Mike swung on Rocko and missed, and Rocko tagged him as he lunged forward off balance.
“And,” said Della, “Mike was out of it right then. And that mean bastard knew it, but he hit him three more times before he could fall down, and then kicked him in the side. I jumped on his back and reached around to claw his face, and he bucked me off right into the side of the trailer. It sprained my neck and I went around for a week with my head way over on the side like this.”
“Is he still there?”
“Our friends left not long after that. We had no reason to go back. Maybe he’s still there.” They told me how to find it. It was on the west side of town. It was near a street carnival. It was near a school. It had an iron fence around it. It was near the Ford garage. Oh. And called Los Pajaros Trailer Court.
With considerable animation, Della said, “We’ve got a crazy pad, built like into a corner of a walled garden where there used to be some kind of tourist home that burned. We met such a sweet guy in Mexico City at the art school, and we were running out of money, and he said we could stay there. Outdoor plumbing, and a well with a pump that Mike fixed, and all the tame flowers have gone wild. It’s about a mile along the Coyotepec road. You ought to come and see us and…”
She froze, and her eyes changed and narrowed. “You are some kind of sneak, man. What the hell am I saying? Who knows you?”
“We know him, honey,,” Mike said gently. “You have to go along with your own reaction. We can’t keep all the walls up all the time. We can’t demand credentials.”
“Easier for you,” she said obliquely. “The man can be so dear, and then his partner takes over and raps you on your kinky haid until your ears bleed, and then the dear man takes his turn with sweet talk.”
“Come and see us if you get a chance. On the left on the way to the airport,” Mike said. “Look for an old red jeep parked under the trees by the wall.”
“I’m sorry,” Della Davis said.
“I’ll stop by and say hello. Thanks for the invitation. One thing I forgot to ask. The man who owned the car she drove off the road. Bruce Bundy. Know him? Or the woman who identified her body, the French woman, Mrs. Vitrier?”
They did not know them. Mike said, “There are some eerie people living in these little resort spots in Mexico. Here and in Cuernavaca and Taxco and San Miguel. Some are loaded and some are just making it. And the summer is hunting time, both ways. All the kids come flooding down, and there are weirdo types who stalk the kids, and hard kids that stalk the resident crazies. I used to make that scene. Now I don’t need it. I can’t use it. Depending on what hangups you run into it can go all the way from laughs and kicks to nightmares you couldn’t believe.”
Their waiter came with the tab. I made a foolish move to pay it, and nearly lost both of them. I relinquished it to Mike, saying, “It was going to be a deductible contribution to the fine arts.”
They softened, their pride undamaged.
We said good-bye, see you around, see you soon, and I went back to Meyer.
Four
JUST AS I was finishing my factual summary report to Meyer, four departed from the group of seven. One of the girls and three of the boys took off and headed slowly along one of the shady walks that angled across the zocalo, in the somnolence of the warm siesta afternoon. Only a half dozen tables on the porch were occupied. The sun was slanting in. The three who were left-the round-faced redhead with the curious nickname, the very skinny boy, and a muscular girl with a tight cap of brown curls under sunglasses with blue lenses-moved back to an empty inside table out of the sun. A yawning waiter went over to them.
A red jeep went by with Mike driving. Della was talking to him, gesturing with little chopping strokes of a slender black hand. The windshield was down, and the breeze of passage streamed back his silky hair and beard.
Our waiter brought us more Negro Modelo, and when I glanced again at the three of them, I saw that after the departure of their four friends, they were no longer turned inward upon themselves, making their own closed world of talk but were now aware of what was around them. They had become interested in us. The redhead, staring at us, said something inaudible to the others. The boy laughed and laughed. The big-shouldered girl in the blue glasses did not react. It was idle interest, and we were fair game, Business types.
Establishment. She was pretty good at her little jokes. She kept the boy laughing, never taking her eyes off me. The quite obvious intent was to make me uncomfortable, and if they could get a reaction it would improve the game. So I provided the reaction.
I gave Meyer a warning wink and got up and walked over to them, properly stuffy and irritated, and said, “Something seems to be very, very funny. How about letting me in on it?”
They were delighted. The victim had walked right up to the gun. The skinny boy took it. He said, “Think maybe big tourist fella like to make bangbang with nice clean American college girl? This one here name Jeanie. Nice big strong girl. Three hundred pesos maybe? Take her up to your room right now, big fella. She give you a good time. She likes you. Right, Jeanie? you like the big fella, sweetie?”
The girl’s head turned very slowly and I could not see her eyes behind the blue lenses as she looked up at me. I pulled the extra chair out and sat down. The skinny boy and the redhead waited in mildly pleasurable anticipation for the shocked reaction. This was called blowing the mind of the random member of the establishment. I let my mouth sag in stupefaction as I appraised them, looking for clues to the best approach. At such close range they were far less attractive than at a distance. The bigger girl looked less muscular, more suety, and smelled slightly rancid. There was grime in the creases of the redhead’s neck, and stains on the front of her Indian shirt. The dark boy’s hands were filthy. The two pair of eyes I could see were not quite right. They were subtly out of focus, with that slightly glassy and benign look of the mind behind the eyes being skewed a degree or two off center.
There were several ways to go with it. I picked the one I thought might sting the most. I shoved my chair around so that I could call to Meyer and at the same time keep the edge of my eye on the trio.
“Hey Charley!” I called to Meyer.
“What do you want?” he yelled.
I said to the trio, “My buddy is a little hard of hearing.” I raised my voice to a pitch that startled the serape sellers. “Charley, there’s nothing here worth fooling around with. The big one with the the shades he wants twenty-four bucks for. The redhead would maybe go for thirty. But, honest to God, Charley, they’re both of them so damn dirty it would turn your stomick. The redhead has spilled food down her shirt, and you should see her neck.”
“Knock it off!” the boy said in a pinched little voice.
“Charley, the big one here is named Jeanie, and she doesn’t take baths. And all three of them are stoned out of their skulls on something. The kid has got the dirtiest hands I ever seen. Scrawny little bastard. If you ever could get him cleaned up, I don’t think even old Crazy Eddie would grope him.”
“Get away from us! Get away from us! Get away from us!” It was the redhead, in a dismayed little whine. All the waiters were wide awake. Pedestrians had stopped to admire the volume of sound. Some tourist tables were staring, eyes bulging slightly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the boy make the move, snatch at the bottle. So I gave him full attention, snapped my hand up and let the bottle slap into the palm. I twisted it away and put it carefully back on the table and gave him a wolfsmile and said, “That’s lousy manners, sonny.”