Candy Kid

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “I was asking Miss Chenoweth about you earlier. She thought you’d checked out this morning.”

  Lou hadn’t sent him up here, Lou didn’t want Jose talking with Harrod yet. The chief had other sources of information.

  “I intended to,” Jose admitted. “But at the last minute I decided to stay over another day.”

  “For any particular reason?”

  He could answer that as he pleased. He knew Lou hadn’t talked, there hadn’t been time. She wouldn’t repeat their conversation no matter how much time there was. His delay in answering Harrod wasn’t pointed, it was as if he were considering the question. “No,” he finally decided. “I haven’t been down this way for years and I thought I’d have another day of it.”

  “But your cousin left this morning?” Evidently Harrod had been trying to make something of that.

  Jose said agreeably, “Yes. Someone had to take the truck back to the ranch.” He smiled. “Beach was elected.”

  Harrod seemed to accept it. He might send someone north to check with Beach but that too was all right. Beach wouldn’t know anything. “You know why I’m here, Mr. Aragon.”

  Jose nodded. “The death of a man named Tustin.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much.” He recited the same incidents that he had just given Lou.

  “You don’t know what he wanted from you? Enough to risk searching your room?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.” The package stunk in his nostrils. “Who was Tustin, Captain Harrod? What was his business?”

  “We don’t know that, yet,” Harrod drawled. He had a permanent small frown which drew his eyebrows together. “You were in the late war, Mr. Aragon?” Before Jo could answer, he continued, “In intelligence.” Again he continued without waiting for Jose to speak, “From Tustin’s papers it would seem that he had traveled considerably. Across Europe to South America. Then north through Panama to Mexico City. Before this jump to El Paso.”

  As if he were following a trail, or a blonde.

  Jose said, “I was in the European theatre most of the war, Captain. I started out in Panama, yes, and I thought it was going to be South America. Because of language. But the brass must have decided that was too pat.”

  “You didn’t run across Mr. Tustin?”

  “I’m certain of it,” Jose said honestly. Nor had he run into any of the others mixed up with this. He’d take an oath on it. He was in this for one reason only, because he’d stood in the noon sun of El Paso looking like any Mexican lout wanting to earn a couple of easy bucks. He asked a question of his own. “It’s your opinion this is more than just a drunk falling in the river?”

  “What do you think?” The gray eyes were shrewd, the mouth was straight.

  He couldn’t play it too innocent. He said, “The first time I saw the man I thought he was a traveling salesman from Albuquerque or Dallas or Fort Worth. When I caught him with my pants, I thought he was a sneak thief. Though he looked a hell of a lot more prosperous than I. But then, I figured maybe the word had eased around that we’d sold a big shipment of cattle and we’d trucked the two prize bulls down in person, so that maybe he’d think we were paid off in cash like in the old Westerns, not by check. Last night—” He shrugged. “I didn’t know what to think. There isn’t a reason I know of why he’d be following me around. I know one thing, I wasn’t any threat to him. I’ve been out of the Army for better than a year and I was pretty anonymous when I was in it. So if it’s a grudge fight you’ve been considering, that’s out. I don’t know the score, Captain Harrod.” After all, it was true, and it sounded true. “I’d like to know it.”

  “Tustin wasn’t drunk last night.”

  Jose gave him a quick curious glance.

  “He didn’t die from rolling down an embankment. He died from a knife in his back. He didn’t bleed much but he didn’t bleed at all down there in the river.”

  Jose smiled dubiously. “If it’s necessary, I’ll say I didn’t kill him. I hope it isn’t necessary.”

  “It isn’t.” Harrod didn’t sound doubtful at all. “But you’re a link, Aragon, the only link we have. Now, I admit he could have been knifed for a perfectly normal reason. In a drunken brawl or by some poor devil who wanted his fine clothes bad enough to break two commandments for them.”

  “But he hadn’t been drinking,” Jose said thoughtfully. “And he was wearing a wrinkled seersucker like every second tourist in Juarez. And he could have been flashing a roll but he wasn’t flashy, he was a quiet worker.”

  “That’s the way I figure it. If it had been an ordinary knifing, he wouldn’t have been tossed into the river. He wasn’t dragged there, Aragon. I figure he was moved by taxi.”

  Jose hoped his impassivity equaled Pablo’s. It didn’t at Harrod’s next question.

  “Have you any connection with Las Alamos?”

  “None at all,” he said when he’d got his breath. “I have some friends up there but you mean a tie-up? None.”

  “I’m guessing,” Harrod admitted. “Jumping around. If it isn’t for money or a fight, the border comes into it.”

  Jose was silent.

  “We have a peaceful border and we’re grateful for it. But that doesn’t mean we don’t get some ugly customers. I don’t know an easier way for a fellow to get into this country than to walk across the bridge after a night in Juarez. We can’t spot everyone who isn’t returning from a night over there. Not if he has the look of a Norte Americano.” Harrod cleared his throat. “Thirty years ago spies were something in an Oppenheim book. Something you’d expect to find if you moseyed around the Balkans or the Middle East. Now we’ve got atomic research up your way. We’re the gate, the pass to the north. And you’re thinking I’m an old fool with an imagination that works overtime.”

  “I’m not thinking that.” Jose was honest. He was wishing Harrod would go and let him open the package that smelled.

  “If you can think of any reason why Tustin followed you, I want to know. No matter how farfetched it seems to you.”

  Such as: because a ritzy blonde spoke to me at high noon. He must have smiled although he hadn’t meant to. Because Harrod said slowly, “You young fellows haven’t much patience with old ducks. You’ve concentrated so much experience into so few years, you think you’re the only ones who can make the world go round. Maybe you’re right, I wouldn’t know. But I’ve been on the border thirty years, Aragon. Ever since I came out of my war. There isn’t much I don’t know about what goes on in my cabbage patch. What I don’t know I generally find out.”

  Jose asked it then. “What about Praxiteles?”

  It threw Harrod off center, not far off but enough for the silence to seem long. “Do you think he’s mixed up with Tustin’s death?” The milk voice wasn’t deceiving. Jose himself had used that same trick too often.

  “I’m not thinking. I don’t know the border. But there are two men the people aren’t talking about over there, and those are the two.” He reached for a cigarette from Lou’s box, his hand deliberately edging the package aside. There was no reaction from Harrod. Jose struck a match. “I’ve always believed the people are smarter quicker than the experts.”

  Harrod seemed about ready to go. Not satisfied, but he’d made a start. “My experience has been much the same. That’s why I always call first on Senor el Greco when something goes wrong. The people are always sure his fine hand is somewhere in the muck.” He stood up. “So far he’s always managed to scour his hands before I show up.”

  Jose rose quickly to his feet. Not alone out of courtesy. It was essential to know what Praxiteles had mentioned of this business. Jose’s attempt to dissemble was undoubtedly apparent to the trained officer but he asked with what he hoped would appear simple curiosity, “And the Senor knows nothing of Tustin?”

  “As little as you.” That was pointed. “He does not believe he ever set eyes on the man. Although with so many turistas coming to his poor shop, of that he cannot be
certain.” The imitation was strangely good, particularly so in that Harrod would have made four of the shriveled old man, and that the open face had no resemblance to the Senor’s crafty, shuttered one. Harrod knew el Greco well indeed.

  He ambled to the door. “When you planning to start home, Aragon?”

  “Tonight,”

  “Driving?”

  “I don’t have a car down here. I’m hoping to catch a ride.”

  “I might hear of one.” El Pasoans were hell on speeding the parting guest.

  “Something will turn up. If not I’ll fly up in the morning.”

  He bowed Harrod out, closed the door, but he didn’t run for the package. He let it sit while he made a do at packing his bags. He let it sit until he was sure Harrod wasn’t waiting around outside to surprise him.

  II

  When he’d waited long enough, Jose carried the package into the bedroom. As casually as if he were under observation. He very carefully maneuvered the cord off the green wrapping, neither cutting nor untying the knots. Sometimes the way a cord was tied had meaning. The green paper he unfolded. It was there, just what he expected. A bottle of La Rosa del Amor, in appearance differing not at all from the substitute bottle he’d sent north with Beach. But something else was there, something he couldn’t have known about in the short time he’d been in possession of the wrapped package. It didn’t seem important. It was a small box of cactus candy, made in Juarez, distributed by Praxiteles and Company. A pilon from the Senor?

  He didn’t think so. The Senor would give nothing for free. The box fit against the cardboard box holding the bottle so neatly that it was little wonder he hadn’t guessed about it. He weighed it on his hand; it would seem to contain what the label read, candy. He couldn’t open it unless he wished this fact known, it was machine-sealed cellophane, the way most candy boxes were sealed these days.

  Candy for the candy kid. The diminutive of her name on the box, Dulce. His fingers tensed. There was meaning to it, of that he was certain. Again he rejected the temptation to rip off the paper. First he must meet Dulcy again, find out what she had to say about the substitution. It would be pleasant to hop a plane now, be in Santa Fe in time for dinner with the lovely Miss Farrar. Very pleasant indeed if there were no packages involved, merely a tree-tall, dark-blond, summer visitor.

  He didn’t have to stay here any longer, he reminded himself, as he continued his packing. The string he tucked into a pocket of one suitcase; the wrapping paper, folded in its own particular grooves, into another. The perfume he wrapped in a discarded shirt before packing it. The unfinished business was finished, the package had been returned to him. Just in case of difficulties, he packed the box of candy in the other suitcase. The smell of perfume clung to it. He could check out right now and make happy such varied persons as Lou Chenoweth, Captain Harrod, and undoubtedly the interesting Miss Dulcy. “It is regrettable, Senor Aragon,” Jose told himself, “that you have overdeveloped your sense of curiosity.” Because if he departed now he wouldn’t know any more about the sorbita than he knew right now. And he wouldn’t know why Tustin had had to die. Somehow it didn’t satisfy him to have the seersucker suit written off as a drunk who fell into the dregs of the Rio Grande.

  He took a quick shower, changed to a light gabardine suit, and closed his bags. It was a good idea to check out, no matter in what direction he planned to move. It was always a good idea to act for the happiness of the greatest number. He called the switchboard and asked for a boy.

  It was Pablo who came. Jose had expected him; he’d hoped for him. He waited for Pablo to say something but the boy stood there mute, masked. It was up to Jose.

  “You brought up a package?”

  “Yes, Senor.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “It was deliver to you.”

  “Who delivered it?”

  The boy hesitated. He fell back on the familiar, “I do not know this.”

  Jose considered the mask. “How did you get it?”

  Again there was the hesitation and a happy solution. “Jaime, he is the one who give it to me. He is so dumb, he will not remember who deliver it.”

  Jose accepted the warning. Jaime wouldn’t remember, Pablo would make sure of that. Pablo ran things here. “I’m checking out,” Jose announced. He wasn’t sure whether or not it was good news to this one. “Before I leave, there’s someone I want to talk to. You live in Juarez?”

  Pablo was uncertain. But anyone who knew Miss Chenoweth well enough to live in her apartment could find out the truth. “Sometimes I live there, yes.”

  “You know a man they call Senor el Greco?”

  The boy’s breath hissed. “This one I do not know.”

  “You know who he is. Perhaps also you know a small girl who is called Francisca, who is una nieta to this man.”

  Pablo muttered in Spanish under his breath, too rapid and too silent to be understood.

  “What do you say?” Jose demanded.

  “This one I do not know,” Pablo repeated humbly.

  Jose’s annoyance flared. “What about the man who died last night? What about the police all over the hotel? What would they say to you if they knew you delivered a package Mr. Tosteen was seeking?”

  The boy’s slender brown fingers held tightly to the blue smock. “I do not know about these things.”

  “I wish to see the small one. I’ll be at Herrera’s for dinner. You know the cafe of Senora Herrera?”

  He knew it as well as the face reflected from his mirror but he continued to look blank. You learned early on the border to admit nothing. If you did not speak, who could accuse you of having spoken? This simply was silence made a virtue when young, a habit when older.

  Jose accompanied Pablo and the bags to the desk. Lou’s lifted face was hopeful. “You’re going home?”

  “After dinner. I trust. If your damn planes flew after sundown, I’d be sure. Dig me up a ride, Lou. I’ll leave the bags here ready for action. Okay?”

  She said dubiously, “The Mintons plan to start back at ten.”

  “Oh Lord,” Jose breathed. “She gabbles.”

  “It’s better than nothing, my fine beggar.”

  “Your words of wisdom I will treasure, dulcita—” He wasn’t certain whether his endearment was accidental or an urge.

  Lou was quick. “Jo, was the blonde, Farrar, part of this business?”

  He answered slowly the same old way. “I don’t know.” His hand touched hers. “There is so little I know, Lou. Believe me.”

  “What you tell me, I believe.” She sighed. “But you don’t tell me much.”

  “This too you can believe. I’m coming for my suitcases myself. If Aleman or Truman or even Adam should say I sent for them, he’s lying.”

  “What’s in them? Isotopes?”

  “Dirty laundry.” He was firm. “But I am particular that no one but myself shall handle my dirty laundry.”

  He was the elegant Jose Aragon and he was welcomed as such by Senora Herrera. She regretted that he was alone; it was triste, triste, that a fine young man must dine alone on a summer evening. He helped her lead him to a corner table where his back was protected by the brilliance of tropical blossoms painted on the wall. He didn’t say anything about Francisca. Nor did she. Together they selected a dinner, and only when the Senora started away to supervise its preparations did he remember that he had no cigarettes. To be sure he had the Philip Morris, but of the sweet native tobacco, he had none. If she would be so kind as to send to him the cigarette girl with her basket of supplies?.

  “But certainly, Senor. At once.”

  Francisca wasn’t selling cigarettes tonight. The girl who balanced the large shallow basket was a plump and pretty child of the Herreras.

  Jose said, “I’ll bet a peso your name is Rosie.”

  She giggled richly. “Pay me, Senor. I am Lupe. Rosie she is over there.”

  Formally he presented her with un peso. She tucked it into a pocket of her ruf
fled skirt. “They teach you many things in the Army of the United States,” she flirted.

  “Meaning what?”

  “The way to find out with a peso the name of a girl?”

  He laughed with her. “Don’t tell your abuelita.”

  “What she does not know will not hurt her,” Lupe quoted pertly.

  “You’ve learned many things from the Army of the United States,” he commented. “My sympathies are with the abuelita.” He was examining various brands of Mexican cigarettes, selecting from them. He hoped he could slide in the next question without her recognizing its importance. “Where is the ninita who sold me cigarettes last night?”

  She didn’t seem to understand whom he meant.

  “She is called Francisca?”

  “That one!” She was scornful. “She is so dumb, that one. She is fired.”

  “It is sad.”

  “But why?”

  He shrugged. “It is always sad to be fired. No work, no money.” He brightened. “Or is it she has found her a better job?”

  Lupe obviously didn’t care. “She is too dumb.” She giggled daringly. “She is even too dumb to work in el Calle de la Luz Roja.”

  He too could be daring. “Is that why her abuelo sent her to work for Senora Herrera?”

  “Who knows?” she shrugged cheerfully. “Who cares?” She flaunted her skirts away to another table.

  He enjoyed his dinner fully, even to the dulce with which it came to an end. A gentleman lingered over coffee and a spicy cigarillo, so did he. Before he visited Senor el Greco tonight he would be well entrenched in the modes and manners of a fine gentleman.

  He paid the bill to Senora Herrera herself, complimenting her on the excellent food, on the comfort of her cafe, on her business ability and her personal charms. He regretted the necessity of returning to his home so far from these many attractions. She was politely interested, no more. She wasn’t in on what had transpired, she didn’t care if he returned home or remained on the border. It was what he had believed but now he was sure. “If anyone should inquire for me,” he told her as an afterthought, “I am paying a visit to Senor Praxiteles before setting out for home.”