NIGHT CRUISING (14 page)

Dreams that die. Cruise
knew all about those. That's why he knew what was going to happen to
the screenwriter in Hollywood who cut his own throat. Lannie might as
well have cut hers, same difference. She left home at sixteen with a
boy who had joined the Army. After six years and five babies, he left
her to raise them on her own. She worked in a sewing factory in
Arizona making curtains until her hands were scarred, her back bent,
her eyes dim and bespectacled. She never sang. She never bought a
house in Memphis. The angelic voice that made him soar died with her
childhood and couldn't be reborn. It was interred in the country
roads and woods and black nights where they grew up.

Lannie had been the
single child of nine children who had any sort of artistic talent at
all. That she put it away and let it die made him hate her more than
any of the others. If he had had a voice like that, he'd have been a
different man. Lannie could have been a different woman, yet she
threw it away, hid it until it shriveled from lack of light, and she
got exactly what she deserved. A non-life. A dull, dishwater
death-in-life just like the one she had left behind. Though now she
took care of their elderly father, he could not forgive her for
having lacked the courage to pursue another path.

He had courage. He had
embraced the nomad life and lived by the death of others, the way
Lannie might have lived had she not killed her own dream. Let his
sisters and brothers think their "normal" lives more
honorable than his. They were as deluded as his senile old aunt had
been, stuck in memories of the past.

He
was the only
one to escape. The rest of them simply took up the threads of the
same lives they had led in childhood. Beaten. Degraded. Deadening.

"Cockroaches,"
he whispered.

"What?" Molly
asked. "Did you say something?"

He shook his head,
cleared his throat of the tightness that had come there from thinking
about Lannie. "Nothing," he said. "Look." He
pointed ahead. ."That's where we're going."

"It looks like an
oasis out in the middle of nowhere." Colored lights shimmered in
the near distance against a black background.

"It is. You'll
like it."

He slowed as he drove
down the main street. Here the people were not so frantic as they
were in Juarez, although the streets were full of pedestrians, people
on bicycles, and the clubs were packed. But the lights were dimmer,
the neon less, the shadows thicker. Men strolled the wide sidewalks
arm in arm with their women. From open-air cantinas drifted happy,
finger-snapping music. The smell of enchiladas, beans, corn
tortillas, and roasting meats came through the car windows and made
Cruise's mouth water. He had eaten truck-stop food for so long, he
couldn't remember what real food tasted like.

"It looks nice,"
Molly said. "Smells good too."

"After we take our
stuff up to our rooms at the El Presidente, I'll take you exploring
and we'll get something to eat."

Some men waved and
called,
Hey, amigo!
to Cruise as he drove past them. Others,
knowing and fearing his lethal purpose, turned their eyes away and
scurried deeper into the shadows.

Cruise waved back and
wondered which ones would find their deaths at his hands tonight. He
hadn't been here in over six months. Ramirez would surely need his
services right away.

"This looks much
better than Juarez," Molly said.

He knew she'd like it.

#

The El Presidente Hotel
would not have been out of place among the high-priced accommodations
strewn along the aqua coast of Acapulco or Cozumel. Wide marble steps
led up to shining glass doors with brass handles. A doorman in
braided uniform and crisp tulip red cap nodded deferentially. He
ushered them inside the sumptuous lobby. Gold-leaf-decorated moldings
ran along the eighteen-foot ceilings. A gargantuan chandelier that
might have better graced a palace hung ablaze over the center of the
carpeted area. Gleaming wood adorned the service desk, and a brass
rail ran along its foot. Deep red leather club chairs and sofas were
arranged tastefully, though they stood empty.

Unlike other beautiful
hotels in Mexico, this one was not meant for the entertainment of
touristas. The El Presidente was owned by Adolpho Ramirez, and it was
where he lived in the penthouse suite. His men, guests, and buyers
occupied the lower floors.

Cruise saw how
impressed Molly looked as he led her to the desk to secure a room
key. Had she ever been in nice hotels? He thought not. "You'll
tell Adolpho I'm here?" Cruise asked as he took possession of
the key to his usual luxury suite.

"Si, senor."

"Good. And I'd
like another room for my friend."

The desk man wore a
black suit, white shirt, and his teeth shone brilliantly from his
dark face when he smiled, rather like a shark sensing prey. "Surely,"
he said, handing over a second passkey with a flourish.

Cruise installed Molly
in her room. "Relax for a while. I have some business to attend
to, and then we'll go out.',

"This is some
hotel," she said, slinging her carryall bag into a white satin
chair. "I guess the owner's your friend, huh?"

"Yeah, I know him.
I come through here when I cross the country sometimes. It beats
sleeping in the car in truck stops," he said. "I'll be back
soon to check on you."

He was back in twenty
minutes having gotten the name and whereabouts of the one traitor
Ramirez felt he must be rid of. Molly was still in the bath. Her
second one in a few hours. She was not used to going without bathing
as he was after years of living on the road. He heard the water being
turned off. The water pipes gurgled and thumped. He took a seat on
the bed to wait. With his foot he pushed around Molly's jeans where
she'd left them in a pile on the floor. When she emerged, dressed,
hair wrapped in a towel, she started at seeing him. "Back
already! I'm almost through."

"No hurry. Take
your time."

Ignoring that, she
hurried to the dressing table and whipped the turbaned towel from her
head. She fluffed out the crinkly ringlets with her fingers as he
watched.

Nervous
, he
thought.
I'm on her bed, invading her space. She thinks I'll make
a pass
.

He stood and took the
chair, crossing his legs while he watched her.

"You saw your
friend?" she asked.

"I saw him,"

"He must run this
town."

"What makes you
think that?"

"I don't know.
It's not a tourist town, I can see that. And your friend owns this
big hotel..." She swept her arm around at her surroundings for
emphasis. She glanced at him in the mirror while applying lipstick.

Cruise didn't answer
her. She wasn't going to know everything, not about this place, no
matter how many questions she asked.

"Okay." She
turned to him and gave a tentative smile. "I'm ready to go out
again. That was my second shower tonight. Making up for those days
without one. My hair might get clean yet."

"You're not
sleepy?" It was close to midnight.

She shook her head.
"I'm getting used to the night. With so much going on, how could
I sleep now?"

He went to the door and
let her follow behind. In the empty elevator to the lobby he said,
"You smell like baby powder."

She stared at the
elevator doors. "My deodorant. Secret."

"It's a secret?"

"No, that's what
kind it is. Baby powder scent."

"It's nice. Better
than perfume."

The doors opened and
they stepped into the deserted lobby. Even the desk attendant was
missing. Only the doorman stood watch, opening the door for them
before they were close enough to touch the door handles. He bowed
deeply as they went past.

"Let's walk,"
Cruise said, going down the steps.

The hotel was the
center architectural triumph of the small town. It dwarfed other
buildings, most of which were one-story native affairs made of stucco
and thick tarry timbers. Cruise headed for the cantina where his
target was supposed to be carousing, unaware he had been marked for
assassination. It was but two blocks away. Overhead the sky spun with
stars, and the sickle moon rode high over the world. Women dressed in
revealing clothing and wearing plenty of eye makeup suggestively
jostled against Cruise as he and Molly maneuvered the busy sidewalks
to the cantina. Men catcalled and reached out toward Molly's red hair
as she passed them. She shrunk closer to Cruise. He put an arm around
her shoulders and she gave a little shudder.

"They won't bother
you," he said. 'It's your red hair they find interesting."

He thought he heard
Molly humming below her breath, perhaps just to calm herself. He
bypassed the cantina where the man he searched for was supposed to
be, and stopped at the next food place where small round wrought-iron
tables were set out on the sidewalk. A string of Christmas lights
swung from poles anchored at the corners of the outdoor cafe. He
gestured Molly toward the nearest empty table. "Wait here a
minute. I'll be right back. Order a Coke. Here." He took out his
wallet and gave her a ten-dollar bill. He'd have more soon. "Buy
whatever you want. You look hungry."

"Where are you
going?" She looked around at the couples at the other tables,
and at the men swarming around the cafe as they moved in waves up and
down the street. Two of them kissed the air in her direction and said
something in Spanish.

"Stay here,"
he admonished, leaving her. "You'll be okay, you'll be fine."

He backtracked to the
cantina and once inside, stood rock still to survey the assemblage.
Four men played a game of billiards at the pool table. Others sat in
shadowed booths, speaking in soft voices to their women. He grabbed
the arm of a woman waiting tables. The beer bottles trembled on the
brown serving tray she carried in the other hand. "Senor
Cruise!"

He spoke to her in
Spanish. "Which one is Riaro?"

"At the back, the
one standing next to the jukebox."

A gorgeously colored
antique Rockola stood at the back, loudly playing Mexican records.
Lime-green and popsicle-orange tubes pumped color up and down the
front of the machine. Cruise moved to it. He singled out Riaro,
edging another man aside, and said, "you know me?"

Jesus Riaro cringed
from the man who was a gringo legend in Ramirez's town. Avenging
Angel, they called him when he wasn't around to hear. "Si,"
Riaro said cautiously. He looked around, wondering why he was so
favored with the gringo's attention. He noticed everyone else moving
slowly away. He broke out in an instant white hot sweat. He wiped
down his face with a blue bandanna he carried in his back pocket.

"I brought a girl
here. Little
gringa
. red hair. Young. You want her?"

"Oh!"
So
that was it
. He wasn't in any trouble; no one knew about the coke
he was now addicted to and forced to pilfer from his boss. Cruise
sometimes sold his little friends he brought along on his visits.

"Red hair?
Pretty?"

"And young,"
Cruise repeated. "She's waiting for you. At the cafe next door.
You can pay me later."

Riaro let out a great
whoosh of air, relieved and now happy to have been offered first dibs
on Cruise's girl.

"No problem from
her?" he asked, switching to broken English.

"None. She knows
you're coming."

Riaro grinned. A gold
incisor slick with saliva gleamed in the rainbow light from the
Rockola. He gave Cruise a handshake and moved through the crowd for
the door.

Cruise waited five
beats, the harsh loud tones of the mariachi music bombarding his
ears, then followed Riaro. By the time he reached the outdoor cafe,
Riaro and Molly

were embroiled in a
tangle of arms and legs and flying hair. Molly, panicked, yelled for
someone to help her. Riaro kept grinning and trying to drag her into
the street.

Molly saw Cruise. She
turned pleading eyes on him, and cried, "What's he want? He says
I'm supposed to go with him to the hotel."

Riaro turned then. He
stood off the curb, in the street, hauling on Molly's thin arm. He
paused, but did not let go of his prize. "This is her? Red hair?
I am not mistaken?"

"Worst mistake of
your life, friend." Cruise jerked Riaro's hand from Molly's arm.
She reeled back until she bumped into a woman sitting at a table
behind her. The woman stood and fled with her companion.

Riaro's grin died, but
did not disappear. It hung on his face frozen in place, an unpleasant
rictus. "But... but...you told me...you said...?"

"I hope you saw
your priest, Riaro."

Understanding dawned in
the Mexican's eyes. His right hand whipped a switchblade from his
back pocket. It flicked open. He waved it in front of his belly, low
and menacing.

Molly screamed.
Customers at the tables stood and pressed back into the cantina.

"Ramirez sent you
for me." Riaro spoke Spanish now. "It was all a lie about
the girl."

Cruise stood quietly,
hands held out from his sides. He also switched to Spanish. "You
cheated your employer. You stole from him--that's what he says."

Riaro waved the knife,
looked behind him at the rapidly emptying sidewalk and street. "I
didn't," he claimed in a whispery, fear-laden voice. "I
know better than to do that. I'm not a stupid man."

"Yes, you are.
You're the dumbest fuck in town." Cruise waited for the rage to
build. Riaro wouldn't rush him yet. He had time. He concentrated on
the other man's face, the gleam of the gold tooth, the movements of
the knife, his unsteady, shifting stance. Most of his victims weren't
able to fight back. He must handle the situation with great care and
skill. This was all for Molly's benefit. He was about to save her
honor, wasn't he? She would never know Riaro's death was preordained.
She would think he had kept her from being molested. She'd adore him
for it. He accomplished two ends at once: Molly's loyalty, Riaro's
death, and enough money, if he was lucky, to see him through another
week or more.