Candy Kid

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  The only interruption was from Tim Farrar. “Perhaps if we were to leave,” he suggested in a thin, cold voice, “you would have no trouble.”

  Dulcinda warned her brother sharply, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  It looked to Jose as if he’d have to give up. It looked as if Dulcinda Farrar preferred him to go over the bridge alone. It wasn’t too farfetched, not with all the other oddities he’d run into tonight. Because he was too weary to think straight, it took far too long to think up a way to convince Beach. When actually it was so simple. Beach was an Aragon, the Aragons were gentlemen. He whispered, “Lou expected us to return after dinner for a visit with her. She is our hostess….”

  Beach sighed to Dulcinda, “We must go.” He sighed again. “He’s right. Usually he’s wrong but this time he’s right.”

  If she were disappointed, she didn’t let it show. She didn’t even display curiosity. She said, “Until we meet again?” She said it to Jose not Beach.

  “Until Santa Fe,” Jose replied. He tugged Beach’s arm. “Come on, amigo.”

  Reluctantly Beach got on his long legs. From under the table he pulled out two jugs of rum. “Bet you thought I’d forget,” he told Jose. He made a teetering bow to Dulcinda, “Until Santa Fe.” Dulcinda’s escorts had nothing to say, not even goodbye.

  “Wait,” Dulcinda called to Jose. “You’re forgetting your package.” She didn’t touch it.

  He’d left it there deliberately, it seemed an easier way to make delivery than hocus-pocus at the Chenoweth desk. It seemed however that she wanted it her way. He said, “Oh?” and “Thanks.” He picked it up as if it weren’t important and hurried after the weaving Beach.

  As they made their way to the door, Jose returned his glance to the table. None of the three had moved. He couldn’t help wondering who or what they were waiting for. Certainly they weren’t enjoying each other’s company. They were three empty shells.

  The exit doorway was always cluttered but as they reached it now, it was barred. Clanking his band, gesticulating vociferously, and cursing with imagination and bile was Canario. He broke off when he spied Jose. “Senor Aragon,” he doffed his dirty hat and bowed metallically, “it is a pleasure to see you once more.” He didn’t say if it was a surprise, but returned to his tirade. “They are so fine here. They will not let a poor man enter their doors. Come, throw me out!” He yelled, “Come!”

  Beach was crying out in tipsy pleasure, “Look who’s here! Good old Canario. Give us a tune, Canario!”

  Canario’s bird-bright eyes cocked a villainous scowl at the manager. The manager did not budge. Canario decided against complying with Beach’s request. “Come to my cafe and I will play for you. Una linda piada!” He backed out of the entrance, allowing Jose and Beach to follow.

  His cafe was the street. He struck up his discordant jangle the moment they were outside. It wasn’t possible to accuse him of detaining them, Beach was too eager an audience for that. Yet they were being held here, held just as securely as if he were still blocking their path. They were held by his desire to entertain them, held because a gentleman would be as particular regarding the artistic pride of a street musician as of the merits of a concert master. No song of warning was sung although Jose waited for it. Canario seemed to have no purpose in making music this time beyond the pesos which would be reward. Nor did those who gathered about him from the cafe and the street seem to have any purpose but to listen to the piada.

  He completed the number with a grand flourish, acknowledged the pesos with another wide sweep of the dirty hat. But this was not enough. As Jose led Beach away, Canario followed, clanging and squeezing and tootling a merry march. He followed them to the customs barrier. He and a parade of dirty-faced little boys with their incessant gimme a penny or a dime or a cigarette.

  La Piada was in the background as the Aragons walked across the bridge. It echoed with a ridiculous clarity while Jose declared his Chanel and his Rosa del Amor, while both declared the jugs of rum. For once there was a taxi waiting; it was just pulling out of the dirty lot where earlier Adam had parked the car. Jose hailed it, pushed Beach inside, clambered after him. “The Chenoweth,” he sighed.

  The cab made a tired noise and chugged forward.

  Beach nudged Jose. “We’ve got company!” he declared happily.

  II

  Jose hadn’t noticed that there was another occupant when he piled the two of them in. But it wasn’t unusual to share a cab at this hour.

  “Drunk,” Beach stage-whispered.

  “Good, he won’t mind you,” Jose returned without sympathy. Only then did he glance across Beach at their companion. The man was Mr. Tosteen.

  There was nothing to fear from Tosteen at the moment. He had succumbed to his long day, he slept, his mouth open, his head riding the bumps against the leprous upholstery of the seat. Jose slid the package out of sight against his thigh, keeping his hand tight on it. The driver careened up the street, empty at this hour, vacuum-silent after the dissonances of Juarez. The cab aerialed around corners, it pulled up at the Chenoweth in ten minutes flat. The driver might have been in a hurry to get home, more likely he was in a hurry to return for more drunks.

  Jose piled out fast, clutching his package. Beach followed swinging the jugs. Jose said, “Take the loot in. I’ll pay the guy.” As Beach ambled off with the rum, Jose spoke to the driver. “Hold it a minute.” He didn’t want to get back into the cab. “I dropped something.” He stuck his head and shoulders in but that wasn’t enough. He had to lean across to where Tosteen slept. Quickly he retreated, slammed the door, shoved the fare at the front seat.

  The driver had a narrow face and yellow teeth. His cap was greasy, his cheap knit shirt was sweaty, his breath was garlic. “This other one—”

  “Don’t know him,” Jose said briefly. “He’s passed out. Take him back where you found him.” He was half into the revolving door before he finished speaking. He didn’t know whether the taximan was in on it or not. He wasn’t waiting to find out. He wasn’t going to be stuck with anything more.

  In Jose’s ears echoed Canario’s band playing them across to a conveniently waiting cab. Beach leaned just inside the whirl of the door. He whistled, “What a ride! Enough to wake the dead.”

  Jose answered him silently: No, the dead do not wake. Aloud he said, “I’ll get the key.”

  Beach started to tag along like a kid tied to Daddy’s coat tails. Jose suggested, “You hold the elevator.”

  The night clerk was an unknown, an aging man, colorless, gray-haired. Jose set the package on the desk. “Jose Aragon,” he said.

  “Yes. Miss Chenoweth left a key.” He handed it across, with it an envelope with Jose’s name on it. The envelope would contain one ten-dollar bill. He didn’t touch the wrapped perfume.

  Jose had to request, “You’ll take care of this?”

  The gray man said, “Oh, yes,” as if some memory stirred. Jose left him smelling the package, trying to remember what he was to do with it.

  The elevator operator was a sleepy boy. He rode them up without interest. In the empty corridor Jose warned, “Lou’s probably asleep by now so keep quiet. You can apologize in the morning for being so late.”

  “Look,” Beach protested cheerfully, insistently cheerful. “Don’t be blaming me because we’re late. What happened to you?”

  Jose put the key in the door, swung it open before entering. It swung noiselessly, the lamps were lit, the room was empty. Only when he was sure did he enter. Beach hadn’t noticed.

  He couldn’t tell Beach tonight. Beach would think he was kidding. The irrepressible one was making a great array of the jugs on Lou’s threshold. Jose went casually to the front windows. It was safe to lean out, just enough to peer ten stories down to the street. To see if a cab lingered. The marquee hid the cab if it were still there. It didn’t hide two men under the street lamp on the corner. Two whose suits glowed purple even this far away. Two who were waiting for something, or someone.

>   From behind him, Beach commented, “Show-off.”

  Jose pulled himself in. “Can’t a fellow smell some fresh air?” He moved on to the bedroom. The yellow coverlets were turned back, the bed lamp glimmered. It all looked comfortable and hotel-safe and normal. As if there were no evil, no death, no cheap perfume.

  He and Beach could leave in the morning. He didn’t have to stick around and look for the answers. What was it to him that there was a lying kid whose abuelo was called Senor el Greco? Who cared if Dulcinda Farrar’s perfume came from el Greco or from some Juan with a sidewalk stall? Who cared what happened to the first bottle or why? Or why Canario baited his traps with music. Jose had plenty of questions, no answers, and he didn’t want any. Not even why he had been bundled into a cab with the body of a man called Tosteen. He didn’t want trouble. He wanted to go home and enjoy a well-earned vacation.

  Beach came yawning. “Whyn’t you get ready for bed? How early are we going to leave? About noon?”

  Jose unknotted his tie. “About sun-up.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Wake me and find out.” The phone between the twin beds dinged. He grabbed it before Beach could. “Hello.” He’d had a hunch.

  She was talking quiet and fast, as if she expected to be both overheard and interrupted. “Jose Aragon?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I must see you.”

  “In the morning.”

  Beach wandered on into the bathroom. He’d lost interest in the conversation. A guy didn’t use brusque talk to a blonde.

  “Tonight,” she said. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  Beach was brushing his teeth with fervor. It was a trap; Jose was sure of it. But because he was too curious, he asked, “What’s your room number?”

  There was quick reaction. “No. No, not here.”

  “You’re not alone?”

  She was hesitant. “I might not be. I’ll come to your room.”

  “I’ve got a roommate. Make it the lobby.”

  Again came that quick reaction. “No.” Almost as if she were frightened. She didn’t have anything to be scared about. Purple-suits wouldn’t bother her. She had a nasty brother and a big baboon for bodyguards.

  Beach returned, began pulling down the covers on his bed.

  “Why not? There’s no one down there.”

  “No.” It was firm. And her plea was almost desperate. “I must see you.”

  Beach was sighing into the bed. It shouldn’t take him long to get to sleep. Jose could hear the whisper of her breath at the other end of the line. He’d give a peso for a glimpse of her room right this minute. He had a picture of it, Tim sneering in one corner, Rags flexing his muscles in another, Dulcinda—but imagination stopped there. She could be smiling over her abilities as an actress; she could be truly troubled. He was less sure about the trap. He’d offered to bait it.

  He said, “In fifteen minutes.”

  “Up there?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t say goodbye. He hung up.

  “Now what?” Beach didn’t care very much. He was comfortable.

  “Unfinished business,” Jose growled.

  “What’s it all about? Dames?”

  “I said business,” Jose stressed. “To me dames are a pleasure.”

  It was at the moment of speaking one whale of a big lie. Dames were poison, blondes or brunettes, Norte Americanos or Mexicanos, strictly poison. He didn’t bother to put his tie back on. He clicked off the lights, left Beach to heavy breathing. The door he closed carefully behind him. By the reflection from the street, he steered across Lou’s sitting room and made a light here. He didn’t have to be nervous, Dulcinda and her pals couldn’t be planning any mayhem with Lou asleep in one bedroom, Beach soon to be in the other. Nevertheless, he helped himself to a stiff drink, straight, from Lou’s scotch.

  The faint tap came before the fifteen-minute deadline. He opened the door an inch until he saw it was she and that she was alone. As he admitted her, he warned, “Keep quiet. Everyone’s asleep.”

  She nodded. Her eyes were taking in the room, including the two closed bedroom doors. Without invitation she went to the couch and sank to it. She had a trained grace, she could even sit down and make artistry of it. She said, of the room, “This is nice.”

  In case she didn’t know, he made it plain. For whatever protection it afforded. “This is Lou Chenoweth’s suite. She and her brothers own the Chenoweth hotels.” He didn’t offer a drink or a cigarette or any hospitality. She was a lovely thing but he didn’t want her here. He didn’t want any more to do with her. There were plenty of women who could quicken your heart by their very presence. All he had to do was look for them. And why had he let her come up tonight? That was one question he could answer. Because somehow she was connected with a dead man. And through her, he too was connected. “Well?” he demanded.

  “I want to ask another favor of you.”

  He didn’t say a word. He stood on his two feet and let his expression show what he thought of that one.

  She ignored it. “It is very simple. You are going to Santa Fe in the morning.” It was a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “You picked up the package.”

  “Didn’t you get it? I left it at the desk.”

  “Will you carry it to Santa Fe for me?”

  He wanted to shout laughter. But it might wake Lou or Beach. And his curiosity was greater than his wish to show contempt. “Why?” he asked.

  She had better make it good. She twisted one finger around another as if trying to figure out what to say. “I will pay you well,” she began. But she knew as soon as she said it that it was the wrong approach. Knew from the curl of his smile.

  “Ten dollars American?”

  Her cheeks colored faintly. “I didn’t know this morning that you were….”

  “Who am I?”

  “Jose Aragon.”

  “I told you I was.”

  “I didn’t know….” He didn’t help her and she let it trail away. She lifted her enormous eyes, pleading, “Will you?”

  “Why?” he demanded more harshly.

  She gave all the outward appearances of being desperate. “Because I’m afraid I can’t get it there safely.”

  “I don’t like a knife in my back any more than you do.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” she breathed. “I mean—I’m afraid it will be taken away from me.”

  “Stolen?”

  She didn’t answer save by a nod. She was watching the way her hands moved. As if they weren’t hers.

  “What if it’s stolen from me?”

  “It wouldn’t be.” Up came the eyes and the attempt to convince him. Hoping. “No one would know you were carrying it. No one would know you knew anything about it.”

  He could ask her what it was and let her think up an answer. But he already knew. He could ask her why it was important to carry a bottle of cheap perfume to Santa Fe. And get a tall tale for his pains. He could tell her everything that had happened today since she spoke to him on the street. He could even tell her that the man who threatened her was dead. He could, and that would start something, tell her that her precious packet had already been stolen. But he didn’t tell her a thing.

  “How much would you pay?”

  Hope glistened. “Fifty dollars?”

  He waited.

  “How much do you want?” She was slightly wary.

  “Fifty will do. And an answer.”

  The wariness stiffened. “Yes?”

  “Would you have asked the noon Jose Aragon to do this job?”

  Relief became a trickle of laughter. She lied well. “No, Senor.” She rose in one fluid movement.

  “Just a minute. Where do you want it delivered? And when?”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow. We’ll be at La Fonda. Will you drop it off at the desk there? You know where that is?”

  That was a funny one. There was only one La Fonda. Quite evidently she’d never been t
o Santa Fe. “Yes, I do,” he said gravely. “And how do I get the package again? From the desk here, I mean. It was left for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry. It will be there for you in the morning.” She skirted by him to the door. But he was quicker than she; he’d handle the exit. He gave it the usual inch. No patent-leather toe was stuck into the crack.

  She said, “Thank you.”

  He wanted to touch her. It was almost a compulsion. She looked so fragile, as if she were a small girl, not one tall and proud. She looked as if she needed his comfort more than she needed his help. He kept his hands dug in his pockets. “Por nada,” he shrugged. Then he grinned, “Thank you. Those ten bucks will come in handy. With the fifty, I’ll buy another ranch. Or a night on the town.” He was even more impudent. “With you?”

  Her cheeks colored again and she slipped away. He didn’t watch her disappear up the corridor. He closed the self-locking door fast. And again he shrugged. He didn’t want anything more to do with her so he’d taken on another assignment. No one could call him a sissy. He was going out of his way to hang on to temptation. Whether he was winning the wrassle was a different question. If Lilith had the indescribable something which Dulcinda had, it was a wonder he was here at all.

  He put out the light, joined the sleeping Beach in the bedroom. In the dark he undressed, fell into the other bed. But sleep didn’t come easy. It didn’t come until he’d figured out the next move.

  Sleep lasted longer than he’d expected. It was after nine when he opened his eyes. Beach was still snoring cheerfully, his covers draped on the floor. It was a pity to wake the kid. He wouldn’t feel so cheerful after the load he’d hoisted last night.

  The sun was cauldron bright against the open window. This would be another killer. Jose wanted to go home, to mountain coolness, to swimming pools and tennis courts and La Fonda Cantina for cocktails at five. To pretty, safe girls summering in the little Spanish town, appreciative of Aragon attention.