Ride The Pink Horse

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  McIntyre had an almost empty glass in front of him.

  “How about a drink?” Sailor asked. “Looks like you need a refresher.” He took another long drink of the beer, his hands rolling the cool bottle as if it were a woman’s body. “If we can get that ape over here.”

  McIntyre said, “I’ll get him.” He came near to a smile. “He thinks I’m a cop.”

  They could smell a cop, those in the half world where a cop meant trouble. You couldn’t fool them; they could smell.

  Sailor laughed loud. “That’s a good one.” He drank again. “That’s a real one. I was just thinking the same thing myself.” He stopped laughing. He was soft spoken. “You wouldn’t be here on business, would you?”

  His head tilted the way McIntyre’s did. He saw them across on the other side of the dance floor. The Sen; the big guy called Hubert; Ellie, whichever she was, the lace bitch or the baby-face blonde; the two big young guys and Iris Towers. An angel strayed into hell. Part of it but still clean, still aloof from it. Clean and white-starched. Even through the fog he could see the Sen’s red nose, red eyes, the way the Sen got from drink. The Sen wasn’t having a good time. He was brooding over his glass of Scotch. He had plenty to brood about.

  McIntyre was talking. “You wouldn’t know anything about my business, would you?”

  Sailor kept his eyes on the Sen. He laughed some more. “I wouldn’t know if it’s business or if you came for the Fiesta.”

  McIntyre said, “Quite a Chicago contingent here for Fiesta. There’s Senator Douglass over there.”

  “Yeah. I saw him. And Iris Towers.”

  McIntyre sounded a little surprised. Or he would have sounded surprised if McIntyre could. “You know Iris Towers?”

  Sailor laughed out loud. “I know who she is.” He tilted up the bottle, drained it. “You don’t think a mug like me would know Iris Towers, do you?” He jarred the bottle down on the table. He felt good and cool and warm all at once. His eyes felt bright. He said, “Can you get that ape to bring us a drink?”

  McIntyre turned his head barwise. He lifted a finger. The waiter came over swinging his gorilla arms. When he saw Sailor at the table the hate was fresh in his eyes.

  Sailor said, “I’m buying, Mac, what’ll it be?” If the spic ape had a knife under his dirty apron, it was good to be on first-name terms with Chicago Homicide. Sailor wasn’t looking for trouble with the locals.

  McIntyre said, “The same. Bourbon and water.”

  “Same for me. Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

  McIntyre was eyeing the Sen’s table again. “Know the rest of the party?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “That’s Hubert Amity,” McIntyre pointed out. “Amity Engines. Mrs. Amity’s the one in the lace mantilla.” The hard-faced bitch. Old man Amity had been one of the Sen’s heaviest backers when the Sen was in Washington. A guy with a face like a hatchet. Nothing like son Hubert.

  McIntyre went on, “Kemper Prague is the one in the sombrero. The one about to slide under the table.” Kemper Prague. Millionaire playboy of the North Shore. Plenty of dirty scandal tainting him. Always hushed up. McIntyre said, “Don’t know the others. Must be local talent.”

  Sailor said and his voice was hard, “I’d be willing to bet they don’t have to work for a living.” Oh, the Sen had done all right for himself since he left off selling soap and had gone into politics. There’d been his wife’s money to get him started. She’d been older than he, ten years at least, but there wasn’t any age on her money. He’d come a long way from the little frame house on the South side. Graft and his wife’s money, all his now, he’d done well by himself. Only not well enough. Now he was going into the millionaire class. Nothing but the best for the Sen. But he’d welch out of a thousand-dollar debt if he could. He couldn’t

  “Wouldn’t take that one,” McIntyre said. “I wonder what the Senator’s after now.” He was idly curious.

  Sailor could tell him. McIntyre ought to be able to see it himself, he could see her there. Couldn’t McIntyre see her, the white rose, the pale white star?

  “Maybe it’s the governorship.”

  Sailor hooted his amazement “What would he want to be governor for? He’s been senator.”

  “Being governor of the sovereign state of Illinois isn’t a bad job.” McIntyre was mild. “Not only does it carry prestige, it could be remunerative.”

  The waiter was sliding in with the tray. He’d brought the beer. He glared at Sailor. “Sev’ty-seex sants,” he mouthed. Sailor peeled a dollar, threw it on the tray. “Keep the change,” he waved. The ape gave him hate instead of thanks. But the beer was cold. He trickled it into his mouth tenderly. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his knuckle as he set down the bottle.”I don’t think he needs dough that bad,” Sailor said. He was thinking of that insurance policy. Fifty grand. Besides the estate.

  “Nobody ever has enough,” McIntyre said dryly.

  The beer was good but his head was getting a little light. He knew it was time to make a move. He had better sense than to talk to a copper when he was drinking. He wasn’t a drinking guy, never had been. That was one reason he’d stayed in the Sen’s inner circle. The Sen could trust him not to get woozy and muff things. Strictly a one-bottle-of-beer guy. Two bottles wasn’t too much, only he hadn’t had anything to eat today. Coffee and a cinnamon roll for breakfast, dry sandwich and coffee for lunch. He’d finish the beer and go. He took another long drink. It was good, good.

  “I don’t think he’ll ever be governor,” McIntyre mused.

  The Sen was getting up on the floor now. She was getting up too. He was going to dance with her. He was putting his arm around her clean white waist. Sailor clenched the bottle with hard knuckles. He spat through his teeth, “Son of a bitch.”

  McIntyre heard him. He’d said it under his breath and the juke was blaring the Woody Herman “Apple Honey” and men were bellowing at each other and glasses were clanking and women were squealing and chairs were bumping but McIntyre heard him say it. McIntyre turned his steady colorless eyes on Sailor.

  Sailor said, “He’ll be governor if he wants it.” He laughed just as if he’d not said son of a bitch and McIntyre hadn’t heard him.

  The homicide detective studied him mildly for a moment then repeated, “I don’t think he’ll ever be governor.” He turned back to the dance floor.

  Sailor didn’t know what McIntyre was trying to say. He didn’t know because that was the way McIntyre was. He never said anything out straight like dumb flatfeet. He let you guess. He could be trying to say the Sen would never be governor because he was going to fry. Fry for the murder of his wife.

  Sailor finished the beer. The Sen was still hopping around, his arm clamped around white Iris. Sailor said thickly, “I haven’t eaten all day. I’m going to go get something to eat.”

  “You can order here,” McIntyre said.

  Sailor pushed away from the table. “I’m going where I can taste it. Be seeing you, Mac.”

  McIntyre nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

  He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t even tight but his head was light. He bumped through the aperture. Bumped into one drunk shoving out from the table. The drunk was in fancy pants like the Sen’s. The drunk threatened, “Watch where you’re going.”

  Sailor said, “Button your lip.” He didn’t stop to button it for the drunk, he pushed on out of the dump into the night. He pumped the stale air out of his lungs, pumped in the night freshness. The night was sweet and chill, there was a faint smoke smell in it, like fresh pine burning. He walked back to the Plaza, to the museum corner. The Plaza was dark and quiet, only the circlet of dim colored lights hung over its darkness. He saw deeper shadows under the shadows of the portal. Mounds, blanket-wrapped, shawl-wrapped. The Indian peddlers were asleep, the stuff they’d had spread out earlier wrapped now in big calico bundles like laundry in a dirty sheet. He might borrow a blanket and sleep with the Indians. He put a filthy word into a vicious whisper. He’d never ha
d to sleep on the ground yet.

  There was no place to eat on the Plaza. The Plaza was asleep dark, quiet, asleep. The thatched booths were asleep and the smokestacks which had trickled thin smoke. The shops squaring the Plaza were dark, asleep. The cheap hotel was only a dim light. He crossed into the park and took the path to the right. He hadn’t investigated the street that led down away from the square. There could be another hotel. With no rooms. Fiesta, you know. There must be, somewhere, an all-night eating joint. Even hick towns must have some place for night workers to feed their faces. He turned sharp where a street came up to meet this one. He’d walked up it earlier today. He hadn’t noticed the restaurant down on the corner, across from The Inca. He hadn’t been thinking about food then.

  A lighted sign hung out over the sidewalk. He didn’t read the big red letters. He read the little blue ones. “Kansas City Steaks.” As he read, he saw a couple of men go up to the door and walk in.

  It didn’t take him sixty seconds to reach the corner. The cafe was open all right. There were plenty of people sitting around the counter, people in booths. Sailor went in.

  He found a place at the counter between a guy in shirtsleeves and a doll in a cheap silk dress. The doll looked at him out of big eyes when he straddled the stool. He didn’t look at her. He fixed his eye on the long tall sandy drink in the chefs cap. Kept it there until the guy came over and asked, “What’s yours?”

  “Couple of steak sandwiches without garbage, side order French fries, bottle of milk.”

  The guy said, “Rare?”

  ”And thick.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The doll said in a flat nasal Kansas twang, “What’s happened to the pie, Gus?” She said it like she thought she was something cute but she wasn’t. She had a face like a rubber doll, round and empty, and a Kansas twang in her nose. She didn’t know that her eyes were predatory; she thought they were big baby-blue eyes and that nobody could see what kind of a spirit she had.

  Gus said, good-natured, “We’re baking it. Keep your shirt on, Janie.”

  He dumped a glass of water in front of Sailor and a handful of tin to eat with. You could fish your own paper napkin out of the container.

  The girl said to the girl beside her, “The service here is getting terrible.” She said it to the other girl but she kept the corner of her eye on Sailor. When she started to crawl in his lap, he’d slap her down. Until then he’d ignore her. Though she could probably find him a bed. Trouble was what went with it

  He hunched her out of sight with his shoulder. The guy on the other side of him was shoveling in ham and drinking coffee. He wasn’t with anyone; he was like Sailor, all he wanted was food. Sailor said, “You don’t know where I could get a room?”

  “Naw.” He didn’t stop eating. “No rooms during Fiesta.” He wasn’t interested in gab and Sailor didn’t bother him again.

  You couldn’t outrun Fiesta even in a hashery. Across the circular counter were costumes, costumes in some of the booths. Youngsters mostly, blondes and red heads and brunettes with gawky looking guys. Kids with good appetites, with nothing on their minds but having fun; Zozobra is dead, long live Fiesta. When he was the size of the punk with the ears, directly across, McIntyre had already run him in once for stealing cars. Mac was just a flattie then. They’d both come up in the world quite a ways.

  He’d always liked Mac. Mac didn’t lecture; he said take it or leave it. If you steal cars, you’ll do time. What Mac didn’t know was that the boys behind the car barns had a better angle: If you don’t get caught stealing cars, you won’t have to do time. He hadn’t seen much of Mac since he moved north. A hello now and then, when you weren’t expecting it. Mac hadn’t tried to move in. Mac was honest you could say that for him. He wasn’t looking out for a cut He believed what he told you. You hurt somebody and you’re going to get hurt yourself. He was an honest copper, in his mind and heart as well as in his job. That was why the reform commissioner had named him head of Homicide. Now he was out working again.

  It had to be something big to put Mac on the street. Something like nabbing ex-Senator Douglass for murder. That silly hat he was wearing might fool some of the yokels but not anyone who’d ever seen Mac at work. Who had ever noticed Mac’s quiet slate eyes.

  Gus slapped down the thick crockery platter, two open steak sandwiches oozing pink juice on the toast, another platter with French fries. “Coffee?”

  “Bottle of milk.” His mouth was full already. The potato was too hot. He crunched it, keeping his tongue out of the way.

  “Yeah, I remember.” Gus opened an ice chest, pulled out the milk.

  “Make it two,” Sailor said. He didn’t wait to cut the sandwich. He bit in big and chewed. He’d known he was hungry but not this hungry. The milk was even better than the beer had been. He finished half a glass while he was still chewing.

  He didn’t recognize the man with the full greasy mouth, the red-rimmed eyes, the dirty collar line at first. Not until the mouth opened to push in a hunk of bread and meat. He was looking in a mirror. The man was he, dirty, crumpled, his unkempt hair straggling from under his hat down on his forehead, beard shadowed on his chin. He had to find a place to clean up before seeing the Sen tomorrow. He could sleep on a park bench but he must shave, shower, change to fresh linen. He chewed in ugly impotent rage at what the Sen had done to him this day. He ought to be made to pay for the indignities. Five thousand wouldn’t be enough to make up for it.

  The screen door flopped open and he heard the laughter of an entering group. He was afraid to look, under his eyes he could see the costumes. They passed the opposite side of the counter and he pushed his hat forward over his eyes. After they had passed he looked after them. It wasn’t the Sen’s party. It was just another group of stay-up-late Fiesta revelers.

  He ate faster then. He didn’t want to be caught in the glaring light of the hash house by the Sen’s crowd. His stomach was bloated when he finished and the cigarette tasted good again, not like an old dry weed. He picked up his check, paid at the cashier’s wicket and dived outside banging the screen after him. But the Sen and his party weren’t standing there ready to enter. There was no one on the walk.

  From the corner the lights of the Cabeza de Vaca up the street sneered at him. Across, the lights of the little Inca ignored him. Damn them and damn their neon. He’d find him a room better than in those dumps.

  He rounded the corner and retraced his way up the slight hill. He turned left and continued down the street. There must be some place with room for him. Book stores, jewelry stores, shoe stores, furniture stores. He walked on in the darkness, the shops growing meaner, the way more dark. Nothing across, a blatant movie house dark, he could pitch a tent in the lobby if he had a tent. Murky bars with muted sounds and sounds not muted, acrid smell of cheap liquor stenching your nostrils. Only a couple of blocks and the street ended. Nothing beyond. Dark little houses, country, vacant fields. Beyond that, mountains. No hotels, no room signs, not even a whore house. Nothing more in this direction and he turned back. He stood for a moment lighting another cigarette, trying to know out of his head what to do, where to go.

  And standing there the unease came upon him again. The unease of an alien land, of darkness and silence, of strange tongues and a stranger people, of unfamiliar smells, even the cool-of-night smell unfamiliar. What sucked into his pores for that moment was panic although he could not have put a name to it. The panic of loneness; of himself the stranger although he was himself unchanged, the creeping loss of identity. It sucked into his pores and it oozed out again, clammy in the chill of night, he was shivering as he stood there and he moved sharply, towards the Plaza, towards identity. He heard the pad of walking feet as he moved and he slung his head over his shoulder quick, his right hand hard and quick in his pocket No one walked behind him. Yet when he moved again, he heard again the soft padding. He had a momentary stab of something like fright, remembering the black hatred in the eyes of the mug waiter. Then he realized. Th
ere was no one abroad but himself. It was himself he heard. His short laugh was an ugly, out-loud sound in the dark and the night. He walked on, striking his heels viciously into the broken sidewalk. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid of the spic waiter or of any man who walked. He had never known man fear since the old man had been buried, his strap fastening his pants around his obese middle.

  He walked back up the dark street one block, the second, and he cut slantwise across to the murky bar by the barber shop. Not because he wanted a drink. Because he saw the cadaverous frame of Ignacio, the guitar player, through the smoky open doorway. Because he would find Pancho, and Pancho would find a place where he might rest.

  This wasn’t a dump like Keen’s Bar, this was a dive. A two-by-four saloon with a dirty bar and no fixings. Not even a juke. This was where men, poor men, went to get drunk when the whip of poverty fell too hard for endurance. This was the kind of saloon the old man had hung around whenever he had the price of cheap rotgut. Where the old man had spent the dimes that the old lady brought home for bread. When the old man couldn’t stand up on his feet, he’d stumble home and beat the hell out of the kids because there wasn’t any bread to give them.

  The old man lay in a pauper”s grave where he belonged. The old lady lay beside him; it wasn’t her fault that she wore out scrubbing floors for bread and left the kids on the street. Some day he’d dig her up; have a white headstone put over her old bones. The girls were drabs, the boys worked for a living. Some living clerks, day laborers. All but him. That hadn’t been good enough for him. He’d known what he wanted, money, enough money to go North Shore. No small change. No more stir. Safe jobs. Big pay. He was useful to the Sen because he didn’t drink and he looked good in the clothes the Sen bought him. He was a good-looking kid and the Sen liked the men around him to look North Shore. He had good shoulders from boxing; he was quick and tough; he’d done the Sen’s dirty work since he was a punk of seventeen and never let the Sen down. The dirty stinking Sen.