The Blackbirder by Dorothy B. Hughes Page B

Fran's as well. She had no doubts that Fran would be at her side winging to a new and safer refuge; if not that, if she were impelled to sudden departure, that he could follow on the next blackbirding flight. Fran. She hadn't allowed herself the luxury of thinking about him for so long a time. She wouldn't now. There was too much to be accomplished.
    Her watch marked past 5:30. Too early for dinner. A cocktail bar was always the best place to observe those with more money than intelligence. It didn't matter if it were the Ritz, Paris, or La Fonda, Santa Fe; that verity remained unchanged. The Bible called them prodigal sons, the past knew them as remittance amen, today they were playboys. The refugees would be there too, feeding nostalgia with the universal sameness of all bars. The Blackbirder would follow to offer his wares. If he were more elusive than that, a bar would brew loose talk, gossip. The refugees always gossiped. It was a way not to talk of the past. If she were a man and could browse at the bar with constancy, she would learn soon what she wanted to know. As it was she could enter upon occasion, sip and listen. She was confident she would hear the whisperings soon. Maxl had tied the Blackbirder to Santa Fe. If the refugees in New York whispered of him, those here would certainly hold the forbidden knowledge.
    La Cantina was off the lobby at left, a small room, Spanish, gay. Great leather chairs were pulled to hand-carved tables, leather couches leaned against the walls. Waitresses swished in bright peasant skirts, embroidered blouses. There were Lantz green and scarlet murals on the walls and over the bar: cactus, cock fights, dancers, horse races.
    Julie moved to a table for two against the wall, sat facing the entrance. A man and a woman, both in blue jeans, were at the table nearest the door. Behind her on the couch by the curtained front window there were two women in city black, modish hats. Another table held a khaki youth and a young girl. The bar was at her left across the room. Leaning against it was a tubby man in a cowboy hat, a lean empty-faced companion in a larger cowboy hat.
    It was all quiet, all pleasant. At the couch facing the bar, his back to her, was a man. The back of his head was pathed with gray. His shoulders were gray.
    He hadn't followed her. This time she had followed him. She wasn't frightened of him. She ordered a Daiquiri. There was no reason why she should not be here. She would sip her iced drink. She wouldn't hurry. If he saw her, a vague nod. She had demonstrated to him on the train that she had no wish to further acquaintance. He had understood. He hadn't spoken to her after Kansas City. It was awkward that he had chosen the same town and the same hotel, but no more than that.
    The swirling calico skirt brought her drink, placed it. Julie laid a bill on the tray. She kept the corner of one eye on the gray man. He was pushing up from the couch now but he didn't turn about. He was some four yards away. He moved to the right, still without turning. The pillar hid him. He emerged from it to cross the small clearance toward the door. She could see his profile. She held the cocktail glass to her lips, her eyes ready to lash if he glanced her way. The bright calico skirt bearing a tray crossed him, returning her change. He was halted and in that moment he sighted Julie. She wasn't prepared; her eyes drooped a fraction too late. He knew she had seen him and he would trespass again. She watched him limp toward her. He stood across the table, his hand on the back of the chair. His mouth wore that small smile, almost an amused smile.
    “We meet again.”
    Any answer must be provocation or snub. She was silent.
    He said, “D'you know, we have met before?”
    She spoke without inflection. “On the train.”
    “I don't mean that.” The smile deepened. “I've remembered. You're Julie Guille.”
    She set the glass on the table without trembling the liquid. Her eyes were expressionless