County Kill by Peter Rabe

melodic lamentations of the guitar. In a few minutes the redhead finished hisdrink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out without a good night.
    Juanita Rico made a face. “He never says a word, that one. He walks in, orders two double bourbons, drinks them, walks out. Maybe he don’t like us, huh?”
    “Maybe he’s a mute,” I suggested. “What about Skip Lund, Mrs. Rico?”
    She ignored the question. “He’s no mute. He’s got a voice when he orders.” She made another face. “Angloes! Phooey!”
    “I’m one,” I said. “What about Skip Lund?”
    The sound of the guitar stopped. I turned to meet the stare of the lanky man with the thin face. He stared back without animosity or interest.
    Juanita said something to him in Spanish and he began to play again.
    “If I tell you about Skip,” she said, “you will have to tell the police, no?”
    “It depends upon what you tell me. My interest is his son, but I can’t work in opposition to the police.”
    “My interest is his son, too,” she said sadly. “That is why I phoned you.” She sighed. “Skip is a nice boy; he could be a better father.”
    “And husband,” I added.
    She made a face again. “Phooey! Who can be a good husband in Montevista?”
    “Skip’s alive, then?” I asked.
    She nodded. “I’m sure he is.”
    “You don’t
know?”
    “If a man is out of sight, how can you know he’s alive? The manager of your motel, do you
know
he’s alive right now?”
    “You’re quibbling,” I said. “And Johnny Chavez? What did Lund have to do with that?”
    “Nothing. He was not with Johnny when he died.”
    “Mrs. Rico,” I said gravely, “if you can prove that, your duty is to tell it to the police.”
    “There are reasons why I cannot. And if you tell them I said that, I will call you a liar and bring witnesses to fix you
good
in this town.”
    I stared at her.
    She smiled. “You are not the police. You are working for the boy. I will see that Skip contacts the boy.”
    “And what good will that do,” I protested, “if he’s still on the wrong side of the law?”
    Her brown eyes flashed and her full body was rigid. “Can you prove that Skip Lund is on the wrong side of the law?”
    “Not right now. His buddy had a record.”
    “Skip has no record.”
    The guitar stopped again. I gave him my attention once more and he returned the favor.
    I looked back at Juanita. “What is he, the suspense orchestrator or something?”
    “He came to the end of the piece,” she said calmly. “He stops before he starts another. Are you nervous, Mr. Callahan?”
    I said, “I came here in good faith for a charity client. I wasn’t received in good faith.”
    “How can you be? Haven’t you admitted you must work with the police?”
    “And you don’t?”
    “Have another beer,” she said, “on the house.” She took my glass and poured another.
    “And you don’t?” I repeated.
    “What business is that of yours?”
    “It puts Lund in a bad light if you don’t.”
    She exhaled heavily and stared at me in anger. “Mr. Callahan, though you are a stranger here, I offered youperhaps the first help you have been offered in this town. And you immediately make noises like a cop. In this place,
we do not like cops
. Does that put us on the wrong side of the law?”
    “Generally, yes.”
    “Good night to you,” she said. “Drink up and go. To hell with you.”
    I thought of my client, waiting for a word, any word. I thought of the unreasonable Chief Chandler Harris and the belligerent Sergeant Bernard Vogel and the only man who had smiled at me down at Headquarters, the Mexican patrolman.
    I said humbly, “Believe me, my only interest in this case is to find the father of my eleven-year-old client. Where did I go wrong with you?”
    “Drink,” she said, “and go. I should have realized when you informed the police Mary came to see you last night that you could not be trusted.”
    “I swear to you, Juanita, that the