Ride The Pink Horse

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  He said, “All right, Sen. It’s me.” His words dropped into emptiness. Not even a rustle answered him, not the beat of a pulse.

  His eyes were beginning to see in the dark. They saw the beds, smooth covers pulled over them. They saw the empty chairs, the empty corners of the room.

  He walked swiftly to the bathroom, kicked open the door as he snapped the light. There was no one there. The door of the clothes closet was shut. Before he walked over, pulled it open, he knew what he would find. A closet full of woman’s clothes.

  He began to curse the Sen under his breath. He didn’t bother to turn out the bath light. He left the room. He didn’t even remember the gun open in his hand until he’d used the key on the Sen’s own door. He didn’t put it out of sight; he slid in, cursing the Sen, cursing the Sen in the room that had once been the Sen’s, that was empty now, not even a cigarette butt remained of the Sen.

  The Sen had skipped. Mac had kept Sailor entertained with dinner and fine talk while the Sen got away. Sailor shoved the gun in his pocket before leaving the room. He kept his hand on it. Mac had let the Sen go. Knowing he could pick him up, maybe a guy already waiting, to meet the Chief at the La Salle street station. Playing it smart; keeping the Sen safe, keeping him out of Sailor’s way. Figuring Sailor would talk any time now. Sailor would think the Sen had run out on him and he’d be mad enough to talk. Mac didn’t know about the five grand. Mac thought he was waiting for a payoff; he didn’t know how big the stakes were.

  He’d go down and see Mac. He’d tell off Mac. But he wouldn’t talk. Not until he went back to Chicago and faced the Sen. Even that could be what Mac was after, get both of them back to Chi. Back to where Mac was boss. You never knew when you were playing Mac’s game. And how was Sailor going to get back to Chi? He hadn’t twenty bucks left. He’d have to let Mac buy the tickets. Travel with Mac, not under arrest, no. Just with a copper bodyguard.

  He wasn’t alone in the elevator. But he didn’t see the faces with whom he rode downstairs. They were paper dolls someone had cut out and pasted there. They smelled like booze and they made a lot of noise. He left the elevator first and he started with angry determination towards the lobby. He had to stop a minute at the opening to the portal. Another bunch of noisy drunks were blocking the way. He wanted to flail through them and their silly faces but he waited. Waited and got the break.

  The group of the elevator had moved in behind him. And a girl whined. “Why don’t we get Senator Douglass before we go? I want Willie to go with us.”

  A man said, “I told you he’s already gone to the Baile. He and Iris left an hour ago.”

  “Iris!” the girl cackled.

  Sailor didn’t turn around. He had no idea who they were. He said, “Thanks,” under his breath.

  He got out of the crowd and strode on to the lobby. It was a whirlpool of color and smell and sound. But he didn’t see the black hat with the bobbles. He took the time to look. He didn’t want to be followed now. He turned to leave the hotel by the side door when he realized he didn’t know where to go. There wouldn’t be a chance to pick up a cab quick, not on the last night of Fiesta. He stopped at the newsstand. “Where’s this Baile?”

  The girl behind the counter didn’t smile but she looked him over as if she might if she wanted to. “It’s at the Armory.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Out College. The street that runs into the back of the hotel.”

  “Is it far?”

  “No,” she said.

  He bought a pack of cigarettes from her and left the hotel. Out the side entrance, down the street away from Fiesta into the darkness of College Street. A convent on one side, a filling station on the other. His hands dug into his pockets, right hand closed over ugly steel, left hand cramped in his left-hand pocket. He didn’t know what his left hand was shredding until he looked. Pink paper. The handbill the fancy clerk had given him. To tell him about Fiesta. If he’d read it, he’d have known the Sen wouldn’t miss the Baile. The Baile that was the golden crown of Fiesta. On up the street, up the hill. Little stores; dark houses, nobody staying home on the last night of Fiesta; another brick school with the cross over it. He walked on. An occasional car roared by. At the intersection a street lamp cast a little puddle of light. On. Nights were cold here, the stars were sharp and cold above the trees.

  The narrow street twisted, the street lamps were small and spaced too far apart. Had he known how far the Armory was, he’d have waited for a cab. A rattletrap that passed for a cab in this dump. He walked on. He was alone on the long street, alone on the long, dark, strange street. The houses he passed were dark, soundless. He was alone as before in his bad dream. But he wasn’t lost. He knew where he was going. To meet the Sen. To the final meeting with the Sen.

  The long street ended on top of a hill. It became a road there, a two-branched road. He didn’t know which was the way he should take. Under the white moon both led to empty space, to cold endless wastes of desert, blocked by the finality of mountains against the white-starred sky. He stood there and a car passed, behind it a few paces, another car. They veered to the right and he chose.

  It was the right choice. A little further on and he could hear music and the jangle of laughter. The Armory didn’t look like an armory. It was another fancy Spanish ‘dobe building, pale in the moonlight. There were figures clumped outside, passing the bottle, twining together in the night. Figures gathered at the lighted doorway, peering into the ballroom. Slackmouthed, gangly boys with their dark Mex faces. No costumes on them, no dough to go inside to the Spanish Baile. They could look but they couldn’t touch. It was too long ago they’d been the conquerors; they were the conquered now. The Indians were better off; they didn’t want to look.

  He went up to the door. The stale hot breath of the big room pushed into his face. It was so crowded you couldn’t see anyone inside, only the kaleidoscope of moving color under the muted lights. He’d never spot the Sen in this mob. That was why the Sen thought it was safe to sneak out to the Baile. He didn’t think Sailor could find him.

  Sailor stepped inside. He wasn’t going to shell out dough to talk to the Sen. He didn’t have to argue it. There wasn’t anyone on the door. Too late for that. Midnight already. He began a slow circle around the outside of the floor. Looking for a little man with a big snout and thin hair, a little man in black velvet pants and a black velvet jacket to cover his black soul. Looking for the white skirts and silvery-gold hair of an ivory girl who shouldn’t be let come within miles of the rotten Sen.

  Moving his feet snail-like, his eyes not moving, his hand not stirring, sure in his pocket. Watching the dancers swaying to the rattle of maracas, the scratch of gourds, the sultry frenzy of Latin music; watching the shape of bodies melting to oneness, breaking apart only to melt again. Listening for a voice in the muted thunder of too many voices.

  When he saw her, he went rigid. As if he weren’t ready for the meeting. Or as if he’d come to act, not talk. She turned in the dance and she was with the Sen. Sailor was all right then. The muscles in his stomach weren’t clutching; they were tight. As if he and they were alone in the vast packed room, he cut across the floor, by instinct alone avoiding the dancers who flowed like tide about him. He would have lost them, one couple among so many, but his eyes never left her once they had found her. He would have lost them but the coldness of his anger was a lead wire stretching between him and them. When he came to them he knew what had solidified his anger so that it was no longer anger, but the ice of rage. She wasn’t white and beautiful; tonight she was what she was, her skirts dyed scarlet, her eyes blurred by her half-closed lids. He should have known before, the way she’d been with the rich muckers, the way she’d even looked at him once. He hadn’t known until he saw her tonight; she was the slattern, Jesusita, with a million dollars. It was the slattern’s slow eyes smiling into his now. It was her harlot’s mouth that saw him and thought him good. She hadn’t been clean for a long time. She was the rottenest part of
this dream. The Sen turning, saw him too.

  Sailor said, “Do you want to come outside or do you want it here?”

  The Sen’s tongue flickered over his pale lips. His eyes drooped to Sailor’s rigid right-hand pocket, scuttled quickly up to Sailor’s face. To Sailor’s stone face.

  “I’ll come outside.”

  The Sen was a shell, about to break apart. He thought Sailor had come to rub him out. It was a good idea. Let him think so. The scarlet girl swayed against his arm. “Willis, where are you going?” But her eyes were on Sailor. And her mouth.

  The Sen said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He didn’t believe that. He was a yellow-bellied coward, his voice was dust and ashes.

  “But, Willis—”

  “I won’t be a minute, Iris. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t explain. He had no words to explain to her.

  Sailor said harshly, “I don’t have all night.”

  The Sen’s eyes flicked the right-hand pocket again. “Find Kemper. I’ll be back right away.”

  He left her standing there, alone in the crowd. Annoyed at his leaving her, or annoyed at Sailor because he was leaving her, but she wouldn’t be alone or annoyed long. Her scarlet body would be cleaving to another man while the music languored and thudded, while the Sen paid off in the cold night. Paid what he owed.

  Sailor said, “Just walk on out that door.” His hand in his pocket touched the Sen’s side. Guided him to the side door opposite. Past the couples screaming there, swaying hot bodies there. Guided him across the dark stubble, around to the rear of the building. Where it was quiet. Where they were alone.

  The Sen quivered his nose towards the ballroom.

  Sailor”s mouth twisted. “Don’t worry about her. All she wants is a man. Any man.”

  The Sen didn’t say anything.

  Sailor went on harshly, “I don’t know what she wants with you. Maybe she thinks she’s going to sit in the governor’s mansion. Maybe that’s what she’s looking for. Or is she out for a cheap thrill?” Hate poisoned his words. “The wife of the condemned man looked so beautiful in black—”

  The Sen’s voice jumped hysterically. “Shut up.”

  Sailor smiled. He didn’t feel like smiling. It hurt him in the pit of his stomach. “What’s the matter? You getting cold feet?” He ought to shoot the Sen down, the dirty, sniveling, yellow-bellied Sen. Shooting was too good for him. Shooting was easy. Let Mac put him in the chair where he’d suffer. Let Mac send him to hell. The smile on Sailor’s mouth was cold as the cold moon, fixed as the cold, white, faraway stars.

  The Sen’s voice was a thin whine. He tried to make it rich and full but it didn’t come out that way. “Let’s talk it over, Sailor. After all you’ve been to me. Like my own son. After all I’ve done for you . . .” He was like one of those shoddy yellow canaries quivering on a cheap stick. It was funny. Sailor began to laugh. He stuck out his chin and he laughed and laughed at the funny little canary that once he’d thought was the most important guy in the world.

  When he finished laughing he said again, “What’s the matter, Sen?” He could kill the canary easy; there wasn’t anyone around out here. They were as alone as if they’d invented this alien wasteland for their final meeting, invented it that they might be utterly alone for their goodbye. He didn’t want to kill; he just wanted his money. His honest pay. He said it. “I’m not going to rub you out. I just want my dough. That’s all.”

  He watched the Sen stop shaking, watched the blood fill up the wizened face, watched the shame in the coward turn to vengeful rage. His own hand tightened on the gun in his pocket. Because he knew the Sen’s anger. Too well to trust him.

  But the Sen didn’t start at him. The Sen stood quietly and his eyelids drooped. The brush covered the shape of his mouth. He said flatly, “You’ve sung. You’re waiting for Mac.”

  Sailor’s lips set hard. “I’ve never sung yet,” he said. “You know it. What Mac knows isn’t from me. He’s guessing.” He spat the lie. Only at the moment it wasn’t a lie. “Give me what’s coming to me and you can handle Mac your own way. I’m getting out tonight. Have you got it?”

  The narrow eyes shifted to look into Sailor’s. “I’ve got it,” the Sen said in his sweet voice. “Yes, I’ve got it.” He smiled, smiled at him as if Sailor were his white-haired boy again, as if it were the way it was when he’d first moved Sailor uptown.

  He reached into his inner coat pocket, where his flat wallet would have been if he’d been wearing a coat, not a velvet monkey jacket. Reached in and Sailor stood there like a dolt waiting for it, waiting for the hand to come out holding a gun, shooting a gun.

  Only the Sen wasn’t good at it. He’d never been his own gunman. Sailor was good. He could shoot before the Sen did, could watch the Sen’s gun explode towards the stars, too far away to know or care; watch the Sen crumple down on the dark stubble of the earth. “God damn you.” Sailor sobbed it through his clenched teeth. “God damn you.” He was standing over the Sen and he could have emptied his gun into the shadow on the cold earth. He was ready to shoot and shoot again. But he heard the crazy scream in the lighted doorway, heard the babble and he ran.

  Ducking around the back of the building, running low to the ground in and out of the lanes of parked cars. His belly sobbing, the breath sucking from his teeth. God damn him, God damn him, God . . . He stumbled on; he didn’t know where he was going. Only he was getting away. Before they got him. For killing the Sen.

  He hadn’t meant to kill him. It was self defense. Anybody would know it was self defense. Only nobody would believe him, because the Sen was the Sen, had been the Sen, and Sailor was a mug from down behind the car barns who did the Sen’s dirty work. Until the Sen sold him out.

  There wasn’t anyone behind him. Hurry, hurry, hurry . . . He was alone cutting through back yards, around silent sleeping houses. There was no sound of a siren screaming through the night silence. Maybe it hadn’t been a scream in the doorway; maybe it was just some bitchy dame with a whisky breath, laughing. Maybe the guns hadn’t sounded loud inside where the music was thumping. He swerved away from the houses to the empty street. Not the main highway street; instinctively he’d avoided that one.

  Somebody would stumble across the Sen before the dance was done. Mac would be around somewhere; Mac would know whose gun had killed him. If he could hop a late bus, get to Albuquerque quick, get on board a plane to Mexico, he’d be safe. If he could do it quick enough. Before somebody found out what that thing was on the dirty ground by the Armory.

  He hadn’t enough money for a plane ticket. He hadn’t twenty-five dollars left in his pocket. Sickness was a dirty lump in his stomach. He’d been so sure he’d collect. Been so sure the Sen would fork over to save his neck. If he could get to Pancho, borrow back the ten, borrow a little extra, enough to get to Mexico. Ziggy would have something lined up by now. He’d send Pancho back double the loan; he’d send it back right away. Hurry, hurry, hurry . . . He had to see Pancho and get away quick. That was no siren; the Sen was still playing his big scene all alone.

  He didn’t know where he was but he was headed right, the reflection of colored lights lit the sky over the buildings ahead, the quickness of music strummed the night Under the music he heard the thud of the Indian drum, relentless as heartbeat as the following footsteps of a smart cop.

  He saw the Kansas City steak house, and he crossed, slanted up the hill, turned to the Plaza. As he turned the night was shattered with noise; this was the climax, this was the final glittering twirl of the Fiesta merry-go-round.

  6

  The square of streets was dense with dancers, with song, with confusion of color and costume and the earth smells that would be forever in his nostrils. With the warmth of life. On the hill the outsiders played at Fiesta with their fancy Baile but Fiesta was here. In the brown faces and the white faces, the young and the old; capering together, forgetting defeat and despair, and the weariness of the long, heavy days which were to come before the feast time would
come again. This was Fiesta. The last moments of the beautiful and the gay and the good; when evil, the destroyer, had been himself destroyed by flame. This was the richness of life for those who could destroy evil; who could for three days create a world without hatred and greed and prejudice, without malice and cruelty and rain to spoil the fun. It was not three days in which to remember that evil would after three days rise again; for the days of Fiesta there was no evil in this Fiesta world.

  And so they danced and sang in the streets under the colored garlands of light, under the wreathed white smoke of the thatched booths. And the Mariachi shouted their fierce nostalgic songs of the homeland from one corner of the Plaza, and the lugubrious band of the Conquistadores blared their brassy dissonance from another. And the strolling musicians sang with the singers under the dark glittering trees and the children who should have been in bed ran laughing up and down the paths. And the white-haired old nodded their heads to the laughter and the song. And all clutched tightly in their hands the last moments of the Fiesta, as tightly as if they didn’t have to let it go, as if tomorrow would never find its way into the dream.

  There was cover in this swirling crowd. Sailor fled into it, safe for the moment, making his way to where Tio Vivo spun and tinkled in the far corner. To where Pancho would be, his friend, his amigo, Pancho.

  Tio Vivo was motionless and dark. In the whole shimmering Plaza, Tio Vivo alone was still. Not even a small wind stirred the pink and brown and purple horses. Not a big, sweaty, bare-toed brigand rocked the gondola. Pancho wasn’t there. No one was there.

  In sudden panic, Sailor darted from the dark loneliness out again into the street, into the street crowd. It didn’t matter who he was, it didn’t matter that he was alien, or what he had done. He could not do wrong in Fiesta because there was no wrong existent. His hands were caught, he was swept into the dance, the girl beside him might have been Rosie, might have been the slut, might have been the abuelita. Or Juana or the woman with his mother’s heavy shoulders. Whoever it was, she was honest, not a harlot masquerading in angel white, smirching the ancient and holy Feast. Sailor danced and he sang with the crowd, “Hola, hola!”; spinning around like a merry-go-round horse, “Ai, yai yai yai.” He danced and his eye watched for Pancho and his eye watched for Mac. His ears listened for the scream of the siren—and he heard the thud of the drum.