“I never said I didn’t.”
“You implied as much.”
“I evaded the question. I wanted to make sure you were an intelligent and reasonable man.”
“And now that you’ve made sure, you will tell me everything?”
“Everything isn’t much,” Aragon said. “First I got Jenkins’ address from his girlfriend in the Quarry.”
“Her name, please.”
“Emilia Ontiveros.”
“Why is she in the Quarry?”
“For assault. Assault on Jenkins.”
“This Jenkins apparently didn’t have a way with women like Lockwood.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Miss Ontiveros is the jealous type. Anyway, Jenkins claimed that he’d lost contact with Lockwood and had no idea where he was. For a sum of money he agreed to find Tula Lopez for me. I think he found her, but he never had a chance to tell me and to collect the rest of his money. I had paid him fifty dollars in advance and promised him two hundred more for Tula Lopez. She’d borne Lockwood a child. I figured there might still be some kind of bond between them and she could possibly put me in touch with him if he’s alive, or tell me what happened to him if he’s dead.”
“Two hundred dollars to find a hustler in these parts, that’s real inflation for you. They used to be a dime a dozen, and for fifty cents they’d throw in a free case of V.D. They’re somewhat cleaner now. The tourists were complaining. Turista in Rio Seco did not always involve the digestive track... Tell me more about Jenkins.”
“The fifty dollars was found in his pocket when they picked up the pieces. It paid for his funeral. It wasn’t much of a funeral — I’m sure Hernandez did better.”
Aragon thought of the mourning party leaving the house in the Cadillacs and Jensen, the black-veiled widow with her starched and scrubbed children, the dignified, formally dressed men. They hadn’t yet returned. They were probably still at church, praying for Hernandez’s soul and paying for the candles with some of his mordidas.
“I am still upchucking coincidences,” the superintendent said. “A little wine might help settle my stomach. Would you care for some?”
Aragon glanced over at the table with the bottle of wine on it and the impaled cork. “From that bottle?”
“Certainly. Red wine should always be served at room temperature.”
“What I meant was, I thought it would be considered evidence.”
“I see no harm in drinking a little of the evidence. There’ll be enough left.” The superintendent poured two glasses of wine, gave one to Aragon and raised the other in a toast. “To crime. Without it we’d both be unemployed. Drink up.”
“I prefer not to.”
“Squeamish?”
“I was imagining what would happen to me back home if I were found drinking some of the evidence in a murder case.”
“A bad thing would happen?”
“Very bad. Maybe terminal.”
“Ah well, we’re more civilized here. A little evidence is just as good as a lot.” He drank both glasses of wine, pronounced it mediocre, wished aloud for some bleu cheese to go with it, poured a third glass and settled back in the swivel chair again. “This client of yours, the lady who is about fifty and likes fat homely men, she must be rich.”
“Yes.”
“Is she Catholic?”
“No.”
“I can be ecumenical when necessary. Is she really very rich, do you suppose?”
“Yes.”
“You know, Aragon, I could change my mind about wanting a family. After all, it might be a mistake for a man my age to start a family if he has the opportunity to marry a mature rich woman. This line of thought appeals to me suddenly. What do you think?”
“I think no.”
“Why no?”
“For starters, Mrs. Decker is already married, she doesn’t speak Spanish, she has strong opinions and states them bluntly, and she’s pretty tight with a buck.”
“But as her husband I would control her money.”
“No.”
“I would be boss.”
“No.”
“Ah well, there are other fish in the sea,” the superintendent said.
He postponed his report to Gilly until after he’d had dinner and some tequila in the form of three margaritas. He decided to make the call as brief as possible in the hope of avoiding any histrionics, recriminations, hindsights or whatever she was offering, so after a brief exchange of amenities he said, “There’s an item in tonight’s newspaper. You’d better hear it.”
“No. Wait. Maybe I’d rather not. Your voice sounds funny.”
“I’ve been talking for four hours.”
“What about? No, don’t tell me. There’s something wrong, of course. There always is when the phone rings late at night like this and it’s you on the line.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Aragon? Operator, I think I’ve been cut off. Aragon, are you there? What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to shut up.”
“That’s rude,” Gilly said. “That’s damn bloody rude.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t you going to apologize?”
“Not unless I have to.”
“I don’t believe in forced apologies. What good are forced apologies?”
“Beats me.”
“You’ve been drinking again. It’s obvious from your impertinence.”
“I’m having my third margarita.”
“You’ll turn into a lush if you keep this up. Does alcoholism run in your family?”
“Shucks, no. There was just Mom and Dad, and my grandparents on both sides, and my uncles Manuel and Reginato, and my Aunt Maya — she could really belt the booze—”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I will if you will.”
She did, for a minute. “Is it — do you have bad news?”
“It was bad for Hernandez and not so good for me. Are you ready to listen now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. ‘Magistrate Guadalupe Hernandez, well-known in Rio Seco legal circles, died last night of a stab wound inflicted during an attempted burglary of his foothill residence. Magistrate Hernandez maintained an office in his home and it was in this room that the crime occurred. It is not known what was stolen from the ransacked office. No suspects have been arrested, but Superintendent Playa of the Police Department is following several important leads. The magistrate’s survivors include his wife, Carmela Maria Espinosa, six children, three brothers and a sister. Requiem high mass will be recited Sunday evening at Her Lady of Sorrows Church.’ That’s it, Mrs. Decker.”
“Does this mean you never even talked to him?”
“It means,” Aragon said, “that someone reached him before I did. Any man who lives the way he lived makes enemies. Maybe one of them tried to get his mordida back.”
“ ‘Ransacked office.’ What was ransacked?”
“Desk drawers, filing cabinets, everything. Even if Hernandez were alive to supervise the work, it would take a week to put things together again. As matters stand now, it will probably never be known for sure if any particular file is missing, such as one about B. J. and the circumstances of his release and his present whereabouts.”
“How do you know such a file ever existed?”
“I don’t. It probably didn’t, and even more probably doesn’t.”
“So we’ve come to another dead end.”
“Dying, anyway.”
“How I hate those words, ‘dead,’ ‘dying.’ But God knows I should be used to them by now.”
“Please,” Aragon said, “don’t go into a poor-little-me routine. I’ve been on the grill a long time tonight and I still have some sore spots. Which is better than being in jail.”
“Did they put you in jail?”
“Almost.”
“What crime did you commit?”