John D. MacDonald
Border Town Girl
two novellas
Border Town Girl
Linda
Border Town Girl
1
THE TALL GIRL WAS RESTLESS. SHE HAD DARK eyes with a hard flickering light in them, like black opals. Her mouth was wide and soft and sullen.
It was ten o’clock at night in Baker, Texas. Her third-floor room in the Sage House had the hot breathlessness of the bakery she had once worked in—back when she was fourteen and had looked eighteen.
Five days in this hole. And it could be five more.
A half-block away a barn dance was in progress. She could hear the tinny whine of the music, the resounding stomping of boots. Somebody yelled shrilly, “Eeee-yah-hooo!”
“Damn silly cowhands,” she muttered. She lay diagonally across the bed. She had thrown the light cotton dress on a chair, the slip on top of it. The heat covered her body with a mist of perspiration. The spread under her was damp, so were the bra and the panties she was wearing.
She threw the movie magazine off the bed, sat up and tapped a cigarette on a long thumbnail the color of blood. As she lighted it a heavy strand of hair swung forward. The hair was the color of wheat, so expensively and expertly dyed that it looked natural. She tossed it back into place with a quick movement of her head.
As she sucked smoke into her lungs she looked around the room. Brown and green grass rug. Wicker furniture. Metal bed painted a liverish green. The mattress sagged toward the middle from all directions. Her two suitcases were on stands by the far wall, the lids open. A stocking dangled out of one, almost to the floor.
“You’re letting it get you, kid,” she said softly.
In her bare feet she paddled over to the larger suitcase and took the last pint out from under the rumpled clothes. She broke her fingernail on the plastic covering and cursed bitterly. She tossed the covering into the tin wastebasket by the bureau, then poured three inches of the rye into the heavy tumbler that stood on the bureau beside the Gideon Bible.
She stood in front of the bureau, staring down into the glass, hating the loneliness, the fear, the tension. The heavy rope of hair swung forward again. She stood in an ugly way, feet spread, shoulders slumped, stomach thrust forward.
“How, kid,” she whispered. She tossed off the tepid liquor, gagged slightly on it, poured some more in the glass and left it on the bureau top.
She went into the bathroom. The big old tub stood on feet cast to resemble claws. She put the plug in and started the water running. The pipes were so clogged that the water came out in a thin stream. She went back and got her glass and went to the front window. Starlight glinted off the Rio Grande. Across the way she could see the lights of small, dirty, turbulent Piedras Chicas.
A faint night breeze swayed the dusty curtains and cooled her body. She looked hard at the distant lights as though trying to see down into the streets, to see the man who would bring the package across the river.
When the tub was deep with lukewarm water she finished the second drink, went in and dropped her damp under-things on the floor. She got in and lay out as flat as she could. She looked down with satisfaction at the long clean lines of her body. She adjusted the angle of her head against the back of the tub. The heavy hair hung down into the water. She yawned and closed her eyes.
A flabby, moon-faced, middle-aged man came quietly down the hall. He wore a sports shirt loudly decorated with rodeo scenes. He listened outside her door, then slipped a paper-thin strip of tool steel out of his trouser pocket. His small pink mouth pursed in concentration as he slid the strip along the jamb. When it touched the latch he pressed hard, pulling slightly toward himself. There was a thin grating sound. He turned the knob slowly and pulled the door open a crack. He looked in, then looked up and down the hall.
He stepped lightly into the room and shut the door silently behind him. He drifted, soundless as smoke, across the room to the half-open bathroom door.
For a long time he studied her, his expression that of someone who intends to perform a difficult act with practiced confidence. Then he slipped his shirt off and threw it behind him. Rubbery muscles moved underneath the flaccid white skin. In two quick steps he reached her. She heaved up as his stubby white thumbs dug into the pressure points at the base of her throat. Her eyes rolled back into her head so that only two narrow slits of white showed.
He yanked out the plug and the water began to swirl down the drain.
Shaymen watched her for a moment and then began an expert search of the room. He slit the linings of the two suitcases, wrenched the high heels from five pairs of shoes, looked under the rugs, in the backs of the two pictures. He found it in a leg of the metal bed. The caster had been pulled out of the leg and what he wanted had been shoved up inside the hollow metal, then the caster had been replaced.
He slipped off the rubber band and the oilcloth. The tightly rolled bills expanded. Shaymen riffled the corners with his thumb. Hundreds, five hundreds and thousands. He frowned. He didn’t like the thousands. They called for a fencing operation and a discount. The recent activities of the Bureau of Internal Revenue had made the discount a big one.
He tucked the roll into his pocket and put his shut back on, looking in at the girl as he buttoned it. Regret stabbed him briefly and was gone. He left the room after making certain that the hallway was empty. On his way down the stairs he nibbled the thin coating of glass cement from his finger tips. It had an acid taste. He spat out the hard flakes with small soft explosive sounds. It was always better than gloves. Didn’t arouse suspicion. Didn’t smother the cleverness of the hands.
In the lobby he bought a pack of cigarettes from the girl who was just cleaning the counter for the night. He smiled inside himself as he saw her staring at the shirt. It was so flamboyant that no one looked beyond it to his face.
Out on the sidewalk, which still gave off the remembered heat of the sun, he took a deep drag on his cigarette and walked west. The tourist court was a quarter mile beyond the city limits. Travelers sat out in the lawn chairs escaping the heat. They talked and laughed softly. Shaymen accepted the invitation to sit with them and have a cold beer. He was sleepy. He yawned a great deal.
2
LANE SANSON SUPPORTED HIMSELF PRECARIOUSLY against the bar in one of the cheaper cantinas of Piedras Chicas. A wandering mariachi with a guitar was singing “Maria Bonita” in a hard nasal voice. His income depended on his nuisance value. A peso would keep that nerve-twanging voice at a safe distance.
Lane Sanson cupped his big hand around the small glass of mescal on the bar in front of him. The solution of all eternal mysteries was on the tip of his mind, ready to be jolted off with this drink—or the next, or the next.
An absent smile touched his big hard-lipped mouth and he thought, You better start finding some answers quick, Sanson. A lot of good answers.
That was the trouble with the world. No answers. All questions. How did Sandy put it that night she left for good? “Lane, you’ve spent six years feeling sorry for yourself. Frankly, you’ve turned into a bore.” Her bright eyes had crackled with angry flame.
“So?” he had said, as insolently as he could manage.
“Good-by, Lane.” Just like that. Clunk. Gone.
Oh, that Lane Sanson, he’s going places. Yessiree. That’s what they had said. A hell of a good reporter, that Sanson. Did you read his book? Battalion Front, it was called. Remember the reviews? “This one has guts.” “A war book with integrity.” The magazine serial rights brought in forty thousand and the book club edition added fifty to that and the movies had donated a neat sixty-two five.
If his agents hadn’t been on the ball, taxes would have creamed him. But the movie deal spre
ad the take over five years and the book and magazine take were prorated backward over the previous three tax years.
One day you’re a member of the working press. A day later you’re a cocktail party lion.
And Lane Sanson, the man of the hour, spent the next five years breaking Sandy’s heart. This was the last year of income from the book. Where did it go, that integrity they yakked about? Diluted over a thousand bar tops, spread in sweet-talk to half a hundred wenches.
And sooner or later you hit bottom. The inevitable bottom. Three weeks ago he had gotten the papers in Mexico City. He had signed them. Good-by, Sandy. There was a party that night. What a party! It lasted four days.
When the hangover was gone he had written the letters. Ten of them. Eight had answered and of the eight, seven had said, “So sorry, pal.” The eighth had said, “Come on up for a try. Leg man. Guild rates.”
And so he had driven out of Mexico City in the Buick convertible that was beginning to be a shambling relic of the big money year. Six hundred miles of Mexican sun with the top down had put a false look of health on top of the pale dissipation green of the two years in Mexico City—two years with nothing to show for them but fifty pages of manuscript so foul that on that last cool night he’d used it to get the fire burning in the apartment out Chapultepec way.
Yes, he had driven right up to the border, full of false courage, and when he had seen the bridge across the Rio Grande, the bottom had fallen out. On this side of the bridge a man could drift along. Over on that side he had to produce. And Lane Sanson was grievously afraid that, at thirty-four, his producing days were over for keeps.
One stinking bridge to cross, and he couldn’t make it. He’d parked the car, wolfed enchiladas for a base, and embarked on a mescal project.
So far he had arrived at one great truth. Up to the age of twenty-eight everything he had done had turned out right. And then the gods had switched the dice. How long can a man go on alienating his friends, forgetting his skills, fouling up his marriage? The loss of Sandy was a pain that rattled around in his heart. Sandy of the gamin smile, the quick young body, the eyes that could go solemn on you. Sunday mornings with Sandy. Sandy whom he had struck, hearing her emit a low soft note of pain that stung his drunken heart because it was the same soft sound she made when ecstasy was too much to bear silently.
He doubled his fist and struck the edge of the bar. Damn a man who rolls endlessly down a bottomless slope and cannot save himself.
An Indio girl moved close beside him. She had a flat broad brown face, obsidian black expressionless eyes and a wide mechanical inviting smile.
“Por favor, buy Felicia a dreenk, señor,” she wheedled.
She wore a cheap cotton dress, pale blue plaid, that was too small for her. It stopped short above her bare brown knees and was pulled to a dangerous tightness across her high bold breasts. With the lights behind her, it was very obvious that she wore nothing but the dress. Her feet were bare and broad.
“Your ancestors were kings,” he said, slurring his words. “They had a great civilization.”
“Just wan leetle dreenk for Felicia?”
“They sacrificed young virgins to the sun god, Felicia. At dawn from the top of mighty pyramids.”
“Here the tequila ees good. I like.”
He pushed two pesos across the bar top. The bartender filled a small glass for Felicia. “Muchas gracias,” she said.
“Salud,” said Sanson. He touched her glass with his glass of smoky mescal and they drank.
“Wan more now?” Felicia said.
“No more now, darling.”
There was a thin flare of contempt far back in the depths of the shining eyes. “You buy Felicia more, Felicia make you happy.”
“That is the terrible goal of mankind. To be happy. I wonder if it is a good thing, this pursuit of happiness. What do you think, Felicia?”
“No understand.”
He noticed that her shining black hair had been frizzed into a cheap permanent. “Happiness?” he said. “I no understand either.”
“Wat your name? How called you?”
“Lane,” he said. She repeated it twice.
He bought her another tequila. It disappeared like magic. Her eyes had a brighter glow.
“I luff Lane. Lane luff Felicia. Good?”
“That, my dear, is the ultimate simplification.”
“No big words. Too much big word. No unnerstand. We go now?”
“Where do we go?”
“Lane come with me to be happy. To a place.”
He looked at her, at the hip-shot stance, at hard heavy breasts bulging blue plaid cotton, and was tempted. He remembered a drunken party in Acapulco, how on the way back he and the Mexican colonel had stopped off in Tierra-colorado, remembered the stench of the hut, the small children sent out to giggle in the darkness while he and the colonel slept with the women. “It would be too much happiness,” he said.
“Maybe,” she said dubiously, “other cantina first? How you say, más barato.”
“Cheaper.”
“Ah, si! Cheepair!”
He shoved the change from the bar top into his pocket. It no longer mattered what he did or said, where he went or why. He staggered heavily when he got away from the support of the bar. She grabbed him with a strength quite astonishing and steadied him. A group of Mexicans stared at him and chortled. Sanson was perfectly aware that disaster lay ahead. With luck all they would do was roll him for what cash he had. And somehow it didn’t matter.
The cantina lights revolved sickeningly and he struck the side of his face against the door jamb. She pulled him erect and steered him out into the furnacelike air of the night. She held his arm clasped tightly against her and he felt the sleek play of her muscles under the taut brown skin as she struggled with him, trying to steer him down the sidewalk.
“No far. No long way,” she panted.
They came to the dark mouth of a narrow fetid alley, full of the stink of decay. She looked behind them and then shoved him into the alley, shoved him with such explosive strength that he stumbled and fell heavily on elbow and hip. He felt his lips twist upward, half in pain and half in grim humor. It was coming a lot sooner than he expected. If his luck held out, they would slit his throat. And that was something he had thought of doing himself, standing, looking into his own bathroom mirror.
He was yanked to his feet and slammed against the building, hard. He saw Felicia out on the sidewalk, looking in the other direction. He could make out the wavering figures of two men who stood close in front of him.
“Where is it?” a man demanded in whispering, metallic English.
“Hip pocket,” Lane said.
“Hands high.”
He obeyed. His wallet was taken out of his hip pocket. A pencil flashlight flicked on, pointed at the sheaf of bills. Suddenly the wallet was slapped hard against his mouth. He felt the blood run between his teeth.
“This is just money. Where is the package?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sanson said with drunken dignity.
“You are the one. We know you are the one. No one else has come. Don’t try to play games.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Sanson said querulously.
There was a sudden pin-prick against his belly. The light flicked on again, just long enough for him to see the six-inch length of steel gleam.
“Now you stop talking foolishment, my friend, or I swear to God I’ll open you up and spill your stomach around your shoes.”
“I would consider that a great favor,” Sanson said huskily.
They talked to each other in rattling Spanish so fast that Sanson could catch only a word here and there.
“You talk,” the man said. The knife pain was stronger, deeper. Sanson involuntarily sucked his stomach away from the point of the blade.
The anger was a long time in coming, but suddenly it throbbed behind his eyes. “I haven’t the faintest damn idea what you want. I’m a
newspaperman on my way to Houston. I don’t know anything about any package. Now take that knife out of me or I’ll feed it to you.”
“Big talk. Big talk,” the man muttered, but he seemed a little less positive. Again they talked together. The wallet was shoved back into the side pocket of Sanson’s jacket. His car keys were taken out. He caught the words “Buick” and “rojo.” So they had watched him long enough to know that his car was a red Buick parked in the zocolo.
“And there isn’t any package in it—” Sanson started. He heard the faint swish and the adobe wall behind him seemed to explode and drive the side of his head off into the hot dark night sky. There was no sensation of falling. Just an explosiveness boiling blackness…
3
IT WAS AN OLD DREAM. SHE DREAMED SHE HAD fallen out of bed onto the cool floor and in such a way that her head was cramped back at an awkward position against the baseboard. It made her neck hurt.
She moaned as she awakened and her hand touched something rounded, smooth, glossy. She opened her stunned eyes and saw that she was naked, in an empty bathtub.
She thought, “Diana, my girl, this must have been some party. I hope you had a good time.”
And then memory flooded back. She sat up with a great gasp. She was dizzy and her neck throbbed with pain. She could remember dozing off in the tepid water, and then hard hands that gouged at her, the knowledge of death…
Diana knew that a long time had passed. It was a little cooler now. Her body was dry. She climbed stiffly from the tub and stood for a moment, her hands braced against the wall, breathing deeply. She pushed herself away, nauseated with weakness, and plodded doggedly into the bedroom. It took all her strength to lift the bottom corner of the bed and pull out the caster. She poked a finger up the hollow metal leg and sobbed aloud as she felt the emptiness. She went back to the bathroom and looked at her wristwatch. Three in the morning. Five hours had passed. The town was still. All she could hear was a truck droning in the distance. She went back into the bedroom and looked at the ruined shoes, the slashed suitcases, the pictures crooked on the walls.
Border Town Girl Page 1