County Kill (12 page)

Red was getting carefully off his stool now and walking over.

“Please,” Juanita said urgently. “I’ll handle this.”

“O.K.”

She looked up with a big smile as he walked over with the deliberate pace of the conscious drunk.

He missed the smile; his attention was on me. “Callahan, you’re asking for trouble. You don’t fool me.”

“I wouldn’t try to fool you, Red,” I said. “Calm down.”

Juanita said quickly and warmly. “Red, the night is young. Mr. Callahan and I have very important business to discuss, but it won’t take long.”

He looked at her suspiciously.

She said softly, “No trouble now, Lars. We don’t want the police in here, do we?”

“Hell, no,” he agreed. He studied me carefully for a few seconds and then smiled at her. “But if this guy gets fresh, you holler. O.K.?”

She nodded.

He winked at her, sneered at me, and went over to where the men were playing cards. I fought the annoyance in me.

“Deal me in,” he said to the players. And, to the bartender, “Drinks for this table on me.
Mucho.”
He sat down heavily.

Juanita said, “For two months he says nothing but ‘double bourbon.’ I wish he’d never learned to talk.”

“I wonder who worked him over last night.”

She smiled. “Always digging, digging, digging, aren’t you?”

“That’s why my clients pay me,” I told her. “Right now, all I’m trying to do is save Skip Lund’s neck. People who hire private investigators usually have some reason why they can’t go directly to the police, but Skip’s secrecy could destroy his alibi.”

“He’ll be all right,” she said. “He always lands on his feet.”

I said irritably, “Don’t be so damned smug. Johnny Chavez was murdered. Keep that in mind. Wasn’t he a friend of yours?”

She nodded, her eyes sad and angry. “He’s dead. The world goes on. I cry for the living, not the dead.”

“I don’t think you cry for
anybody.”

She stared at me, her eyes now hard. She stood up. “I’ll get our coffee. You watch your tongue, Brock Callahan.”

I watched her walk toward the kitchen, enough woman for anyone. I was sorry my frustration had made me tactless.

She came back with two mugs and an enameled coffeepot. “Cream or sugar?”

“Neither,” I said. “I apologize, Juanita. It’s been a sour day.”

“Of course,” she said calmly. “And why did you come here tonight?”

Because Mary Chavez told me to
, I thought. I said, “Because I think you can help Skip Lund and he’s my client. And also because if I clear Skip, I help his son. That’s the biggest motivation in this mess.”

“If you don’t work with the police,” she said, “you lose your license and you are out of business. You cannot hide things from the police and stay in business.”

“Yes, I can. I have before. Justice is not always complete
and perfect, and no reasonable police officer expects it will be.”

“In San Valdesto,” she said, “the police are not reasonable.” She sipped her coffee.

The front door opened and a man came in, the same man I had seen in uniform down at Headquarters, the Mexican patrolman. He wasn’t in uniform now.

He waved at Juanita and went to the bar.

She looked from him to me and away.

“Is that your pipeline into Headquarters?” I asked. “Is that how you found out where I was staying?”

She sipped her coffee, ignoring me.

“You called me originally,” I reminded her, “and told me you were worried about Skip’s son. And you knew where Skip was. That should mean you knew what he was doing. Maybe
what
Skip was doing is involved in
why
Johnny died and maybe not. But I can’t work blind!”

Her face was blank, her breathing heavy. She took a cigarette from a pack and I held a light for her.

She inhaled and said, “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing it; I’m ignoring it. I thought you came to eat, not to snoop.”

“O.K. To hell with it. If you don’t want to help Skip Lund, I’ll have to work without your help.” I paused. “And hope you’re not involved.”

She smoked and sipped her coffee.

“Duddle burden, bubby,” Red called to the bartender.

Juanita said angrily, “Damn him! I wish he would leave.”

“Durdle bubben, duddy,” Red called.

“What is he trying to say?” Juanita asked. “He sounds like he’s drowning.”

“He is drowning,” I said. “In booze. He’s trying to order a double bourbon.”

Juanita signaled the bartender and caught his eye. She made a gesture with an inverted thumb.

“A Mickey?” I asked quietly. “Dangerous business, Juanita.”

“It’s Saturday night,” she said. “We’ll be crowded in another hour. Do I want him around here then, calling people spies? I’m protecting him from himself. I have a cot in the back where he can sleep it off.”

I sipped my coffee, ignoring her.

“You’re angry,” she said.

“Why not? With the help of his friends, I might be able to do Skip Lund and his son some good. And now I learn he has no friends. So I have to go back to him and say I can’t honestly take his case because I can’t do him any good.”

She shook her head and sighed. She studied me a second and then glanced toward the table where Red was now drinking his drugged double bourbon. She gestured to the guitar player and stood up.

At the bar the man out of uniform had his back to us, oblivious to the shenanigans going on behind him, quietly drinking a beer.

Juanita moved a few steps away from the table and talked softly to the guitar player. He nodded and went back to the others. She sat down again and I stood up.

She frowned. “You’re not going …?”

“Why not?” I took some bills from my pocket. “How much?”

“Nothing, nothing.” She took a breath. “Angry, aren’t you?”

“Frustrated. I have to go back and tell Skip I can’t do him any good.”

At the other table Red had collapsed, his head among the cards. The guitar player and one of his friends lifted him
and half carried, half dragged him through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

The Filipino and his companion laughed nervously, the bartender boredly polished glasses, the man out of uniform continued to drink his beer.

From the kitchen came the sound of excited Spanish words and then an abrupt silence.

I said, “I hope he doesn’t get knifed again tonight. A man can only take so much of that.”

Juanita’s eyes flashed. “You have a nasty tongue.”

“I’m an anglo,” I explained, “and I am resentful, knowing what you think about angloes. And tonight you’re kissing off Skip Lund and Bud Lund and Callahan. Thank you for the free meal and the beer and good night to you, Señora Juanita Rico.”

“Damn you!” she said hoarsely. “It’s not like that at all. You know those are lies. You have a viper’s tongue and a mind like a cop.”

“Watch your language,” I said. “There’s a cop at the bar.” I turned my back on her and started out.

I was about three steps from the door when she said, “Please wait. Please?”

I turned and waited.

She came over to put a hand on my arm. “We had a bad start. I guess I can trust you. I won’t promise; but will you give me a little time to think about it?”

“All right.”

She smiled warmly. “Have a beer and be patient.”

Perhaps patience would only give her time to dream up more evasions, but I had no other leads. I couldn’t honestly expect her to involve her safety in the affairs of Skip Lund when Lund refused to save his own neck. I went back to the table and another glass of beer.

A couple came in and went to a table. A woman came in
and took the stool next to the police officer in civvies. The guitar player moved his chair into a corner and began to play softly.

Peaceful again, deceptively peaceful.
Mañana
land, and
mañana
was Sunday. It would get festive as the alcohol seeped into the warm blood stream; it might even get violent. But this was the lull before the loving — natural party people slowly warming up.

Beneath the surface sweetness of the quiet guitar there was a beat I couldn’t chart, repetitive and constant, unrhythmical, disturbing, trying to say something less soporific than the melody.

Imminence seemed to lurk hazily in the room. Imminence of what? Romance? Revelation? Violence?

I had a sense of being a surface swimmer, only a few feet above the kelp in a calm sea, while beneath the kelp the sharks watched, patient and alert.

Behind the bar Juanita was now helping the bartender. A squat, dark-brown waitress was working out of the kitchen. The Filipino was holding the hand of his beloved in the black dress, blithely oblivious to the urgent undertone of the guitar and the mythical sharks under the kelp.

Over all their heads I watched Juanita working the bar and the tables easily and gracefully, a woman who probably missed nothing, a complete and courageous but still
womanly
woman.

When Skip used the word “boss” I was sure that he was speaking of Juanita. That would mean that Johnny had been working for her, too. And Pete Chavez. And what was their trade?

Juanita went to the kitchen and came out in less than a minute, carrying nothing. Had she checked on Hovde? She went to the bar and picked up a pair of drinks to take to the Filipino couple.

And then she was standing in front of me and I rose. The sound of the guitar dwindled off to nothing. I glanced at the player and he returned my stare vacantly, then started another piece.

“What I have decided to tell you must be kept a secret,” Juanita warned. “Can you promise me that and still stay in business?”

“Unless it means I have to hide a murderer, I promise you that, whether it’s wise or not.”

“It might help to find a murderer.”

“Then I will keep your secret.”

“Have you guessed anything?” she asked musingly.

“I’ve been thinking of narcotics. It was only a hunch.”

“It was a good one,” she said, and sat down across from me.

S
HE GAVE IT
to me straight and simple, but it was still a strange story. The boat brought in opium; she had a man who derived the heroin and morphine, a trained man, an addict.

In this end of town, she explained, drug addiction was growing. And why?

“The money in it,” I guessed. “Once a man is hooked, he’d do
anything
to get the money for more. So the pushers build the business and get rich.”

“And the addicts steal and kill, if they have to, to get the money. And the women turn into prostitutes. It was growing in this end of town.”

“Was
growing? Isn’t it any more?”

“There hasn’t been a new addict in this neighborhood in three months.”

“Why not?”

“Nobody’s getting rich from it,” she said. “When angloes can’t get rich, they get out of a business. They don’t want to build new customers for a nonprofit business.”

“Don’t tell me you gave it away?”

“When we had to. Those who could pay did pay. Those who couldn’t pay didn’t have to pay. They could owe or take charity. Since we started, we have three addicts who seem to be cured, though one can never be sure. The ones still on it will die, eventually, and there will be no new customers to take their places. Then we can happily go out of business.”

“And who moves in?”

She stared at me, frowning.

“Juanita,” I said quietly, “wherever there’s a big and dirty buck, the slime moves in. And there are ways to get rid of small operators like you. The boys from down south don’t like independent wholesalers. It’s just a question of time until they move in here.”

“They have tried,” she said simply. “They have failed.”

“It couldn’t have been the big boys, then. They never fail.” I smiled grimly. “Nonprofit narcotics. Ye gods, Juanita, it sounds un-American!”

“It works in England,” she said. “It is working in San Valdesto.”

I shook my head. “The Mafia is old and wise and universal. They will never permit it. The idea might spread to the big towns.”

“It has worked,” she said stubbornly.

“So far.” And then I remembered what Harris had said about Chavez’ being friendly with the newcomers. And I asked, “Was Johnny Chavez your muscle?”

“What is a
muscle?
Johnny was a friend.”

“He’s also been a friend to some of the new people up here, the way I heard it.”

She frowned. “What new people? Gangsters, hoodlums?”

“That’s right. Let’s call ‘em the doubtful people. Did you trust Johnny?”

“Completely,” she said.

“I was thinking that if Johnny ratted to the law, you’d be out of business. And Johnny would then be big with the police
and
the new people. A spender like Johnny wouldn’t stay interested in a nonprofit business, would he?”

“You didn’t know him,” she said. “He got a rotten deal in this town. Johnny was a good boy.”

“A
good
boy who sold reefers to high-school kids? Isn’t your sentiment clouding your judgment?”

“You didn’t know him,” she repeated. “He was a willful boy, but a good one, once he saw who his friends were.”

“All right. I can’t argue against sentiment. But tell me, Juanita, what would you have done if you had learned that he had been double-crossing you?”

She shook her head. “You’re talking nonsense again.”

I smiled. “Can you handle a.30-.30?”

“I can handle anything that uses bullets,” she told me levelly. “I have four rifles. And three shotguns, Make a case out of that, nosy Brock Callahan.”

“And never again taste your enchiladas?” I teased her.

“Don’t joke.”

The low-rent-district Glenys Christopher, taking care of her own. No victim, this girl — and it was a pleasure to sit there and look at her. I was getting a bellyful of victims.

“What are you thinking, sly one?” she asked me.

“About your source,” I lied. “Is it constant, down there in Mexico?”

“My father,” she explained. “He will live a long time yet. And when he is gone, my brother will be there.”

Silence once more. The guitar’s beat was a throbbing of blood in hot veins, tight, demanding release. Juanita turned to look at the musician and she spoke in Spanish. The beat went away; the soft, sad melodies came back.