County Kill by Peter Rabe Page A

police found that out by themselves. They have had me watched here ever since I brought Bud back to his mother.”
    Her eyes widened. She went to the window and looked out. She said something in Spanish to the guitar player and he carefully laid down his instrument and went through the swinging door that probably led to the kitchen.
    She came back to ask, “Do you think they followed you here?”
    “I doubt it. I couldn’t see anybody. But I didn’t see the man when they were watching me.”
    “Perhaps, then,” she suggested, “you are not such a great friend of the police?”
    I said evenly, “I can’t fight them and stay in business. But I am a better friend of young Warren Lund.”
    She stared at me as though she was reading more intomy statement than I had intended. Then she said, “Callahan, there are moral acts which are illegal and legal acts which are very immoral. Can you believe that?”
    “Is it a riddle? I’m not good at riddles.”
    “Isn’t that your business, riddles?”
    I smiled at her. “I suppose. I am not very good at my business. I am only strong and stubborn.”
    “You have a nice smile,” she said. “You don’t look anything like a cop when you smile.”
    “Let’s see your smile,” I said.
    She took my glass and refilled it. She smiled. “Some enchiladas, perhaps? I make the best enchiladas in town.”
    “Not now,” I said. “Maybe later.”
    There was no point in crowding her. She was a strong personality and this was
mañana
land. And where else did I have to go?
    The guitar player, who had gone out through the kitchen, came in again through the front door and spoke softly to her in Spanish. She nodded and he went back to the guitar.
    “All clear?” I asked.
    “Yes.”
    I sipped my beer. “That Mary Chavez is a sweet girl, isn’t she?”
    “An angel. They will be married, she and Skip. He is already taking instructions from the priest.”
    “From the priest? When I was a Catholic, Juanita, divorced people could not be married by a priest.”
    “You were a dumb Catholic, Callahan. If the parties were originally married outside the Church, they are not married in the eyes of the Church. Skip was not married before to a Catholic.
    She was wrong, I felt sure. But it was not a time to argue religion. Nor was I qualified. And though the love life of Skip Lund was none of my business and Mary Chavez wasa sweet girl, and though I was sure that Lund had sound reasons, I was sad.
    Because Bud, like all boys, needed a father, a father of his own blood.
    The door opened and the redhead was back.
    Mrs. Rico stared at him and then at me. This was obviously a change in the man’s routine, and it had startled her.
    He didn’t go to the end of the bar. He came over to stand next to me and say gruffly, “Double bourbon.”
    “I know,” she said. “I ought to by now, huh?”
    He nodded without looking at her.
    She poured it and went over to talk with the guitar player.
    The redhead said quietly, “I usually get out of here before all those spies come in. But I figured if you can take it, I can.”
    “If you’re bigoted,” I said, “why come in here at all?”
    “Bigoted? What’s that? That mean you don’t like Mexicans?”
    “That’s one of the things it means. Nobody’s forcing you to come in here.”
    He studied me doubtfully. He had a big, ugly, freckled face and faded-blue eyes. I could guess he had been in a few bar fights in his time and won his share.
    “A wise guy?” he asked ominously.
    “No. Only puzzled. Is the whisky better here? Or maybe cheaper?”
    His smile was cynical. “Why are you here?”
    “On business. Why else?”
    Juanita was back behind the bar now and Red’s eyes moved slyly that way and I got his message. There was lust in the slyness, a mute, aching lust.
    Juanita began to wash some glasses.
    I said quietly to the redhead, “She’s married and she doesn’t like angloes. It’s hopeless, Red.”
    “Married, huh? Where’d you hear