Candy Kid

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  He left just enough space between them, his own stride was apparently purposeless, but he knew how to lengthen without hurrying it. It wouldn’t have been easy to follow Salvador on a crowded street, the jeans, the sweaty shirt, and the straw hat burned saffron were uniform. But the street was uncrowded. Trailing was too easy; it wasn’t safe. If Salvador were to glance over his shoulder, he would behold Jose.

  He was right, it was too easy; something had to spoil it. As Salvador waited to cross at the first intersection, Jose’s eyes slipped by him to the opposite corner. To Canario.

  It took him a moment to recognize the man. Without his band, Canario was no more than another Mexican sauntering along with his cronies before the hour for work. With recognition, Jose had to decide without delay which man was of more importance. Regretfully, he decided against Salvador. Jose stepped back against the wall of the corner shop and waited.

  Canario trotted on with his gesticulating friends. He was almost beside Jose before he saw him. Quite obviously he didn’t want to see Jose. Dismay pulled down his lip, skittered his eyes, and he ducked out into the wide street without a thought of the squalling cars. Jose was after him at once. His hand grabbed the small man’s shoulder, bringing him to a halt.

  “Look where you’re going, amigo,” Jose warned.

  Canario’s great friendship had vanished overnight. He spoke in English even as Jose, although his was spiced with border accent. “What is it you want?” He eyed Jose as a stranger.

  Jose kept his hand where it was, drawing the musico back to the curb. “I don’t want you run down before I buy you a drink.”

  “I do not think I care for a drink.”

  Jose’s clutch tightened. “I don’t either. But where else can we talk at this hour?”

  “What is it you wish to say?”

  “Plenty,” Jose snapped.

  Canario searched for escape. He was an unhappy man, Jose was too big, too young, too determined. Too Norte Americano for a small Mexican street musician.

  “I’ve just had two beers at Bartolomeo’s. Shall we return there or you have perhaps a better idea?”

  Desperately, Canario’s eyes searched the street for assistance. His friends were out of sight.

  “Barto’s?” Jose repeated.

  “No, no. I am a sick man, Senor—”

  “The sickness has come on you quickly. Too quickly for my pity. Shall we sit over there in the churchyard?” He began moving Canario in that direction. “If your sickness increases, I can ask the priest to attend you.”

  It wasn’t a bad choice, in the open where none could overhear. There was the usual scattering of sightseeing tourists wandering in and out the tall doors; the usual old women, all in black like crows, the fringe of their shawls rippling as they moved in their little black shoes. And the usual scatter of ragged kids chasing each other in play. That Canario approved the choice was doubtful, he likely hadn’t been this near a church in years. Jose guided him to the very steps, pushed him down, and sat beside him. He pulled out his tobacco pouch, his cigarette papers, and offered them first to Canario. The man shook his head.

  Jose began to roll one. “Death walked in Juarez last night.”

  Canario’s face was blank. “I do not know what you say.”

  “There was a man who followed me. He was called Tosteen. You knew him.”

  “I did not know him,” Canario’s teeth clicked. “Before God, I know nothing of this man.”

  “He is dead.” He probed Canario’s eyes. “You know that.”

  “No, no.” Canario’s nostrils quivered.

  “In the river. Everyone knows it.”

  For some reason the fear and tension oozed out of Canario. As if Jose meant nothing personal but was merely repeating street gossip. “It is this one you mean?” He was eager now to please. “I have heard of this one.” He could grin. “There is much trouble. Our police and your police must decide on which side of the river he has died. It is most difficult.” He shook his head. “Because a man gets drunk and falls into the river. So much trouble!”

  “He didn’t drown,” Jose snapped. Canario blanked again. “There isn’t enough water in the Rio Grande to drown a flea from your miserable body. He wasn’t drunk, either. He was on a job, a man doesn’t drink on that kind of a job, Canario. He was following me. Until you stopped him from following me. What happened after that?”

  Canario allowed himself to disbelieve. “It is the same man … this one in the river and the other one …?”

  “You know damn well it is. He was thrown in the river. After he was dead. What happened—?”

  Fright stammered, “I know nothing.”

  “—when you stopped him?” He waited.

  Canario began cautiously, “I give him a fine piada. Like I give you.” Little drips of sweat rolled from beneath Canario’s straw hat. He wanted to be believed.

  “He didn’t want to hear a piada. He was after me.”

  “Why, Don Jose?” The voice insinuated, “Why was he after you?”

  “I don’t know,” Jose answered bluntly. “I don’t know a damn thing about him. All I know is he was following me, and now he is dead….

  “I heard the kids talking about it.” Jose watched the clumps of children running in the street and the churchyard, sitting on the curbs, pink watermelon juice or cheap pink and green ices dripping from their chins. “Who was he, Canario?”

  “I do not know this.” That much was spoken honestly, Canario wasn’t exaggerating the roll of his shoulders and his eyes. He didn’t know.

  “How then is it you know he was in the river, dead?”

  “Everyone whispers about it, one to another. Until there is no one, not the ninitos nor the deaf abuelitas nor Don Jose, who does not know.” Canario smiled with childwise bliss as he explained, “There is not much happens in our little city, Senor. It is not like El Paso and the cities of the United States where always there are so many things happening. Where a man may die, and who is there to care? Here it is most important.”

  “Yeah.” Here it was most important. Because delicate governmental relations between south of the border and north of the border must not be upset. Most important—more important than the death of a sloppy man in a seersucker suit. And how happy Juarez would be when it was decided that Tosteen died on the American side of the river. As it would be decided. “Why did he die?”

  Again the shrug, but again the stained rivulets began their flow from the ragged hat brim. “I do not know this thing. He drinks too much, the Norte Americanos all of them drink too much, he falls in the river, he dies. It is sad, may his soul rest.”

  “He wasn’t drunk. I told you he wasn’t drunk. After you entertained him with the piada, then what? Where did he go?”

  “Who knows? He did not remain to hear the Coda. And Senor, he did not give me so much as a centavo.” The indignation was honest, more honest than any words he had spoken. “Not one centavo when I have play so beautiful for him. He push by me—he push me, Senor—and he walks on very fast.” Canario’s lips quirked at the corners. “But not very far.”

  “Someone sticks a knife in him.”

  “Senor!” Canario gasped. Then he tittered, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “You are making a joke. A gringo joke.”

  “I’m trying to find out what happened.” Jose brought out his pouch and papers again. They were limp with the heat.

  This time Canario reached for them. “He does not go very far because he meets with some friends. They are so happy to see him. They say, ‘Come, have a drink.’” Reproachfully he inserted, “You see it is true he did have a drink, Senor, then perhaps another, then he forgets how many he has had—”

  “Uh-uh, Canario. That’s what the newspapers are going to say. But you and I know it isn’t true. We know he was on a job. Who were these friends?”

  This was safe ground for the musico. He was happy to say he did not know them.

  “You saw them. What did they look like?”


  “Turistas.”

  He was beginning to suspect. Or he’d known all along. “A lady, perhaps?”

  “Ah, so beautiful a lady!”

  Jose said slowly, “A blonde. A beautiful young lady—so tall—” He measured toward the high arch of the church. “Young—”

  Canario kept giving little quick nods.

  “Who was with her?”

  Canario stroked his chin. “La Barba.”

  “And,” Jose grimaced, “El Chongo.”

  “You know them, Senor!” Canario was pleased.

  “No. I saw them later. With my cousin. The dead man was not with them. You had seen them before, Canario?”

  “Who knows?” He began to argue. So many turistas, every day, every night. “How can one remember?”

  “You’d remember her. She was special.”

  He snickered. “Special.” He rolled the syllables. “Special.” He would remember the word.

  “How much did they pay you to warn me and to intercept Tosteen?”

  Canario was so innocent. He didn’t know what Don Jose spoke of.

  “How much did they pay you to meet me at the door of the Cock later? To play me across the bridge?”

  The innocence was aggravated. “You are my friend, Don Jose. Your father was my friend.”

  Jose hammered it quietly, “How much?” His eyes crinkled on the protesting face. “I could pay you more.”

  Canario vowed friendship to all Aragons but the spittle of greed was in his mouth. “It was a joke,” he confessed.

  “Ha ha,” Jose said.

  “Yes, Senor. A joke. This man does not know his friends are waiting for him. I must play for him while they watch—”

  “You’re lying. It isn’t even good lying.”

  “Senor!”

  “You have forgotten what happened. You sang to me. Now you remember? You sang to me that I should be careful, a man was following me. You permitted me to pass and you stopped this man so he should not follow me. As I requested. But the turistas had already paid you for this.”

  “It is very warm,” Canario said. Sweat dripped in wider streams. “I must go now.”

  “Like hell.” Jose replaced his hand on the sticky shoulder. “These turistas have gone north. Tosteen is dead. And I’m here. Is that what happened?”

  “Quien sabe?” Canario murmured unhappily.

  “Where did they take Tosteen?”

  “I do not know. I do not see them after this. I play for all the turistas who come over the bridge.”

  “You saw them again. That stunt at the bridge wasn’t your idea.” It wasn’t theirs until later, when they needed it. “The police could be interested in all of this, Senor Canario. You have told them how you played for the dead man?”

  “Senor Aragon!” The old face begged pity. “I am a poor man. A poor musico. For pennies I must play every night. When I am so sick I must play.” He clutched his belly, writhed with pain. “Do I know this man walks with death? How could I know this thing? I am a poor ignorant fellow—”

  “I want to know about the bridge stunt,” Jose stated coldly. “Who paid you to do it?” He was impatient. “I am not going to the police. I have no wish to visit your bug-ridden juzgado.”

  “It was for the lady. The sweet—how you say it—” He tried to soften Jose with a small joke. “The candy kid?”

  Dulcy … Dulce.

  “And it was a joke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think,” Canario’s eyes slid curiously to Jose’s grim face, “I think you and the lady have maybe had a little fuss, no? She says to me, ‘The great Senor Aragon, the band must play for him when he goes across the bridge.’ It is very funny! Like you are the gobernador or the major of El Paso del Norte maybe?” He tittered, begging Jose to consider it funny.

  She hadn’t left the table after Jose arrived. And she hadn’t fixed it up early in the evening. Tosteen wasn’t dead in a cab then. He didn’t get it. “What time was all this?”

  “What time?” Canario didn’t watch clocks. “She is going into the Cock and she sees me and she laughs. ‘It is Canario again,’ she says, because we have had a joke before this, you understand. And her friend, he comes to me and he tells me this other joke she will play on you.”

  “A great little joker,” Jose said savagely.

  “It is very funny.” Canario went into his phony laughter again. But he was waiting for a chance to get away. He was edgy.

  It didn’t seem that Canario had any tie-up with Senor el Greco. What he’d told could have happened just the way he’d said it happened. He didn’t invent Dulcy Farrar and her bodyguard, hiring Canario to separate Jose from Tosteen early in the evening, hiring him to put them back together after Tosteen died. How did they know Tosteen was going to die? The seersucker man was walking the bars while they were ring-siding it at the Cock. But the Chimp and the Beard and the lovely girl who connived with Death wouldn’t have to do the job, not with pesos in their pockets. He recalled the hirelings in the purple suits, smoking their sweet cigarettes against el Greco’s wall, shadowed against the Chenoweth lamp post. Canario didn’t have to be tied up with el Greco to be involved. Yet Jose felt impelled to mention the Senor, he needed Canario’s reaction. Canario wouldn’t skip until Jose’s hand came out of his pocket.

  Jose eyed him. “I’m looking for a girl.”

  The change of subject suited Canario. “She has gone—”

  “Not the Candy Kid. Another girl. Her name is Francisca. Her abuelo is called Senor el Greco.”

  The reaction was the same as it had been in Barto’s bar. No one was willing to talk about Praxiteles. “This one I do not know.” Canario’s fingers plucked at his dirty shirt. There might always be an unhealthy respect when the old man was mentioned. But not always this green look of fear. They knew, somehow all of them knew, that el Greco and the dead man were threaded together. With sticky spider threads.

  “You know a young fellow named Salvador?”

  “There are many named Salvador.”

  “This one drinks beer at Barto’s.”

  “There are many who do.”

  It would be true. Jose dug his hand into his pocket. Five pesos. Not too much, Canario mustn’t think Jose was paying for silence. Five was enough. He folded the small bills together. Canario’s hand was outthrust. It trembled just a little. Not from eagerness, only to secure his pay and escape.

  “Adios, Canario,” said Jose. “See you around.”

  “Si.” He managed a weak grin but only because he was a showman. “See you around.”

  He scuttled, out of the churchyard, into the street. He was heading toward Barto’s bar. Well, it was the closest and by now Canario’s tongue would be parched. One thing was certain; anything Jose wanted to find out concerning Senor Praxiteles, he would have to find out first hand. He pushed himself up from the low steps, shook out the kinks. It was about time to pay a visit to el Greco.

  Three

  JOSE MOVED OPENLY UP the street where the boy had led him last night. He turned boldly into the alley called Calle de la Burrita. It was no more than a quiet little street made up of shops and houses. A street where men were about their gossip and women their chores, where dogs lay panting in the afternoon heat, and children, too small to wander the Plaza, played with melon rinds in the dust. The tourists, too, were here; they all resembled schoolteachers reaching for their retirement pay, a little too stout or a little too scrawny, quite a bit too warm in their silk prints and white sensible oxfords. Some were armed with cameras, others with pesos alone and the urge for bargains. They wandered in and out of the shops free of the imagination which bred fear. Not one of them would have dared venture here after sunset. Instinct would protect them.

  Senor Praxiteles’ shop was a busy place. Three printed ladies in rimless eyeglasses, like three stair-steps, were spreading the garish colors of Mexican rugs near the window. Their speech was brisk, they knew exactly what they wanted and would not be hurried until they h
ad weighed well their choice.

  A fussy woman, the heat breaking through her makeup, and a portly man, who carried his checkered jacket, were involved with the serapes. The heavy goat’s wool they fingered increased their discomfort. The man was complaining, “I will not try one on, Veda….”

  At the gimcrack counter, a pretty woman shepherded two teen-age girls. The girls looked cool enough in their white blouses and full pink-and-blue skirts. Mexican peasant wear was popular this summer on both sides of the border. The mother may have looked smart in her dark chiffon when she bought it in Detroit or Omaha. Right now it clung to her as if she’d been caught in a freshet of rain. She perched on the edge of an old table and was patient.

  Senor Praxiteles was dividing his attention between the rug ladies and the serape couple. A young assistant, so young he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, waited with unwavering apathy for the young girls to decide on what they would carry back to their friends at home. It would take a long time, although the mother, panting like the curs in the dust outside, tried wearily to hasten the buying.

  The bell tinkled on Jose’s entrance, even as it had last night. But the door was unlatched and there were no curtains now dividing the shop from the entry. Praxiteles looked up from the rugs but he didn’t advance to Jose. His wrinkled, hairless head, yellowed with years, signaled the young boy. There was little resemblance between the gentleman who had stood in the dim lamplight the night before, and this poor nativo who had come in, perhaps for no reason but to cool himself from the heated street outside.

  The boy who was primo to Jaime or Pablo or the sorbita edged from behind the counter. He padded over on his dirty bare feet and stood in front of Jose. He didn’t say anything.

  Jose put on a native’s accent. “I wish to buy me a bottle of perfume.”

  “No perfume.”

  He frowned, spoke louder, as if the boy were deaf. “It is the perfume I wish to buy. The perfume you sell here.”

  He had drawn Praxiteles. With little murmurs of apology to the paying customers, the old one shuffled over and peered up at Jose. He did not recognize this yokel; it was evident in his dismissal. “We do not sell perfume. On the Avenida are the perfume shops. Or at the Mercado.”