“That’s good, because it’s not true. I’ve got a car. I just don’t bring it to work. I don’t like leaving it parked in the hot sun for all those niggers to lean against and scratch up the finish.”
He wondered whether the car, and “all those niggers” who leaned against it, existed outside Juanita’s mind. He hoped they were real and not symbols of the dark and ugly things that had happened to her, in or out of the hot sun.
“I take real good care of the finish.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Here’s your check. Eighty-five cents.”
He gave her a dollar, and she went behind the counter to get his change.
“How you feeling now, girl?” Mrs. Brewster said softly.
“Fine.”
“When you get off work, you go home to your mother, lie down, take a little rest. You do that, eh?”
“I’m going to the movies.”
“With him?”
Both the women turned and looked at Fielding. He wasn’t sure what was expected of him, so he smiled in a tentative way. Neither of them smiled back.
“He’s all right,” Juanita said. “He’s old enough to be my father.”
“Sure, we know that, but does he?”
“We’re only going to the movies.”
“He looks like a lush,” Mrs. Brewster said, “all those broken veins on his nose and cheekbones, and see the way he shakes.”
“He only had one beer.”
“And suppose one of Joe’s friends sees you with this man?”
“Joe doesn’t know anybody in town.”
Mrs. Brewster began fanning herself with her apron. “It’s too hot to argue. Just you be careful, girl. Your mother and me, we’re old friends; we don’t want you to start running wild again. You’re a respectable married woman with a husband and kids, remember that.”
Juanita had heard it all a hundred times; she could have recited it forward and backward and in Spanish. She listened without interest, watching the clock on the wall, leaning her weight first on one foot, then another.
“You hear me, girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Pay it some mind, then.”
“Oh sure,” Juanita said, and gave Fielding an amused little glance: Listen to this spook, will you? “Can I go now?”
“It’s not two yet.”
“Can’t I go early just this once?”
“All right, just this once. But it’s no way to conduct a business, I ought to have my head examined for soft spots.”
Juanita went over to the booth where Fielding was sitting. “Here’s your change.”
“Keep it.”
“Thanks. I can go now; the spook says it’s O.K. Shall I say ‘money’ and make her giggle again, just for fun?”
“No.”
“Don’t you want to hear it?”
“No.”
For some reason she couldn’t figure out, Juanita didn’t want to hear it again either. She walked very quickly to the door without glancing back to see whether Mrs. Brewster was watching or Fielding was following.
Outside. This was what Juanita liked best, to be out and free, to be moving fast, going from one place to another, not being anywhere in particular or with anyone in particular, which was the same thing, because people were like places, like houses, they tied you down and made you live in them. She wanted to be a train, a huge, beautiful, shiny train, which never had to stop for fuel or to let people off or on. It just kept on going, blowing its big whistle, frightening everyone off the tracks.
These were the high points of her life, the times between places.
She was a train. Awhoooeeeee...
13
I am alone, surrounded by strangers in a strange place...
It was 2:30 when Pinata reached the neighborhood of the Velada Café. Before he got out of the car, he took off his tie and sports coat, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and unbuttoned it at the neck. He planned on using the direct approach, asking for the girl and letting it be assumed he was one of her admirers.
But he hadn’t figured on Mrs. Brewster’s sharp, suspicious eyes. He was barely inside the door when she spotted him and said to Chico the busboy out of the corner of her mouth, “Cop. You in trouble?”
“No, Mrs. Brewster.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I’m...”
“If he asks your age, you’re twenty-one, see?”
“He won’t believe it. I know him. I mean, he knows me from the Y; he taught me handball.”
“O.K., hide in the back room till he leaves.”
Chico made a dash for the back room, riding his broom like a witch frightened by a bigger witch.
Pinata sat down at the counter. Mrs. Brewster approached him, holding her apron in front of her like a shield, and said very politely, “Can I get you something, sir?”
“What’s your lunch special?”
“We’re not serving lunch. It’s after hours.”
“How about a bowl of soup?”
“We’re fresh out of soup.”
“Coffee?”
“It’s stale.”
“I see.”
“I could make you some fresh, but it’d take a long time. I move slow.”
“Chico moves pretty fast,” Pinata said. “Of course, he’s young.”
Mrs. Brewster’s eyes glittered. “Not so young. Twenty-one.”
“My guess would be sixteen.”
“Twenty-one. He’s got a birth certificate says twenty-one, all printed up proper.”
“He must have his own printer.”
“Chico looks young,” Mrs. Brewster said stubbornly, “because his whiskers are slow to come through the skin.”
Pinata was well aware by this time that his plans for a direct approach were useless, that it would be impossible to get information from a woman who’d refused to serve him lunch or coffee. He said, “Look, I’m not a policeman. It’s not my concern if you’re employing underage help. Chico just happens to be a friend of mine. I’d like to talk to him for a minute.”
“What for?”
“To see how he’s getting along.”
“He’s getting along good. He minds his own business, which is how everybody should do.”
Pinata looked toward the rear of the café and saw Chico’s eyes peering out at him through the little square of glass in one of the swinging doors. Pinata smiled, and the boy grinned back in a friendly way.
Seeing the grin, Mrs. Brewster hesitated, wiping her hands uneasily on her apron. “Chico’s not in trouble?”
“No.”
“And you met him at the Y, eh?”
“That’s right.”
Mrs. Brewster’s snort indicated her low opinion of the Y, but she motioned to Chico with her apron, and he came sidling out of the door dragging his broom behind him. He was still wearing his grin, but it seemed in close-up to be less friendly than anxious.
“Hello, Chico.”
“Hello, Mr. Pinata.”
“I haven’t seen you for a long time.”
“No, well, I been busy, one thing and another like.”
Three men in coveralls came in and sat at the far end of the counter. Mrs. Brewster went over to take their orders, giving Chico a little frown of warning as she passed.
“How’s your schoolwork coming along?” Pinata said.
Chico stared up at an interesting spot on the ceiling. “Not so good.”
“You’re getting passing grades, I hope.”
“That grade bit’s all in the past. I quit school at Christmastime.”
“Why?”
“I had to get a steady job to keep my car running. That after-school errand stuff wasn’t enough. You can’t take the chicks out in a machine that don’t run good.”