He lit a cigarette, nice hammered-copper ash tray at hand. If he only had a beer, he’d be more comfortable than he’d been since he blew in. He rested, comfortable, in the chair. Only his eyes moving, watching left and right, not seeming to watch. He didn’t need to keep his right hand where it usually was. There wouldn’t be any punk stalking him in the center of La Fonda lobby.
“Looking for the senator?”
He lifted his eyes easy. “Hello, Mac. How’s Fiesta?”
Somebody got up from the couch next to his chair, as if they’d been holding the place for Mac. Mac sat down.
“Viva las Fiestas,” Mac said. Even he was turning Spanish like his hat and sash.
“Sure,” Sailor said. He wasn’t going to be in a hurry to talk about the Sen. Mac wasn’t apt to get too far from the subject. “When you going back?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Mac said. He wasn’t gabby this afternoon. He was taking things just as easy as Sailor. “When you going back?”
“I don’t know,” Sailor said offhand. It sounded too much as if he were waiting for orders from the Sen, and he added, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“You’re going back?” Mac didn’t have any expression on his face.
“To Chi?” Sailor shouldn’t have sounded amazed, even to his own ears. But he was. The idea of Mac thinking he wouldn’t be going back to Chicago. He couldn’t wait to get back. Back where you knew what to expect, back where there were lights and buildings and shows and people—and life! He woke up. He wasn’t going back. He was going to Mexico. His laugh wasn’t good. “What made you ask that?”
Mac was calm as ever. “I thought maybe you weren’t counting on going back.”
“I can’t wait to get back.” State Street, Michigan Boulevard, North Shore, The Stevens, the Palmer House, the Lake, the cold wet wind off the Lake. Field’s and the Athletic Club and the Trib Tower and Ziggy’s office right about next door. Ziggy’s office was closed up. For good. Sailor wasn’t staying in this dump anyway. He was going down to Mexico City and it was a city, a swell city. Ziggy knew; he’d been there. Sailor didn’t say it again, not out loud; there was only the echo in his ear: I can’t wait to get back.
There were other places as good as Chicago. Plenty of them. He took a deep drag off the cigarette. “I thought you’d be waiting for the Sen.”
Mac said, “I think he’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
He wasn’t sure the way Mac said it, whether Mac had found out all he wanted and was taking the Sen back with him or whether the Sen was running out and he was just tagging along. The Sen wasn’t going to wait for Iris Towers, or he’d changed her plans. The Sen didn’t like Mac’s breath warming his neck. He didn’t know Mac would be plodding behind him waiting for the break. The Sen’s time was running short. Sailor was the break. The Sen would settle today or Sailor would give Mac what he wanted.
He asked it casual. “Where is the Sen today? You seen him?”
“He’s sick,” Mac said.
Mac was trying to catch Sailor off guard. That’s what he was doing sitting here, popping out with stuff you weren’t expecting, with that dead-pan face of his.
Sailor didn’t even move his little finger. He just laughed. “What’s the matter with him? Too big a night?”
“I don’t think that’s it Not all of it.” Mac threw another fast one. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Fine.” The Sen wasn’t in his room. Unless he was holed up there not answering the phone, not answering the door. Unless he was that sick. He wouldn’t be that sick with Iris Towers likely to be outside the door, on the other end of the phone. “It was only a scratch,” Sailor said. “Some guy must have make a mistake.”
“Yeah, it was probably a mistake,” Mac droned.
He could be meaning the guy was a poor judge of distance. He didn’t know about Sailor ducking just at the right time. That was one thing even Mac couldn’t know. When lightning would flash. “What’s the matter with the Sen?” He brought it back.
“I don’t know. Just not feeling too good, according to Amity. You ready to talk yet, Sailor?”
“What about?” He was just as noncommittal as Mac. He’d play it Mac’s way. But he knew where the Sen was. Mac had told him that much. Not that Mac knew he’d been giving out. Sailor should have thought of it before; it was one of the Sen’s favorite dodges. Holing up in another guy’s room when he didn’t want anybody to know where he was. When he’d come in from Washington unexpected to do a little business. Holing up in Sailor”s apartment.
The Sen might be in Amity’s. He might be in Iris Towers’ room, lying on her bed sick because he was worried, because things hadn’t gone his way for once. Because Sailor had roughed his game.
“Where were you the night of Mrs. Douglass’ death?”
A quick pitch but the same old question. Sailor was gentle. “Why, Mac,” he said. “You know where I was. I was down at Ziggy’s working on the books. We worked there till your boys came in to tell us about the tragedy. We never left the place.”
“You never left the place.”
“You know we didn’t, Mac.”
”I’m not asking about Zigler,” Mac said. “I’m asking about you.”
“For God’s sake, Mac. You know every step I took that night. You sat in on the testimony.”
“You never left the place,” Mac repeated.
His own lips were as tight. “I never left the place,” he lied with emphasis. It was kind of funny swearing to a lie now and maybe by evening telling Mac the truth. Mac wouldn’t think it funny; he was used to it. Mac would know it was all in the game. “You’re not trying to pin that rap on me, Mac?”
Mac said, “I don’t pin raps, Sailor. I’m after Mrs. Douglass’ killer.”
“You’re not after me.”
“Maybe not.”
“You’re not.” He’d talk this much. “If you were you wouldn’t have been here ahead of me. You’d have been trailing.” He explained Mac’s own moves to him. As if Mac didn’t know what he was doing. “You didn’t get here first because you knew I was heading this way. I didn’t know it myself until the day I took the bus.”
Mac didn’t answer him. Not straight. “What happened between you and the Sen?” He wanted the answer to that one. Something different in the way of asking.
“What do you mean?” Sailor sounded as innocent as he wanted to sound. Let Mac take the lead here. Until later when he spilled the whole business. But as he spoke they came out of the Cantina, Kemper Prague and the lovely Iris Towers. They gave Mac his question.
“It wouldn’t be his new friends?”
They didn’t come across the lobby. They went out of sight into the left-hand portal. Going up to see the poor sick Sen. The hidden Sen. Take him a drink. Or an aspirin. Or a satin white hand for his aching head.
Sailor was short. “No.” He couldn’t say that he and the Sen were the same as ever with the Sen accusing him to Mac last night. That was too raw. That was why he’d spill everything to Mac once he collected. He had to collect first or Mac might take the Sen away before Sailor had his chance.
Mac said mildly, “I didn’t know. See you later, Sailor,” and he was gone. No excuses, just gone, down the right-hand portal. To ride up in the elevator with them. To find out where the senator was holed. Beating Sailor to it. And the Sen’s new friends, his rich society friends wouldn’t even notice the quiet man in the funny Spanish hat and sash. Any of the old organization would. Not one of the old organization who wouldn’t spot a cop on sight.
He was too restless to sit there longer. The Sen wasn’t going to come out, not until he thought he was safe. Mac would find out where and Sailor could get it out of Mac later. He could, if he had to, make a deal with Mac. Promise the story if he could have fifteen minutes with the Sen alone first. That was all he needed. He could cut it down to ten.
He might as well eat lunch. Not here where they’d soak you; he’d go back to the Kansas City steak house. Eat his kind of
food. Fool around a little, have a cold beer later, get back to the hotel around cocktail time. If he couldn’t get to the Sen by that time, make the deal with Mac. One thing sure; he had to get out of town tonight. If he didn’t Mac might see to it that Sailor turned back to Chicago tomorrow. He’d have to say he was returning with them tomorrow and pull a sneak tonight. After he’d told Mac the truth.
The momentum of music and color and motion, of sound and smell had increased on the Plaza. Fiesta was revolving to climax, as if by moving faster and faster the end might be delayed. As if accentuation of its gayety might delay the return to tomorrow’s dull everyday.
Sailor walked in the street it was simpler than being pushed off the high curb by the sidewalk crowds. Past the corner of Tio Vivo, Pancho sweating at his toil; Ignatz and Onofre plinking and plunking mechanically. Past the thatched booths, past the chile and the pop and the cardboard canaries swinging on their willowy rods. Past the balloon man. Stepping aside for the burro carts and the horses with their costumed riders, past the corner where strolling musicians sang to little clusters of listeners.
“Hello, Sailor.”
She giggled when she said it, giggled and blocked his way. It was Rosie, with the paint on her mouth and cheeks, the invitation in her black eyes and in the twist of her immature body. She was arm-linked with a different girl today, a girl lush as the flaming roses in her hair, a girl with rippling black hair and swelling breasts and wide hips. A girl with a dirty neck and a gum-chewing mouth and wide beautiful eyes.
“Looking for Pila?” Rosie giggled.
He said, “No,” and started by them.
“I bet Pila she is looking for you,” Rosie said.
He’d push her out of the way, the little slut, if she didn’t move. Her and the exquisite slattern with her. He made another attempt to pass.
“I bet she is looking for you to say goodbye,” Rosie giggled.
He stopped. “Is Pila going somewhere?”
“Yes, she is going.” She evidently couldn’t talk without the silly giggle.
“Where?”
“She is going home,” Rosie said. “Her father he has come to take her home. Back to San Ildefonso. They are Indians.” Her giggle went up and down again like the shrill of a flute.
“I know it,” he said brusquely. “When is she going?” He owed her a pop or another ride or a permanent wave. He’d promised her.
Rosie shrugged. “I don’t know when,” she singsonged in her accent. “Maybe tonight.” He’d been interested; she hadn’t expected it. She’d thought he would laugh at Pila too. He wanted to knock the frizz off her head, knock the paint off her mouth.
The slattern put her slow black eyes into him. “Muy macho,” she slurred.
Rosie remembered her then and perked up. “This is my friend, Jesusita. ‘Sita, this is Sailor I was telling you about.”
Jesusita said, “Hallo.” With the same look
If he was going to be here, time on his hands, he might stick around with these two. He might give the slattern a knowing eye. She’d be worth a trip to the Federal Building. But he was getting out. He didn’t need to fool around with slovenly dames; he’d have his pick in Mexico City.
He said, “Tell Pila I want to see her before she goes,” and he moved quick, past them, out of the Fiesta square, covering the quarter block and turning the corner to the steak house. He didn’t look back. He didn’t know if Rosie had any intention of passing on the message. Nor if Pila could get away from her old man for the last afternoon of Fiesta on the Plaza.
He walked on fast to the restaurant. It wasn’t crowded this time of day. If Pila was staying over till tonight he could treat her to the permanent wave. With the Sen’s money. He’d have it tonight. He had forty dollars left and a pocketful of change. Not much. Not enough to take care of Pancho and Pila like he wanted to. Enough for now. He’d been saving money, sleeping and eating and doctoring with the natives. If anyone had told him before he left Chi that he was going to move in with a spic carnival operator and play Lord Bountiful to an Indian kid during Fiesta, he’d have told them how nutty they were. If anyone had told him he was going to take in a Fiesta he wouldn’t have known what they were talking about. Travel was sure broadening, he didn’t think. That was just another of the Sen’s crummy ideas. Maybe it was broadening if you had your dead wife’s fifty grand to splurge with.
He paid the check, stuck a toothpick in his mouth. Outside he threw away the toothpick. The Sen had taught him better. He walked back up the street, taking his time. That was all he had to do now, waste time. Until five o’clock. It wasn’t quite three.
3
The clouds had piled up over the cathedral, not storm clouds, big white ones, soft and thick as marshmallows. The sun was hot, the sky a burning blue. If he had a room, he’d go take a nap. When he got to Mexico City he’d get the best room in the best hotel and sleep for a week. He’d lay in the bathtub for another week.
He didn’t want to go back to the Plaza but there wasn’t any place else to go. Unless he went to La Fonda and sat in the lobby. And talked to Mac. He’d never run into Pila in La Fonda lobby. He wanted to tell the kid goodbye. He wondered how much her permanent wave would cost. It wasn’t her fault the Sen had ratted again last night. She’d look like hell with a permanent wave.
He wandered up the street, automatically ducking the kids, his ears filled with cacophony of noise, music and jabber and singing and laughing and crying, all kinds of noise mixed up into one big Fiesta noise. He wandered on up to the corner where Fiesta was most noisy, where Pancho made Tio Vivo gallop a lively course. Pancho was a funny guy. He didn’t have anything to be happy about but he was always happy. He didn’t care about getting any place. He didn’t care where he slept or what he hung on his back or what he put in his stomach.
A funny guy. Sailor wondered what Ziggy would make of Pancho. Ziggy studied guys, figured them out. Sailor went around in back of the merry-go-round, leaned against the fence. The kids weren’t on this side. They crowded in by the gate. He could watch Pancho without Pancho knowing it. Watch the big muscles swelling under the sweaty shirt. He couldn’t figure Pancho out. Working like a ditch-digger for nickels. Not for nickels, to make a bunch of kids happy. Maybe that’s why Pancho was happy, because he was making other people happy. Even making an amigo out of a stranger. A funny guy.
While he was leaning there, he saw Pila. She was on the other side, in back of the kids, watching Tio Vivo. He didn’t know her at first. She wasn’t in the costume; she was wearing a plain blue dress, the kind kids wore in orphanages, white collar on it, big buttons down the front of it. Her hair hung in braids; she looked like the little kid she was. He went around to her as quick as he could push the mob of kids aside, came up behind her.
“I’ll buy you a ride on the pink horse,” he said.
She turned slowly. “No. My father he is waiting for me. To take me home.”
“I’ll buy you a pop. A pink pop.” He took her arm. “You can take it with you, drink it on the way home.” He pushed her through the crowd, out of the park to the pop stand. He rang down the dime for the bottle.
Pila said, “Rosie, she say you want to see me.” He put the pop bottle in her hand. “Yeah. About that permanent.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his face. The eyes of the kid in front of the bike window. Not hopeless, simply without hope.
“How much would it cost you?”
“For three dollars, Rosie she can get a permanent.”
Things were cheaper in the sticks. The dames the Sen knew paid twenty bucks in Chicago. He grinned, “It’s a deal. He took the bills from his pocket, peeled a five, added another.
She looked at the money in his hand but she didn’t touch it.
“Go on, take it,” he said. “I promised you, didn’t I?”
“It does not cost this much.”
He put the bills in her small brown hand. “After you get it, you’ll need a new dress, won’t you?” He looked down at the
orphan shoes on her feet. “And some shoes.”
“My father—”
“You don’t have to tell your old man, do you?”
She crumpled the bills into her pocket, pushed her hand down on them. “Thank you.” She didn’t grin and jump around like Lorenzo. If somebody had handed Sailor the red bike out of Field’s window, he wouldn’t have jumped around. He’d have stood there looking up, saying, “Thank you,” like he hadn’t any other words in his heart.
She said, “I must go to my father.”
“Sure.” He swung along beside her.
She was clutching the pop bottle to her blue dress.
“I don’t know what you want a permanent for,” he said. Making conversation. Just wondering.
She looked at him. Like he was the Sen. “Then I can come into town and go to work. Like Rosie. Rosie gets five dollars a week cleaning houses. I can clean better than Rosie, I learn at the Indian school. At nights Rosie goes to the picture show and to dances—”
The bright lights of the big hick town. A permanent and a new dress and working out like Rosie. Meeting the boys after dark. Next year the old man wouldn’t count. Laying with the boys on the Federal Building lawn. Like Rosie.
“Listen,” he said. He grabbed her arm and she almost dropped the pink pop but she caught it, clutched it more tightly. “Listen,” he said. “Don’t you do it. You stay where you are. Stay at the pueblo. Get yourself fixed up if you have to but you stay there. With your own people. Find you a guy there, a good guy. One your old man likes. You don’t belong here, Pila. You’re too good to be like Rosie.” He didn’t know what he was talking about. Old Mother Sailor. He didn’t know why he was afraid, why he was warning her off. She’d do what she wanted to. But he could try.
Ride The Pink Horse Page 18