Dress Her in Indigo by John D. MacDonald
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Political, Hard-Boiled, Fort Lauderdale (Fla.), McGee; Travis (Fictitious character)
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was having a camper here, was Chevrolet trock of Florida, color.. how you say?... azul."
"Blue."
"Ah, yes. Blue!" Suddenly his smile dwindled. "Ah! Yes, it was that one. You his fren?"
"No. I am not his friend, senor."
"Then I say. Many, many people here. Nice American turista people. That one, that Roak-o, the only one I must ask to leaving when the month is up. Too much the fights and noise. Too many times he called me bad words. This is not right, that is not right. Nothing is right for him. I have to get policia to make sure he is going."
"Where did he go from here?"
"Who knows? Away from Oaxaca, for surely."
"Who was with him when he left?"
"Who knows. Different people live with him here the two month. One two three four. Different girls sometimes. Boys and girls. I have no names, nothing. It is nothing to me. So, he is going now for... wan month and six day." The grin was broad as he said, "I am not missing him moch, you bet. One other senor was asking the same things, maybe it is two weeks ago, I think. And he is asking about his daughter."
"Was his name McLeen?"
"Ah, yes. Senor McLeen. But I do not know of the girl nothing. To me, senor, a father is never letting his daughter go off far away in these times. All is changing, no? Some of these young American, they are very nice and good. But there are the ones such like Roak-o, doing bad things."
"Are there any young people here who were friendly with Rockland?"
"Some would know him, I think maybe. Some are here many month. Perhaps the young ones, the senor and senora... I cannot say. Here, look, is the name."
Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Knighton, of Kerrville, Texas.
They were in space number twenty. It was a travel trailer with canvas rigged to make an extra area of living space. But whatever towed the trailer was not there, and the trailer was locked.
Happy Fats explained that the young man was an amateur archeologist who was writing a novel Page 24
about the Zapotecan civilization in pre-Columbian Mexico, and said that the couple went on a lot of field trips in their "Lawn Roover."
"Very young. Very nice. Very hoppy."
So it was then a little past five on that twenty-ninth day of August, and I asked Meyer if it might not be a good time to chat with that expatriate American, Bruce Bundy, who had loaned his car to some unknown named George, who had loaned it to Bix, who had died in it, or near it.
"I used to be young and nice and hoppy." Meyer said wistfully.
"So now you are old, and nice, and hoppy. And you don't listen. Bundy. Bruce Bundy. Now?"
"Why sure."
I studied the map and found Las Artes, a short street about ten blocks north of the zoealo, toward our hotel. I parked at the end of the street and locked up, and we went looking for number eighty-one.
It was a very narrow two-story house squeezed between its bulkier neighbors. Its plaster front was painted in a faded hue of raspberry Grilled iron doors were locked across the arched entrance, but the inner doors were open. We could see down a long shadowy corridor to the sun-bright flowers of the rear courtyard. I tugged a woven leather thong and a bell hanging in the archway clanged. A man, slender in silhouette, appeared and came swiftly along the corridor, and then slowed as he saw us, and stopped, frowning, in the edge of daylight, one long step inside the doorway.
"Are you looking for someone?" he asked.
"For a Mr. Bruce Bundy."
"I am he," he said, and it surprised me because he looked no more than thirty-four, and the police report had said he was forty-four. "What do you wish to see me about?"
"It's about the fatal accident involving your vehicle on the third of this month."
He shook his head and sighed. "Oh dear Lord, will I never come to the end of the bloody red tape. I have answered endless questions, and have filled out endless reports. What is your part in it?"
"This is my associate, Mr. Meyer. My name is McGee. I'm sorry to bother you, but this is a necessary part of the
"Blue."
"Ah, yes. Blue!" Suddenly his smile dwindled. "Ah! Yes, it was that one. You his fren?"
"No. I am not his friend, senor."
"Then I say. Many, many people here. Nice American turista people. That one, that Roak-o, the only one I must ask to leaving when the month is up. Too much the fights and noise. Too many times he called me bad words. This is not right, that is not right. Nothing is right for him. I have to get policia to make sure he is going."
"Where did he go from here?"
"Who knows? Away from Oaxaca, for surely."
"Who was with him when he left?"
"Who knows. Different people live with him here the two month. One two three four. Different girls sometimes. Boys and girls. I have no names, nothing. It is nothing to me. So, he is going now for... wan month and six day." The grin was broad as he said, "I am not missing him moch, you bet. One other senor was asking the same things, maybe it is two weeks ago, I think. And he is asking about his daughter."
"Was his name McLeen?"
"Ah, yes. Senor McLeen. But I do not know of the girl nothing. To me, senor, a father is never letting his daughter go off far away in these times. All is changing, no? Some of these young American, they are very nice and good. But there are the ones such like Roak-o, doing bad things."
"Are there any young people here who were friendly with Rockland?"
"Some would know him, I think maybe. Some are here many month. Perhaps the young ones, the senor and senora... I cannot say. Here, look, is the name."
Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Knighton, of Kerrville, Texas.
They were in space number twenty. It was a travel trailer with canvas rigged to make an extra area of living space. But whatever towed the trailer was not there, and the trailer was locked.
Happy Fats explained that the young man was an amateur archeologist who was writing a novel Page 24
about the Zapotecan civilization in pre-Columbian Mexico, and said that the couple went on a lot of field trips in their "Lawn Roover."
"Very young. Very nice. Very hoppy."
So it was then a little past five on that twenty-ninth day of August, and I asked Meyer if it might not be a good time to chat with that expatriate American, Bruce Bundy, who had loaned his car to some unknown named George, who had loaned it to Bix, who had died in it, or near it.
"I used to be young and nice and hoppy." Meyer said wistfully.
"So now you are old, and nice, and hoppy. And you don't listen. Bundy. Bruce Bundy. Now?"
"Why sure."
I studied the map and found Las Artes, a short street about ten blocks north of the zoealo, toward our hotel. I parked at the end of the street and locked up, and we went looking for number eighty-one.
It was a very narrow two-story house squeezed between its bulkier neighbors. Its plaster front was painted in a faded hue of raspberry Grilled iron doors were locked across the arched entrance, but the inner doors were open. We could see down a long shadowy corridor to the sun-bright flowers of the rear courtyard. I tugged a woven leather thong and a bell hanging in the archway clanged. A man, slender in silhouette, appeared and came swiftly along the corridor, and then slowed as he saw us, and stopped, frowning, in the edge of daylight, one long step inside the doorway.
"Are you looking for someone?" he asked.
"For a Mr. Bruce Bundy."
"I am he," he said, and it surprised me because he looked no more than thirty-four, and the police report had said he was forty-four. "What do you wish to see me about?"
"It's about the fatal accident involving your vehicle on the third of this month."
He shook his head and sighed. "Oh dear Lord, will I never come to the end of the bloody red tape. I have answered endless questions, and have filled out endless reports. What is your part in it?"
"This is my associate, Mr. Meyer. My name is McGee. I'm sorry to bother you, but this is a necessary part of the
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