"Stop here," he said.
Luis double parked in front of the shop and Chris got out.
"Wait for me," he said.
On the sidewalk in front of the shop two little boys rushed up to Chris offering to sell him gum or plastic flowers. An old woman huddled under blankets shuffled along, the pavement carrying a basket of withered fruit. She held out a blackened banana toward Chris. He brushed past the old woman and the boys and entered the jewelry store.
A salesman dressed in a neat dark suit hurried forward to greet him. "Good morning, sir. May I help you?"
"Possibly." Chris glanced down at the display case. It contained pieces of jewelry that looked to be of good quality. "Do you do work in silver?"
"Yes, sir. We have a fine craftsman here who will make up any piece to your order. Is it for a gentleman or a lady?"
"I'm not looking for jewelry," Chris said.
"Oh?"
"What I want is a knife. A knife with a blade of silver."
The man's eyes clouded. The smile gradually faded away. "A knife," he repeated flatly.
"That's right. I don't care what kind of a handle it has, but I want the blade to be silver, and I want it about six inches long."
"That is impossible."
"Why? If your man is as good as you say working with jewelry, surely he can make a knife blade and fit it to a handle."
"I am sorry, he does not do that kind of work."
"Can I talk to him myself?"
"He is not here. He is sick. He will not be in today. Probably not the rest of the week."
Chris looked into the eyes of the jewelry salesman. The man's gaze slid away and darted around the room.
"I'm sure you can buy a knife in any of the souvenir stores along this street."
"Not the kind I want," Chris said.
The salesman moved back behind the display case. "I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do for you."
Chris hesitated for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode out of the store. He marched across the sidewalk to Luis' taxi, and did not see how closely the old woman fruit-vendor watched him. He started to get into the car, but Luis reached out and placed a hand on his arm.
"I am sorry, senor, I can no longer drive you."
"What do you mean?"
"I have other business."
Chris started to protest, but Luis started the engine, and the taxi began to edge away. The stocky driver looked back once with a strange sadness in his eyes. "I am sorry, senor. Adios."
Luis stepped on the accelerator and the old Plymouth roared up the street. Puzzled, Chris stood looking after the car. Behind him the old lady in the blankets moved with surprising vigor as she entered the jewelry store.
Chris began to walk down the crowded street. He had a feeling that eyes were following him from all sides, but whenever he turned to look no one was watching him. The difference in Luis Zarate today troubled him. He also wondered about the strange actions of the jewelry salesman. A sense of growing urgency prickled the hair at the back of his neck.
He had walked not quite a block when a hand dropped on his shoulder from behind. He spun around and was surprised to see the salesman from the jewelry store. The man pushed a folded piece of paper into Chris's hand.
"Here you will find what you are looking for," he said. "I cannot say more." With a nervous glance at the people passing them on the sidewalk, the man turned and hurried back toward the store.
Chris unfolded the paper and read: Tulio Santos, 48 Calle Verde. The man from the store was out of sight when he looked up.
The thought came to him at once that it might be some kind of trap. People were acting much too strangely today. And yet, what else did he have? Time was passing, and tonight was the full moon.
He hailed a passing taxi, this one a red Ford, somewhat newer than Luis Zarate's Plymouth. He showed the handwritten note to the driver.
"Calle Verde? You sure you wan' to go there, man?"
"Why not?"
"It's a bad street for tourists. It's a bad street for anybody."
"I'll take my chances," Chris said, getting in. "Let's go."
26
THE STREET CALLED Calle Verde was still another side of Mazatlan. It bore no resemblance to the moneyed boulevard that curved along the shore, nor the gaudy tourist streets just inland, Calle Verde was a narrow, grubby passage, between rows of weatherstained buildings which gave no evidence of life within. The few people visible on the street moved furtively, as though they expected to be stopped and searched at any moment. A quarter of a mile away was the blighted section called La Ratonera. Some of its human refuse spilled over into Calle Verde.
The cab driver pulled to a stop. "This is it, man, if you still want it."
"Where?" Chris said. "I don't see any numbers."
"There." The driver pointed to a scabrous wooden building with a blind doorway, where a hollow-cheeked little boy sat playing with a piece of string.
Chris got out of the cab and paid the driver. The child watched him, his young eyes already narrow with suspicion. Chris stepped past the silent boy and pushed through the door into a dark, musty room that looked like the overflow from a junkyard. There was a long workbench along one wall. Both the bench and the floor were littered with blackened pots and pans, dented kettles, tarnished, mismatched pieces of silverware, tools, nails, bits of wire, and odd chunks of metal.
"Anybody here?" Chris called.
After a minute a bald, monkey-faced man appeared from somewhere in the rear.
"Tulio Santos?"
"Si."
"Habla usted ingles?"
"No."
Chris switched to his laborious high-school Spanish. "Quiero comprar un cuchillo. Un cuchillo de plata."
The bald-headed man came closer and peered into Chris's face. "A knife of silver," he repeated, speaking Spanish very slowly for the benefit of the gringo.
"Yes."
"For what?"
"That is of no matter. I will pay your price."
Santos pursed his lips; that made him look more than ever like a monkey. "Ah. Well. A knife of silver. A moment." He vanished again into the gloom at the back of the big room. In a little while he came back carrying a tiny, flat butter knife. He displayed it proudly for Chris. "Here. A knife of silver."
"No, no," Chris said impatiently. "A knife." He looked around for something to draw on. He found a crumpled sheet of brown wrapping paper and smoothed it out on the work bench. With his ballpoint pen he sketched the outline of a long, vicious knife with an upturned, Bowie-type blade. Then gripping the end of his pen like the hilt of a dagger, he made stabbing motions in the air. "A knife," he said again. "Like this. You understand?"
Santos watched him slice the air with his pen, then studied the drawing for a long minute. At last he looked up and shook his head. "I have nothing like this. Not of silver."
"Can you make one?"
Another long study of the drawing, with much frowning and many shakes of the bald head. "Perhaps. But it will be very dear."
"I will pay your price," Chris said. He opened his wallet to show the bills inside. "Make the knife."
Santos looked up from the wallet to Chris's face. He nodded slowly, then turned and walked to a pile of debris in one corner of the room. He began digging through the accumulated junk.
Chris watched the second hand sweep around the face of his watch, and willed the man to hurry. After five minutes Santos gave a cry of discovery. With his sleeve he rubbed the dirt off his find and held it up to show Chris. It was an ornate, badly tarnished silver tea tray.
"La plata," said Santos proudly.
"No, no," said Chris, thinking he still had not made himself understood. "I want a knife." Again he went through the stabbing pantomime. "A knife."