the table. Whoever it belonged to could fight it out later. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked and he sat down.
Ride The Pink Horse Page 4