“That’s a foolish reason for quitting school.”
The boy shrugged. “You asked. I answered. Maybe in your day the chicks was different, maybe they liked to do things like walk in the park, see? Now when you ask a chick out, she wants to go to a drive-in movie like, and you can’t go to a drive-in without you got a car.”
“Unless you have a car.”
“That’s what I mean. Without you got a car, you don’t rate, you’re the most nothing.”
In the past few years Pinata had heard this same story fifty times, often from brighter and more educable boys than Chico. Each time it depressed him a little further. He said, “You’re pretty young to be working in a place like this, aren’t you, Chico?”
“There ain’t no harm in it,” the boy said nervously. “Honest to God, Mr. Pinata. It’s not like I go around lapping up what’s left in the glasses. Croaky does that — he’s the dishwasher. It’s part of his salary like.”
“What about the other people who work here? The waitresses, for example. How do they treat you?”
“O.K.”
“The blonde standing beside the back booth, who’s she?”
“Millie. The other one’s called Sunny, short for sunshine on account of she never smiles. She says, what’s to smile at.” Chico was relieved to have the conversation switched from himself, and he intended to keep it that way if he could. “Millie’s real cool. She used to teach dancing at one of them schools, you know, like cha cha cha, but it was too hard on her feet. They were flat to begin with and got flatter.”
“I thought there was a new girl around, Nita somebody-or-other.”
“Oh, her. She’s a funny one. One minute you’re her best friend — good morning, Chico, ain’t it a beautiful morning, Chico — and the next minute she looks at me like I’m the thing from outer space. She’s a snappy waitress, though. Real jet. Her and the old bird” — he indicated Mrs. Brewster with a slight movement of his head — “are pretty palsy because the old bird knows her mother. I hear them talking about it a lot.”
“Isn’t Nita working today?”
“She was. She took off an hour ago with a guy. There was some trouble about a song, ended up with Mrs. Brewster and the guy singing this real square song with her name in it, Juanita. Nobody was drunk; it wasn’t that kind of singing.”
“Could the man have been her husband?”
“Naw. He’s in hock. This other guy, he’s the one put him here.” God, Fielding’s back in town. I wonder if Daisy knows.
“I spotted him soon as he came in,” Chico added with pride. “I got a good memory for faces. Maybe I don’t dig that math bit so good, but faces I never forget.”
“How old a man was he?”
“Old enough to be my father. Maybe even old enough to be your father.”
“That’s pretty old,” Pinata said wryly.
“Sure. I know. I was kinda surprised Nita’d want to go out with him.”
“Out where?”
“To the movies. Nita and the old bird had an argument about it, not a real fight like, just quiet. You go home to your mother, the old bird says, but Nita wasn’t having any of that stuff, so she and the guy take off. Nita don’t like to be told a thing. Like the other day it’s raining, see, and I says to her, look, it’s raining. That’s all, nothing personal. But she gets sore as hell, like I’d told her her lipstick was on crooked or something. Me, I think she’s zafada, she needs a headshrinker.”
Mrs. Brewster turned suddenly and called out in a sharp, penetrating voice, “Chico, sweep!”
“Sure. Yes, ma’am,” Chico said. “I got to get back to work now, Mr. Pinata. See you at the Y, huh?”
“I hope so. I’d hate to think you’ve given up everything merely to support a car.”
“That’s the way it is these days, if you dig me.”
“Yes, I guess I dig you, Chico.”
“You can’t change it, I can’t change it, that’s the way it is.”
“Chico!” Mrs. Brewster screamed. “Sweep!”
Chico swept.
The public phone booth on the corner smelled as if it were used during the dark hours for more personal communication and needs than the telephone company had planned on. The walls were covered with telephone numbers, initials, names, messages: winston tastes good. winston, 93446. sally m is cool. don’t be haf safe. greetings from jersey city. life is rotten. you guys are all nutz. 24t, u4 me. hello crule world goodby.
Pinata dialed Daisy’s number and received a busy signal. Then he called Charles Alston at his house.
Alston himself answered. “Hello?”
“This is Steve Pinata, Charley.”
“Any luck?”
“That depends on what you mean by luck. I went to the Velada. Juanita wasn’t on duty, but there’s no doubt she’s the girl.”
Alston’s heavy sigh could be heard even above the street noises coming through the open door of the telephone booth. “I was afraid of this. Well, I have no alternative. I’ll have to let the Probation Department know about her. I hate the idea, but the girl’s got to be protected and so do the children. Do you think — that is, you agree, don’t you, that I should notify the Probation Department?”
“That’s up to you. You know the circumstances better than I do.”
“They’re closed for the weekend, of course, but I’ll call them first thing Monday morning.”
“And meanwhile?”
“Meanwhile we wait.”
“Meanwhile you wait,” Pinata said. “I don’t. I’m going to try and find her.”
“Why?”
“She happens to be out with an ex-client of mine. I’d like to see him again for various reasons.”
“When you find her, go easy on her. For her sake,” Alston added, “not yours. I assume you can take care of yourself. Where’s she staying?”
“With her mother, I think. At least she’s in contact with her, so I’ll try there first. Where does Mrs. Rosario live?”
“When I knew her, she was living in a little house on Granada Street. It’s very likely she’s still there, since the house belongs to her. She bought it a long time ago. She used to be the housekeeper on the old Higginson ranch. When Mrs. Higginson died, she left Mrs. Rosario a few thousand dollars, as she did all her other employees. By the way, if Juanita is out with this ex-client of yours, why do you expect to find her at the house on Granada Street? Believe me, she isn’t the type to bring the boys home to mother.”
“I have a hunch she might have dropped in to change her clothes. She was working, in uniform, until two o’clock. She wouldn’t be likely to keep a date while wearing a uniform.”
“Definitely not. So?”
“I thought I’d try to get some information from Mrs. Rosario.”
Alston’s laugh was loud and brief. “You may or may not get it. It depends on whether you have a mal ojo. By the way, I set up your appointment with Roy Fondero for three o’clock.”
“It’s almost that now.”
“Then you’d better get over there. He’s driving down to L.A. for the game tonight. Oh yes, one more word of advice, Steve: in dealing with Mrs. Rosario, play up the clean-living, high-thinking angle. You never swear, drink, smoke, blaspheme, or fornicate. You go to Mass and confession and observe saints’ days. You don’t happen to have a brother or uncle who’s a priest?”
“I might have.”
“That would help,” Alston said. “Incidentally, do you speak Spanish?”
“Some.”
“Well, don’t. Many Spanish Americans who’ve been here a long time, like Mrs. Rosario, resent people addressing them in Spanish, although they may use the language themselves with their friends and families.”