Candy Kid

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Jose did not allow the door to be closed on him. He pushed into the vestibule while the old woman was speaking. In the near darkness he could discern only that she was very small and very old. The smell of her, too, was old, musky. “Tell the Senor that Jose Aragon is here to see him,” he directed imperiously. He strode on into the shop.

  She followed on small, protesting feet. “He is gone to bed. You come back tomorrow.” Her shoes were scuffed, the black of her dress rusty. It was too heavy a dress for a hot night but she was too old to feel heat, her skin was dry as her bones. On the top of her head was a little skirl of gray hair, her scalp gleamed yellow beneath it.

  He swaggered, “He saw me last night; he will see me tonight. Tell him—Jose Aragon.”

  She went away only because she hadn’t the strength to eject him personally. She might deliver the message; she might summon the goons. But he didn’t believe the goons were in residence. Praxiteles wouldn’t trust strong-arm men to dwell in his house. It would be too easy for them to take advantage of a man who was fragile as a dried pea pod.

  He was not too surprised that Praxiteles appeared. Curiosity would fetch him. Not fear, fear wouldn’t figure in it; the old man was too rich, too important to be afraid. The shuffle of his carpet slippers had whispered his approach. He might have been in bed, he was robed in wine-colored velvet brocade as ancient as he. Fifty years ago it must have been a handsome piece. “What is it you want?” he inquired harshly. “Did not the Senora tell you, the shop is closed at night?”

  “She told me, certainly,” Jose answered insolently. He accented his words Spanish fashion. “But it is true that last night I received here a bottle of perfume. I have come for another bottle of the same perfume.”

  “I do not sell perfume,” Praxiteles began, and his eyes narrowed. It was the first time he realized that Jose and the lout who inquired for perfume this afternoon were one and the same. His voice grated. “Did I not tell you this?”

  Jose curled his lip. “Does it matter what you tell me? Last night I came for perfume. You supplied it.”

  The old one was trying to ferret out Jose’s purpose in making the request. Searching through his endless channels of memory for a like demand. He couldn’t find one. He said, “It was a favor, no more. I do not sell perfume.”

  “A favor for a young lady?” Jose was flippant. “For a most sweet young lady—muy dulce.” He shrugged. “That is why you must por favor supply me with an identical bottle.” He smiled angelically at the ugly old man and then drew down the corners of his mouth in grief. “The first one I have lost.”

  He had timed the revelation for shock purposes; he was happy with the result. Praxiteles didn’t quiver, he shrank deeper into his shrunken skin. His lizard eyes alone were alive, balefully alive. “You lost it!” He didn’t believe it; he believed what Jose said but it was too incredible for belief.

  “It is most sad,” Jose agreed cheerfully. “So careless of me. You understand how it is, Senor. I stop at a bar here, and a bar there, I meet a few friends, somewhere I set down the package and forget it until this morning.” He laughed at how amusing was his carelessness. “Today I return to look for the package but no one remembers it. It is not strange. Someone has found it, some boy who will perhaps make a few centavos selling it to a turista.”

  The old man was becoming more and more rigid. Jose felt that if he should poke a forefinger at him, he would disintegrate into dust. Jose continued, “The young lady paid well to have the package delivered to her. No doubt she had exhausted her quota of purchases for the month, this perfume someone else must carry across the bridge for her?”

  The voice scraped from the scrawny throat. “You have told her it is lost?”

  “How could I, Senor? She has gone north this morning.”

  “Without the package?”

  “But how could she carry with her the package when I have lost it?”

  Praxiteles trembled with fury. “You were to deliver the package to her last night. She would know last night you have lost it.”

  Jose smiled slyly. “She does not know. Last night she does not want the package. She asks that I deliver it to her in Santa Fe.”

  This was news to Praxiteles, news that shattered him further.

  “It is quite natural therefore that I do not tell her it is lost but plan to search for it today.” He sighed, “But I do not find it,” and then he smiled again. “You understand now why it is essential you supply me with an identical bottle?”

  Praxiteles said nothing for too long a time. He might have died standing there. Finally he whispered, “How is it you know what is in the package?”

  Jose’s nose wrinkled. “I smell what is in it. That smell, never would I forget it!” He added gratuitously, “I do not understand why such a lovely girl as Miss Farrar, one who could buy Chanel by the bucket, would select such a perfume.” His nose repeated its distaste.

  Again he waited for Praxiteles to speak. When it came it was too agreeable. “Wait here. I will get another bottle of perfume for you.”

  Jose waited until he could no longer hear the shuffling slippers. No longer than that. Holding the bells silent while he opened the door, he quietly let himself out of the shop, so quietly that he did not bother to close the door behind him. He was not such a fool as to remain until the Senor could summon his henchmen to do away with one who knew too much and too little.

  Nor was he foolish enough to linger longer in the border city. The Juarez curtain had fallen, the next act would be played in Santa Fe. He took himself back to the Avenida as fast as possible and across the bridge. He was lucky enough on the Norte side to request a taxi-sharing with a plump, respectable couple who could only be from Wichita, Kansas. He was wrong, they were from Topeka, but they were naturally staying at the Chenoweth. They always stayed at a Chenoweth hotel in any town which boasted one. He did not exchange names with them, only his gratefulness for the ride.

  He hadn’t expected to find Lou behind the desk, she didn’t take night duty. But she was there, and some of the anxiety went out of her face when he came in. He knew then with a welling of gratefulness that she’d been waiting for him. He further knew she hadn’t expected him back so soon or in one piece.

  He waited until the Topekans had collected their key and made for the elevator. Then he came grinning to her. “It wasn’t so tough, after all, was it?”

  She rallied. “No bullets, no knife cuts?”

  “Not even a skinned knuckle. Juarez is highly overrated, Missy Lou.”

  “Don’t be so smart. You tempted fate and won—this time.”

  “I never avoid temptation.” He remembered his private debate of the day before. It seemed years ago. “That is for weaklings. What about the Mintons?”

  She looked at the clock. “They’ll be here at ten-thirty. They went out to dinner.” She touched the call bell. The bellhop was neither Pablo nor Jaime. An old man, disinterested. “Take Mr. Aragon’s bags. When the car comes, let us know.” She waited until he had ambled to the street door. “Captain Harrod went through your stuff.”

  His head snapped away from the bellhop. She must have misread the expression on his face for anger because she defended herself hotly, “I couldn’t stop him. He’s the law.”

  “I hope he enjoyed his trip through my dirty laundry. Did he find what he was looking for?”

  “I don’t know what he was looking for. He took nothing. I stayed with him the whole time.”

  The old fellow was limping back to the desk. “The car, it is here now.”

  Jose tipped him.

  Lou said, “Goodbye, Jo. Nice to have had you.” While they clasped hands, curiosity broke. “Where did you get that stinking perfume? And why?”

  “It’s for old Juana, our cook. Her favorite brand. ’Bye, Lou. Thanks for everything.”

  “My best to your mother. Invite her to come see me when she gets back from Europe. And tell Adam I’m through with him. He didn’t even come in to say goodbye before
he went back to Santa Fe.”

  The car, a faded sedan, was humming at the curb, the door half-open for him. Jose’s hand had pulled the door wide before he saw that the driver was not old Minton. It was Captain Harrod.

  Four

  HE DIDN’T HAVE TO get in. But he did. It wasn’t important who drove him to Santa Fe. The important thing was to get there. There was no reason for him to avoid the law even if it were possible. Let Harrod pry; the Spanish could gab the while they held their tongues.

  But resentment burned at the betrayer as he slammed the door behind him. “Lou—”

  “Doesn’t know,” Harrod said. “I fixed it for the Mintons to be delayed over dinner. That’s the good part of living in a neighborly town. You can always fix things.” He added dryly, “Should think I’m better company than that yawping Minton female.”

  “Could be.” Jose offered a cigarette.

  “I never smoke after ten at night,” Harrod said as if he’d invented self-control.

  Jose lit up. “Where you headed for?”

  “Santa Fe.”

  “On business?”

  “Yes, business.” Now that he’d settled the car on the road, Harrod didn’t seem to care about being good company.

  Jose persisted. “I shouldn’t think you could take off in the middle of an international murder.”

  A secret smile touched Harrod’s mouth. “That one’s over.”

  Jose’s surprise echoed. “Over!”

  “Yes.”

  “Who knifed him?”

  “Oh.” Harrod was surprised that Jose could be so ignorant. “It wasn’t murder. Just another drunk in the river.”

  Jose eyed him to see if he meant it. He did. “So that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  “That’s the way it is,” Harrod corrected.

  Jose gave a short laugh. “If I ever want to get rid of a guy, I’ll know how to do it. And where.”

  Harrod was mild. “Did you ever kill anyone, Aragon?”

  “Plenty.” He jutted his chin. “It was that easy, too. I got medals for doing it.”

  “How did you make it right with your conscience? Don’t tell me you haven’t a conscience. You learned the Commandments just like everyone else.”

  “War doesn’t have much to do with what any of us learned. It has its own commandments. Like kill or be killed.”

  “So you killed. Sure. Only it’s a little different, isn’t it, in the CIC? You aren’t just a guy with a gun in your hand standing up against a guy with a gun in his hand who happens to speak a different language. In the CIC sometimes you have to go looking for guys to kill, don’t you? Part of the time you’re lucky. They don’t know about you until you’ve stuck them in the back.”

  “So what?”

  “So what does your conscience say about that one?”

  “Look,” Jose began, “if you still think I slipped a knife into Tustin because I didn’t like his face or because I was conditioned to the black commandment of killing someone who stood in my way—if that’s what you think, why didn’t you arrest me this afternoon? Why this buggy ride?”

  “I’m talking about something else,” Harrod said calmly. “I’m talking about conscience.”

  “My conscience.”

  “Your conscience and mine. What did yours say when you killed some defenseless guy whose only mistake was to believe his side was right? Did you say like a lot of the losers are saying now: It was orders! I did not do this because I wanted to do it; I obeyed my orders and my conscience is clear; those who gave the orders are the guilty ones.”

  “One thing I’m not,” Jose said precisely. “I am not a coward.”

  “What answer did you give to yourself?”

  “I believe I know what you want me to say.” Jose spoke slowly. “And for all I know it may be as dishonest a rationalization as the other one. But I’ll say it, I’ve said it plenty of times to myself. In war one man’s little life isn’t as important as the lives of one man multiplied by thousands, perhaps millions. I killed one man to save many men from being killed. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the way I’ve had to figure sometimes.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you killed Tustin?” Jose’s laugh was sardonic.

  Harrod’s was amused. “Good gravy, no!”

  “I didn’t think so.” Jose laughed freely now. “But you were building up a pretty good case for yourself.”

  “You know what I’m trying to say. It’s better to write off Tustin’s death as an accident. So far as I’m concerned it was accidental. If I’d had any idea, I wouldn’t have let it happen. I was figuring on talking to him.”

  “Procrastination,” Jose warned.

  “Maybe. I knew he was on the border but he wasn’t in my bailiwick until he crossed the bridge to our side. When he did, he registered at the Chenoweth just as if he was what he claimed to be, a Detroit business man. He was from Detroit even if he hasn’t been there much in the last twenty years. Still has folks there, pretty proud of their globe-trotting brother. You call it procrastination. I call it waiting. Until I found out what he was after. He wasn’t hard to keep an eye on. All he did was sit in a hotel rocker and read the newspapers. Maybe he was on vacation, how do I know? Until it’s too late.”

  “Who was he?”

  There was again that modicum of surprise in Harrod’s answer. “He was a man for hire.” He shook his head gently. “I’m surprised you didn’t run into him in Germany. He was pretty busy there the same time you were.”

  “Or in Cairo or Panama City or maybe Lisbon?”

  “He got around.”

  For moments they rode in silence, each thinking his own thoughts. Harrod broke the interlude, thinking aloud, “He caused plenty of accidents in his time. He came to the end of his road so often he must have thought it would take a silver bullet to do him in. He wouldn’t figure on getting a grubby knife in his back in a dirty little border town. When you’ve beaten big danger you don’t expect the little stuff to beat you.”

  “Is that another lesson of the day?”

  “Could be. It pays to be as careful of mosquitoes as of elephants. Sometimes they’re more deadly.”

  With this Jose agreed but he kept it to himself. He closed his eyes. There was a long trip ahead. Whatever rest he could get now would help out tomorrow. And the tomorrows thereafter until he was out of this. He must have slept; he came to as Harrod pulled up at a roadside truck stand.

  “I’m for coffee,” Harrod was saying.

  “I’ll join you.”

  They stretched in the warm starry dark of early morning. They were in New Mexico now. The night man at the stand knew Harrod. Like Adam, Harrod would know everyone up and down the highway. The two talked baseball and let Jose alone. He woke up on coffee and a hamburger; Harrod stowed away two hamburgers and a piece of pie. When they went back to the car, Jose offered, “I’ll take over if you like. Unless you think I might try a break.”

  “What for?” Harrod was mild. He yawned. “Maybe I can catch a nap.” He was snoring before they passed the second pinon.

  Harrod woke in Albuquerque. The sky was paling for dawn, the far stars were already gone, as magically as sparks from a skyrocket. He was talkative again, “I suppose you’ll be seeing the blonde.”

  “What blonde?”

  “The one Tustin was trailing.” Harrod was smart. He’d saved important talk until he’d had his nap. Until he was rested.

  “You think she stuck him?”

  Harrod drawled, Texas-style, “You’re forgetting. He was just another drunk.”

  “So it doesn’t matter who he was trailing or why.”

  “I haven’t figured,” Harrod said.

  Jose’s smile was wide. “If I chase blondes, it’s because they’re blondes.” The air smelled good out here on the Santa Fe highway. A mountain chill in it. He drew in a lungful. The unrelieved heat of the southland sapped a man’s confidence; he’d needed this. “And you know something? I
prefer blondes to drunks who fall in the Rio Grande. You can have Tustin, I’ll take the Candy Kid.”

  He’d talked too fast, the confident air had gone to his head.

  But Harrod didn’t pick it up. He said only, “Glad to hear it, Jo.”

  It was breaking daylight when they entered the still-sleeping town. “I can drop off at La Fonda,” Jose said.

  “You stopping there?”

  “I live here. I’m going home.”

  Harrod said, “Then go on home. I’ll find my way back to the hotel.”

  Jose circled the Plaza, passed the Cathedral, and went on to the bridge, over the hill to home. The gates of the old Spanish wall stood open. He didn’t drive in. He said, “Thanks, Harrod.” He hauled out his bags.

  “Be seeing you,” Harrod said.

  Jose was sure of it. He watched the car turn and start down the hill before he shouldered his bags. He entered quietly into the big, silent house. He would have preferred bed to Beach. But his cousin was yawning in the doorway of the guest bedroom. It wasn’t usual; Beach must have slept with Jose heavy on his mind.

  “You got a ride?”

  “Yeah.”

  Beach followed into Jose’s bedroom.

  “I might as well tell you. You’ll find out soon enough. With the chief of the border Feds.”

  “You don’t say.” Beach yawned wider. “What’s he after you for?”

  “Smuggling, murder, and who cares?”

  “Speaking of smuggling, Dulcy wants to see you.” Beach wasn’t feigning boredom now. And he wasn’t half asleep, his eyes were hard and bright.

  Jose tried to kid it. “You’ve made progress.” Because he didn’t want to talk.

  Beach wasn’t having any. “Not much.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t get in until dinner time. Dropped the package at the hotel after I’d cleaned up. Mission accomplished, I decided to stick around a while, make sure it was picked up.”

  “Not because of blondes? Or beer in the Cantina?”

  “Beer in the Cantina it was. Particularly since Tim and Rags were established there.”

  Jose said sharply, “Skip to Dulcy.”