"It isn't always," said Mendoza, "the hand dealt to you, so much as the way you play it."
"You should know. How much do you average a year in poker winnings, anyway?"
"Sometimes enough to buy my shirts."
"That ain't hay for you, at what, twelve bucks a throw…. You know something else? When we do catch up with him, he's going to be some guy who's got the reputation of being the kindest, mildest, sweetest-tempered hombre God ever put on earth. Everybody who knows him'll say, Oh, John couldn't be the one, he'd never do such a thing, officer! Want to bet?"
Mendoza laughed, abrupt and mirthless. "Don't I know it! I only hope he doesn't have another brain storm before we catch up to him.
No one's ever accused me of being a sentimental man,?no, por Dios! but I don't care for his notions of how to treat women." He swept the Hamburg off, passed a hand over the thick, Indian-straight black hair that grew to a widow's peak, and opened the door.
THREE
The girl who had found the body was nervous, too nervous. Not a nice experience, but it had been over an hour ago, and if she had nothing to do with it, why was she trembling and stammering and eying the policemen as if she expected the third degree? Mendoza was mildly curious.
She was a rather pretty girl, about twenty-seven, neat rounded figure, modest and dowdy in a clean cotton housedress. Fine olive-tan complexion, big brown eyes, minimum of make-up: a respectable girl. "Her name was Elena Ramirez. I realize you wouldn't be likely to recognize anyone you knew under the circumstances-so, did you know Miss Ramirez?"
"Oh, no, sir, I never heard of her." She twisted her hands together and her eyes shifted away. "I'll be awful late for work, sir, I don't know nothing."
Mendoza let her go. "Sergeant Hackett will drive you to your job and explain why you're late"; and to Hackett, "Conversation-find out what you can about her, and then see what you can pick up where she lives. I don't think she's got anything to do with it, but one never knows. I'll see the family. That takes us to an early lunch, maybe Federico's at twelve-thirty, O.K.?-we'll compare notes."
" Est bien," said Hackett, and joined Agnes Browne outside. The Italian grocer, hovering to get Mendoza's attention, asked excitedly if he had said Ramirez-the family Ramirez over on Liggitt Street, would that be? Sacred name of God, what a terrible thing-ah, yes, he knew them, only to nod to, the signor comprehended-sometimes the wife came in to buy, not often-God pity them, to lose a daughter so-no, no, the girl he did not know at all-she was assaulted, assassinated by some madman, then?
"So I think," said Mendoza. The men from headquarters had dispersed; the ambulance was gone, the patrol car was gone. Across the street he saw Dwyer leave the first house next to the corner lot and head for the neighboring one. Mendoza crossed to his car and stopped to light a cigarette; he looked at the car thoughtfully, getting out his keys. He believed in buying the very best piece of merchandise obtainable of what one set out to buy, giving it loving care and using it until it fell to pieces. A thing like a car, that by this scheme was with you for years, you got acclimated to one another, it had personal individuality for you, it was more than a mere machine of transportation. The austerely elegant black Ferrari club-saloon was only thirteen years old, just into middle age for a Ferrari, and it would be mad, extravagant, to give it up: he had no intention of doing so: but there was no denying that with the increase of traffic and parking problems, its size was a disadvantage, not to say a nuisance. The trouble was, if he did buy a new car, it would be one with less than twelve cylinders-unless he should buy one of the new, smaller Ferraris, which was piling madness on madness.
He muttered, " Es dificil," got in and started the engine. ("Now look, Mr. Mendoza," the mechanic had said patiently, "the number o' cylinders isn't anythin' to do with how good the car is! If you knew anythin' about engines atall-! I know it sounds to you like you're gettin' more for your money-facta the matter is, about all it means is it costs more to run, see? Sure, this is the hell of a great car, but you'd be just as well off, get just as much power and speed, with say something like that Mercedes six-I mean if you got to have a foreigner-or one of them slick hardtop Jaguars.
Liggitt Street, a block the other side of Main and one down, was a bare cut above Commerce. Not so many signs in windows, and the houses, most as old and poor, better cared for. The Ramirez house was one of the two-storey ones; as he came up the walk, he saw that the curtains at the narrow front windows were clean and starched, a few flowers planted against the low porch.
He did not mind breaking bad news to strangers, and often it was of help to notice reactions: little things might tell if this was as impersonal fate as it looked, or had reasons closer to home. But he fully expected that a good deal of time would be wasted, from his point of view, while they assimilated the news, before he could decently ask questions.
He was not wrong there. The family consisted of Papa, Mama, assorted children between three and sixteen, an older daughter perhaps twenty-one, and a stocky middle-aged man who bore enough resemblance to Papa that his designation as Tio Tomas was superfluous.
Mendoza waited through Mama's hysterics, the dispatching of a message to the parish priest, the settling of Mama on the sofa with a blanket, cologne-soaked handkerchief, glass of wine, and her remaining brood nested about her comfortingly. He found a cracked pink saucer in obvious use as an ash tray and smoked placidly in the midst of the uproar, eyes and ears busy.
Not native Mexican-Americans, these, not a couple of generations across the border. The kids, they had the marks of smart American kids, and their English was unhesitating, sparked with slang; but Mama, fat and decent in ankle4ength black cotton, and Papa, collarless neck scrawny above an old flannel bathrobe, were Old Country. It was no different, Mexican, German, Lithuanian, whatever-always there was bound to be a little friction, the kids naturally talking on freer modern ways, the old ones disapproving, worried, and arguments about it. So?
The man called Tio Tomas sat in a straight chair behind the sofa and said nothing, smoking tiny black Mexican cigarillos.
"You know I must ask you questions," said Mendoza at last, putting a hand on Manuel Ramirez' arm. "I'm sorry to intrude on your grief, but to help us in hunting whoever has killed your daughter."
"Si, yes, it is understood,,, whispered Ramirez. "I-I tell you whatever you want to know. Maria Santisima, my brain is not working for this terrible thing, but-excuse, mister, I don't speak so good in English."
"Then we speak Spanish."
"Ah, you have the tongue, that's good. I thank you-pardon, mister, the name I did not."
"Lieutenant Mendoza."
"Mendoza." He gave it the hard Mexican pronunciation that was ultimately Aztec, instead of the more elegant Spanish sibilance. "You are-an agent of police?"
"I am. I'll ask you first."
"The gentleman's good to wait and be polite." It was the oldest girl, coming up quietly, looking at him with open curiosity; she was pale, but had not been weeping. She was not as pretty as her sister had been, but not bad-looking, in a buxom way. "Of course we know you got to ask questions, but look, Papa, no sense disturbing Mama with it-I guess you and me can tell him whatever he wants. Let's go in the kitchen, if that's all right, mister?"