that?”
“It’s
Mrs
. Rico, isn’t it?”
“That don’t mean she’s married
now
. I been in here plenty and I never saw no husband around.”
Some more people came in and Juanita moved down the bar to serve them. The guitar moved into more cheerful melodies to match the cheerful patrons, laboring men and their perfumed wives trying to ignore tomorrow.
In one corner a young couple danced, close and well and oblivious. Juanita watched them smilingly.
“Think she’d like to dance?” the redhead asked me.
I shrugged.
“Whyn’t you ask her?” he suggested. “And then I can cut in.”
I shook my head.
He grumbled something I couldn’t understand and called to Juanita, “Another double here.”
She came down to pour it. She stood in front of us and poured his drink and then ignored him, asking me, “Happy people, aren’t they? Not like Montevista.”
Was she putting in a word for Mary Chavez, a word against June Lund? I smiled, not committing myself.
Red said hoarsely, “Could I buy you a drink, Juanita?”
“Why not?” she said, and looked at him without interest. She poured a shot and held it high. “Your health, Mr. — ?”
“Hovde,” he said shakily. “Lars Hovde. My friends call me Red.”
“Your health, Mr. Hovde,” she said, and downed her drink in one swallow. She smiled at me and went to the other end of the bar again.
“Hard to get, huh?” Red scoffed. “She don’t fool me.”
“Patience, Red,” I said. “Be smooth.”
“Sure.” He looked down at his faded jeans and fingered the wet spot on his cheap sport shirt. “I got better clothes than this, but I didn’t want her to think I was too fancy.They don’t like that, when you’re fancy.”
“Women
don’t like it when you’re fancy?”
“Not spies,” he said.
His bigotry was annoying enough. But the way he was hoisting the doubles he was bound to get louder. And this was no place to use that ugly word loud enough to be heard.
I walked up to where Juanita stood and told her, “This redhead is beginning to annoy me. I could belt him, but we don’t want any cops, do we?”
“I could tell him to leave,” she suggested.
“No. I’ll go. And about Lund …?”
“I’ll phone you tomorrow, if I decide to take the chance,” she said. “I couldn’t help you tonight anyway. I don’t know exactly where he is tonight.”
“I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow,” I said. “I’d better call you.”
“Any time after noon,” she said.
“Amigo
, you may tell the boy his father is no killer and he will hear from him.”
“Has he been away?” I asked. “On a trip?”
“Your nose is long. Tell the boy what I told you.”
I went out without saying good night to Lars Hovde. The night was cold and clear after the hot day and I stood for a few seconds, breathing it in.
Behind me, the laughter of the happy people — and I hoped Hovde wouldn’t change the mood in there with his loser’s hatreds.
I climbed into the flivver hating the big, dumb bastard. Motel rooms are lonely. Friday night was a bad night for TV and I didn’t even like the good nights. That had been a warm and friendly bar, and who knows what might have developed, either revelatory or romantic, as the guitar and the alcohol worked their blend of magic?
The flivver hummed along, oblivious to my sense of frustration.
And then, as I turned into the drive behind my unit, another car turned in ahead of me and continued toward the rear. It was a big car, a black Continental, and a ghost of this afternoon’s transient lust came back to haunt me.
Maybe that bastard Hovde had done me a favor; it looked like Glenys Christopher’s car.
SIX
T HE CONTINENTAL PULLED into the stall directly behind my room; I pulled into the stall on its left. The light over the rear door was bright enough to show me that it was Glenys behind the wheel. She looked my way and stepped out of the car.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello. Where have you been? I
“It’s
Mrs
. Rico, isn’t it?”
“That don’t mean she’s married
now
. I been in here plenty and I never saw no husband around.”
Some more people came in and Juanita moved down the bar to serve them. The guitar moved into more cheerful melodies to match the cheerful patrons, laboring men and their perfumed wives trying to ignore tomorrow.
In one corner a young couple danced, close and well and oblivious. Juanita watched them smilingly.
“Think she’d like to dance?” the redhead asked me.
I shrugged.
“Whyn’t you ask her?” he suggested. “And then I can cut in.”
I shook my head.
He grumbled something I couldn’t understand and called to Juanita, “Another double here.”
She came down to pour it. She stood in front of us and poured his drink and then ignored him, asking me, “Happy people, aren’t they? Not like Montevista.”
Was she putting in a word for Mary Chavez, a word against June Lund? I smiled, not committing myself.
Red said hoarsely, “Could I buy you a drink, Juanita?”
“Why not?” she said, and looked at him without interest. She poured a shot and held it high. “Your health, Mr. — ?”
“Hovde,” he said shakily. “Lars Hovde. My friends call me Red.”
“Your health, Mr. Hovde,” she said, and downed her drink in one swallow. She smiled at me and went to the other end of the bar again.
“Hard to get, huh?” Red scoffed. “She don’t fool me.”
“Patience, Red,” I said. “Be smooth.”
“Sure.” He looked down at his faded jeans and fingered the wet spot on his cheap sport shirt. “I got better clothes than this, but I didn’t want her to think I was too fancy.They don’t like that, when you’re fancy.”
“Women
don’t like it when you’re fancy?”
“Not spies,” he said.
His bigotry was annoying enough. But the way he was hoisting the doubles he was bound to get louder. And this was no place to use that ugly word loud enough to be heard.
I walked up to where Juanita stood and told her, “This redhead is beginning to annoy me. I could belt him, but we don’t want any cops, do we?”
“I could tell him to leave,” she suggested.
“No. I’ll go. And about Lund …?”
“I’ll phone you tomorrow, if I decide to take the chance,” she said. “I couldn’t help you tonight anyway. I don’t know exactly where he is tonight.”
“I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow,” I said. “I’d better call you.”
“Any time after noon,” she said.
“Amigo
, you may tell the boy his father is no killer and he will hear from him.”
“Has he been away?” I asked. “On a trip?”
“Your nose is long. Tell the boy what I told you.”
I went out without saying good night to Lars Hovde. The night was cold and clear after the hot day and I stood for a few seconds, breathing it in.
Behind me, the laughter of the happy people — and I hoped Hovde wouldn’t change the mood in there with his loser’s hatreds.
I climbed into the flivver hating the big, dumb bastard. Motel rooms are lonely. Friday night was a bad night for TV and I didn’t even like the good nights. That had been a warm and friendly bar, and who knows what might have developed, either revelatory or romantic, as the guitar and the alcohol worked their blend of magic?
The flivver hummed along, oblivious to my sense of frustration.
And then, as I turned into the drive behind my unit, another car turned in ahead of me and continued toward the rear. It was a big car, a black Continental, and a ghost of this afternoon’s transient lust came back to haunt me.
Maybe that bastard Hovde had done me a favor; it looked like Glenys Christopher’s car.
SIX
T HE CONTINENTAL PULLED into the stall directly behind my room; I pulled into the stall on its left. The light over the rear door was bright enough to show me that it was Glenys behind the wheel. She looked my way and stepped out of the car.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello. Where have you been? I
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