Ride The Pink Horse

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “Don’t forget what I’m telling you. Stay where you belong.” He was trying to tell her. “Fiesta only lasts three days. After that Zozobra isn’t dead any more.” Maybe she’d get it. Maybe she’d think about it. He didn’t say any more. They were at the end of the museum portal and she turned to him.

  “Goodbye.”

  He wasn’t to go any further with her. He got it. He watched her cross the street, watched her walk down to a pickup truck in front of the Art Museum. She climbed in the back of it. There were already a bunch of kids in it and a couple of women with calico shawls over their heads. One of the two men against the side of the truck must be her father. The two looked like all the men around here, old jeans, old shirts, battered hats. Lean brown faces. They both climbed in the front of the truck. Sailor stood watching while the truck backed out, shook and clanked on its way. She didn’t wave goodbye; she didn’t know he was there watching. She was drinking the pink pop.

  He’d tried. He didn’t know now why he’d given her ten bucks. Ten from forty left thirty. Not much money to go on. Maybe he thought she’d be his lucky piece. Maybe he was paying off the look in her eyes, the look that scared him. Because it knew too much, it knew what had happened and was to happen; the look that denied him existence because in time, Indian time, he was without existence. He’d paid off; it wasn’t his fault if it backfired. If she turned into a Rosie by next Fiesta. He’d warned her. The rest was up to her.

  And if someone had warned him to stick to the straight and narrow when he was fourteen? Someone had. Mac had. Sailor shook away thought. Maybe she’d be better off if she did leave the dump where she lived and the old man beating her and came to the bright lights of town. There was nothing wrong with trying to better yourself. It had worked for him. But then he hadn’t been an innocent kid. Ignorant but not innocent He wasn’t either one now. The Sen had taken care of that.

  The clouds were a blazing white in the bright blue sky. The Plaza was bedraggled as the flowered skirts trailing in the dust. On the bandstand an orchestra of Spanish kids was squeaking out of tune. The curbs were solid with women and babies and old men getting off their feet. You’d think they didn’t have a home to go to. He strolled over to Tio Vivo, knocked the kids out of the way to reach the palings. He felt good for no reason; he’d feel better to get out of the hot dirty square into a place where you could know the feel of a cold bottle of beer. Only he didn’t want to be alone. Or with Mac

  He yelled over the fence, “Hey, Pancho.”

  Pancho heard him. He gave the crank a couple of more turns and left it to unwind. He wiped his face with a blue bandanna as he came over to the fence.

  “How about a beer?”

  “Un tragito,” Pancho sighed and swallowed his spittle. “I would like a beer, yes. Muy bueno.”

  “Come on. I’m buying.”

  Pancho shook his head. “But now I cannot go.” He gestured to the horde of waiting children. “Come back in a little while, Sailor-man. Six o’clock when it is supper time and not so many are here. Ignacio will do well enough when there are not so many.”

  “Okay.” He had to say okay. Pancho was already shuffling back to his labor.

  Well, he could get himself a bottle. Nothing wrong with that. He could go sit in the Placita behind the protecting wall. Under a tree. Only he’d run into Mac and it was better not to see Mac. He could go to Keen’s. It was a tossup between Mac and the ape; a tossup between luxury and a smoky, smelly bar. He moved on to La Fonda. He could handle Mac. And the Sen might be recovered, might be cooling his fever with beer in the Placita.

  The lobby was still like a convention; the Cantina like the El at rush hour. He pushed through them just the same. The Placita wasn’t much better but it was quieter. And it didn’t smell. In front of the open fireplace, there was a guitarist and a singer that were in tune. There wasn’t a table, not just then. There were a half a dozen fancy costumes waiting for a table. He didn’t wait. He cut across to where a party was about to leave and when they left he sat down. The crowd at the entrance didn’t like it but he didn’t mind. The pert blonde was waiting tables again in his corner. When she flipped her starched skirt past him he said, “How’s for a big bottle of beer?”

  She nodded. She had too many tables to serve and she’d be a long time coming back with the beer. He didn’t care. He was comfortable. The Sen wasn’t around nor any of his party. The people out here were having fun without thinking they had to make a lot of racket like the hicks in the bar. Sailor shoved back his hat. He could sit here till five o’clock if he wanted to. The blonde finally brought the beer. She poured half of it into a glass. Pouring it right, slowly, handling the head. He said, “On your next trip in from Gary how about another?” He thought she was eying the empty chairs and he said, “I’m expecting friends.”

  She said, “I’ll be glad when Fiesta is over. This place is a madhouse.”

  “Yeah.” She wasn’t as pert as yesterday; there were tired smudges under her eyes. “Why don’t you have one with me?”

  Her eyes flirted. “I wish I could. But I won’t be through till nine.”

  She wanted him to make a date. She wasn’t bold but she was invitational. He pretended regret. “I’m leaving before then.”

  “You’re not staying for the Baile?” She was stalling for a little rest, resting her feet and her nerves.

  “What’s that?”

  “The big dance. And there’ll be street dancing on the Plaza.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t do it. Got to get my business wound up and be on my way.”

  She laughed. “If you’re here on business, you’re the only one here on business.” She flipped her starched skirt. “I’ll bring you the beer then I can.”

  “Make it two.”

  He hadn’t seen Mac. The copper was sitting there at the table; the waitress had blocked him from sight until she moved away. “Don’t mind if I join you, Sailor?”

  “No,” he said heartily. As if he didn’t mind. “They’re pretty busy. You’ll probably have to wait for the beer.”

  “I can wait,” Mac said. That was McIntyre. He could wait. For a beer or a man or a story he was after. “How did you rate a table, Sailor?”

  “Hijacked it.” He lifted a glass. “You don’t mind?”

  “Go ahead.” Mac lit a cigarette, laid the pack on the table. “Sailor?”

  “Have my own, thanks.” He set down the glass. Good beer. He lit up, left his pack on the table. Mac wasn’t the Sen; he wouldn’t snitch them. “You see the Sen?”

  “No.”

  “Find out where he is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “You can’t get to him, Sailor. Doctor’s orders. He’s to see no one. That’s why his room is changed.”

  If Mac would tell him where, he’d see him. No doctor would keep him out. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nervous exhaustion.”

  Sailor”s laugh was a vulgar noise. “That’s a new name for it.”

  Mac smiled, a faint smile. Then he didn’t smile. “You were at the senator’s the night Mrs. Douglass was killed.”

  “Uh-uh.” He poured some more beer in the glass. Steady and smooth, watching the amber bubbles lift into foam white as snow-white clouds.

  “Fingerprints don’t lie.”

  He drank comfortably. “I was there a lot. But not that night”

  “You weren’t there a lot,” Mac denied quietly.

  The blonde brought two more bottles and his change. “Thanks, doll,” Sailor said. He left a quarter, put another bill on the tray for the bottles.

  Mac was pouring from his bottle. “The senator didn’t take his business associates to his home.”

  “I was his confidential secretary,” Sailor pointed out

  “You hadn’t been there that week. The panes were washed on Tuesday. Your prints are on the French doors.”

  He’d worn gloves. Mac wanted him to say he’d worn gloves. He didn’t let Mc
Intyre have any idea he’d like to slug him, pulling something like this on him. He brazened, “So you got a witness who’ll perjure himself.”

  Mac said, “When the time comes, I have some good witnesses.”

  “What have you been waiting for?” Sailor demanded. “If you got all these swell witnesses, if you think you can break my alibi, what have you been waiting for?” He’d let his anger come up and he shouldn’t have. He took a quick drink to cool him.

  Mac was calm as a mill pond. “Sure, I could have picked you up. In Chicago weeks ago. I didn’t want to, Sailor. I wanted to get the man who killed her.” Sailor relaxed. “You know who killed her. So do I.”

  Sailor didn’t say a word.

  “But until you tell me, I can’t get him.” Mac spoke mildly, “A confidential secretary knows a lot about what goes on.”

  “He doesn’t spill.”

  Mac said, “After he’s quit?”

  “You think I’ve quit?”

  “The senator says that you killed her.”

  He saw red again, at the dirty, lying Sen. But he clamped his mouth.

  “What do you say?”

  “I say I didn’t. I didn’t. You can take me in but you’ll never prove I did it. I didn’t.”

  Mac said, “How about another beer?”

  Sailor”s hand touched the second bottle. “I’m all right. You have another.” He looked around for the blonde but he didn’t see her. He saw another one. She was over in the corner and her shining head was bent to a good-looking blonde guy and his head was bent to hers. It wasn’t the Prague mucker. Their shoulders were touching. Under the table maybe their knees were touching. More than their knees. Because in their look was longing. They weren’t smiling at each other; they weren’t happy.

  He could give McIntyre the story right now. Then he could walk over and say to Iris Towers and the young fellow, “It’s okay now. The Sen’s out of it.” He didn’t. He said to Mac, “I’ve got to see the Sen. Give me ten minutes alone with the Sen and I’ll talk.”

  Mac should have perked up. But he didn’t. He didn’t look any happier than Iris Towers.

  “It’s a deal,” Sailor insisted.

  Mac said, “I’d rather you didn’t see him.”

  “Why not?” He’d offered Mac a good proposition; Mac ought to accept it, not start making trouble. Mac needed him; he should play ball.

  “I don’t think it’s safe.” Mac looked straight at Sailor. The Spanish hat wasn’t funny right now; it was a policeman’s hat.

  “I’m not worried,” Sailor boasted. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Mac stated. “You can take care of yourself against someone else. You know how. Can you take care of yourself against yourself?”

  He got it. He wasn’t dumb. Mac didn’t trust him not to use the gun.

  Mac said, “I don’t want anything to happen to Senator Douglass. I told you that before. Moreover I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He took a long drink of beer. “Why I should care about that, I don’t know, Sailor,” he said in that quiet way of his. As if he were wondering about it for the first time. “All these years, every time I’ve tried to give you a hand, to steer you right, I might as well have hollered down a well. I don’t know why I’ve thought you were worth saving. Why I still think so.”

  The sun had gone down, there was already a faint evening chill in the Placita. Beyond the wall, echoing from the Plaza, was singing, wild gay singing, “. . . alia en el Rancho Grande, alia donde vivia . . .” The voices whooped. The Placita was filling with lavender light Iris Towers and the young man were nearer each other. The tinkle and strum of Tio Vivo was a faint shimmering sound. And somewhere there was monotone of a muffled drum.

  “Perhaps because I could have been you. If the wrong person had got hold of me when I was a kid. If the Devil had tempted me, I might not have been any stronger than you were.”

  Mac was going preachy again.

  “You’re free of him now, Sailor. You’re still young; that part’s over. You mustn’t make a mistake now.”

  “I’m not going to hurt him,” Sailor smiled.

  “You don’t know,” Mac said. “It could happen. You don’t want to take a chance.”

  He wasn’t going to kill the Sen. All he was going to do was get the dough that was due him. He didn’t have to kill the Sen; Mac and the State of Illinois would take care of that for him. He laughed. “You got me wrong, Mac. I wouldn’t cheat you out of the Sen. I’m not gunning for him.” He shoved his hand in his right-hand pocket. All of a sudden he wanted to explain to Mac. If Mac could have been him, he could have been Mac. They’d always been mixed up together, one on one side, one on the other, like one man split in half. Maybe it was explaining to himself.

  “Listen Mac,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I never used a gun in my life except when I had to, to protect myself.” Except once. And that hadn’t come off. It didn’t count. “Against guys you’d have shot it out with yourself. I never killed anyone. It’s the mugs that handle that line.” He was too good for mug stuff. He was uptown, a confidential secretary. Mac ought to know that.

  Mac still didn’t trust him. “How do you know what you’ll do with gun in your pocket? Sometimes the wrong person gets in the way. A gun’s a bad thing to have handy, Sailor. I don’t like guns. I haven’t packed one since I quit pounding pavements.”

  That was all right for Mac. Guns didn’t worry Sailor. He spoke with confidence. “This is for protection, that’s all.”

  Mac said, “I can give you better protection. If you’ll tell me about that night, I’ll see you’re protected.”

  But Mac couldn’t give him five grand, even one grand. Mac didn’t have it. Mac was a good enough guy for a cop but he wasn’t smart about money. He was an honest copper. He’d never be swanking it in Mexico City dressed up in a white Palm Beach suit, ordering champagne cocktails for a girl like Iris Towers. He wasn’t that smart.

  And Mac wasn’t going to fix it up for Sailor to see the Sen. He was on his own about that. The lavender light was deepening. “I got a date,” he recalled suddenly.

  Mac was tensed, ready to stick with him.

  He laughed. “Not with the Sen. With a friend of mine. For beer.”

  Mac relaxed. “Think it over, Sailor. I’ll be right here.”

  “Okay.” He’d already got it thought over. He was seeing the Sen if he had to go to Iris Towers to work it. McIntyre, no one, could stop him.

  4

  Twilight was hung with early stars and the flowered lights. Sailor cut across to the whirl of Tio Vivo. He was late. He peered over the fence palings. Ignacio was turning the crank. Old Onofre fiddled. Neither one had the heart of Pancho; Tio Vivo was spiritless and the music was tin. Sailor shouted over the hubbub of Fiesta, “Where’s Pancho? Hey, where’s Pancho?”

  Ignacio heard him. He shrugged, “Quien sabe?”

  Well, he could catch up with Pancho later. He walked away but before he reached the curb he bumped square into the big fellow. There was a smear of chile on the dirty chin, the smell of garlic would knock you down.

  Pancho beamed, “Ah there, Sailor? Where you been?” His hands patted Sailor’s shoulders tenderly.

  “I got held up. Business,” Sailor said. “Listen, we’ll have that tragito a little later.” He stepped out of the embrace and his hand pulled a bill from his pocket. It was a ten. It didn’t matter; he’d be fixed up in a little while now. “Tequila, how about it?”

  Pancho’s brown eyes took a happy squint at the bill. “Hokay,” he said.

  A farewell party with his good angel, Pancho. Some angel. A dirty old spic who cranked a merry-go-round. “Hokay,” Sailor echoed.

  He felt good swinging out of the Plaza, stepping over the curb, into the street. Not paying any attention to the villagers. They weren’t so bad; they didn’t have much fun. No wonder this tinsel Fiesta looked good to them. Nobody could have much fun living in this one-horse
town. He’d be out tomorrow. It wouldn’t be Chicago but Mexico City would be even better. Sure it would; no more dirt and cold and sweat; no more jumping when the Sen lifted his little finger. Like Mac said, he’d be starting a new life. He could have it any way he wanted it. He was going to have it good with the Sen’s stake.

  He returned to the hotel. He tried the Sen’s room first. No luck there. The old bitch with the yellow-gray hair was at the desk. He asked her polite, “Will you give me the number of Senator Douglass’ room?” She gave it to him like it hurt her.

  “He isn’t in that room now,” Sailor explained. “I just called.”

  She was snippy, “Well, I don’t know where he is.”

  Somebody ought to push her nose into her face. She ought to learn some manners from the spies. From the Indians. She probably came from some small town in Kansas, so small she thought this was a metropolis. Thought this hotel was the Palmer House.

  “Give me Iris Towers’ room,” he demanded.

  She gave it to him with another dirty look. He’d come back here someday and have the biggest suite in the place and he’d get her fired. He rang the room.

  A man’s voice answered. “Hello.”

  It wasn’t the Sen. It was a young voice. A little drunk. Sailor said, “I’m trying to reach Senator Douglass. Could you tell me where I could find him?” He talked like he was a rich playboy himself. Casual and a little bored.

  “I’m sorry,” the fellow said. “I don’t know where he is.”

  Sailor caught him before he hung up. “May I speak to Miss Towers, please?”

  The fellow was reluctant. He said, “Well—” And then she was on the phone. Her voice was husky and far away. Sort of breathless. Like she’d been interrupted.

  Sailor said, “Do you know where I could reach Senator Douglass?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Who is calling?”

  He gave a phoney name. The Sen was hiding out in her room. He knew that as he turned away from the phone. She wouldn’t have taken a drunk to her room if it was her room. She wasn’t that kind. She and the Sen had traded rooms. But he was stalled again. He couldn’t have his talk with the Sen with Iris Towers present.