Dress Her In Indigo Part 7

"You put on a great rap, you sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"Well, now! All fresh and clean and pretty as a picture. See, Meyer? Her eyes focus and her neck is clean. Carrying a little too much weight, but trim her down and she could cut it at anybody's convention."

"Mark was making a joke. That's all. I want to tell you I didn't appreciate the floor show you put on."

I smiled at her. "What were we supposed to do, honey? Sit there and let three heads think that the laughing was a great put-on? Should I have plucked that scarecrow stud out of the chair and booted his scrawny tail out into the traffic? Should we have ignored you and spoiled your fun? Should we have gotten up and walked away? Name it."

"We had some Mardil caps with a c.o.ke was all."

"All for Jeanie?"

"That's something else again."

"Yes indeed. She is long gone. It looks like barbs to me. What's she using to come back? Speed? Is she popping it or eating it?"

"She is not long gone. She'll be okay."

"Get her when she's leveled off, kid, halfway between, give her a little kiss, and say good-by."

"You know so d.a.m.ned much, don't you?"

"I tried to sweat the whole thing out once upon a time with a very dandy little girl named Mary Catherine. She went onto reds and blues. Tuinal. They used to hate to see her coming, because the ward nurses hate the barbiturate addicts worse than the drunks or the ones on horse. Took her up to North Carolina to a cabin to get her once and for all clean. I'd go in for groceries and come back and find her gone away on some kind of high. Sneaked back and watched through a window. Draining gas out of the lantern, heating it and sniffing it. Lovely sweet faraway smile. Busted in. Tears, promises. Never again. Then she took off. Couldn't find her. Pretended to look. Pretended I had the broken heart. But you know, Red, that look on her face had killed it. I was the most relieved lover in contemporary history. I have no idea what Jeanie is to you."

"My best friend. My roommate at school."

"Take my word. She'll never make it back. Not from where she is."

"So what if she, doesn't? It's her life, isn't it?"

"If you want to call it living."

"Hah! That big act of yours, mister. It so happens I found out you're nothing but some kind of rotten private fuzz, both of you. Private pigs for the establishment, down here to make trouble for people. That's some kind of living, isn't it?"

Meyer hitched around and leaned toward her. "Listen to me, my dear. And believe me. We came here as an act of friendship to find out how a lovely girl died. Just that. Nothing more. It seems like such a waste. Your friend Jeanie seems like a tragic waste to me. And to you too, I think. You are being very defensive and impertinent because you are very troubled. I think more has happened than you can handle. If I can help you, privately, personally, no strings attached, if I can help you in any way, just tell me what you need."

She shook her head. "Oh, for chrissake. You kill me. Honest to G.o.d, me need help from you!" And she began to laugh. Very merry. Very young and jolly. Ha ha ho. Meyer sat looking at her. Very patient. No change in the concerned, benign expression. And the laughter took on a thinner edge, a shrillness that suddenly broke into a sob. She slumped, face in her hands, crying quietly. I opened my mouth to speak. Meyer gave me a warning look, a quick lift of the hand. She was straining for control, trying to smother the crying, trying not to be conspicuous.

"What do you need?" he asked.

She reached blindly, head bowed, chin against her chest. She grasped his bulky forearm with both hands. "Can you... can you get us out of here? Jeanie and me. Please... Tickets. I can... pay you back."

"Where to, dear?"

"Oklahoma City."

"Where are your people?"

"In Europe with my youngest brother, traveling."

"How soon do you want to get out of here?"

"Now! Tomorrowl"

He burrowed a blank sheet from my pocket note book, and put it and his pen in front of her. "Write your names and addresses."

She hunched over the paper, snuffling. She gave it to Meyer. He said he'd be back in a few minutes. She wiped her eyes with a paper napkin and sat up and sighed deeply and made a wry mouth. "He isn't kidding?" she asked in a small voice.

"No. Not Meyer."

"I have run into so many lousy rotten people."

"Who briefed you on me?"

"Oh, there was a man around like an hour ago, maybe even two hours. Sort of handsome and elegant and f.a.ggotty. He was speaking real good Mexican to one of the waiters and he came over to the table with the waiter and the waiter pointed me out. So he asked me to come back to his table for a minute. So what the h.e.l.l, why not?"

"Brown-gray hair, good tan, bangs, gold mesh ring."

"Yes, that's him. He lives here. He described you and, boy, did I ever remember you! He said he found out there was some kind of scene and wanted to know what went on. I asked why, and he said that a girl had died accidentally, the Bowie girl, and I knew about that, of course. Everybody who was here knew about that. And he said you were an investigator trying to turn it into a murder or something so you could make more money off her parents, and you were trying to make trouble for innocent people who live here. So I told him that what happened had nothing to do with anything like that. He wanted to know who else you talked to, and I said you had talked to the big fellow named Mike, with the Jesus beard, the one who paints, and the black girl named Della who's living with him, but I didn't know what you talked about to them. And that was all."

Meyer returned and gave her a pat on the back of her hand and said, "You can pick up two air tickets at the travel desk in the lobby after eleven tomorrow morning, dear. For your protection more than mine, I'm arranging it so they can't be turned in for cash."

She nodded. "I think that's the best way. I... I won't believe it until I've got the tickets in my hand."

"You leave here at two tomorrow afternoon. You'll have three hours in Mexico City, so you better stay in the airport."

She tried, almost successfully, to smile. "Is there anybody you want killed?... Sorry. I guess that isn't very funny."

"You might be able to help us with one little problem. We're looking for three people Bix Bowie traveled with. There were five altogether, but the Sessions boy died. We'd like to find Minda McLeen and Walter Rockland, known as Rocko, and Jerry Nesta."

"Those last two, Rocko and Jerry, if anybody wants to kill those two, I'll help. They are rotten human beings, especially Rocko. Look I'm not going into any details about it. A bunch of us went back to that camper with those two, for like a fun party for one evening. So that Rocko gave me something that ran me up the walls. It ended up a girlfriend of mine named Gillian and me, we were there for I think it was three days. It taught me why the blonde and the little dark one split and lived in that crummy hotel room. Mostly that lousy Rocko had me. He is strong as a bull. I mean I knew that if I went there I might end up getting balled, and that it would be taking that risk right? Look, there are things you say you won't do. You know. Stopping points. But when people keep hurting you and hurting you, then it's easier to do any sick thing than keep getting hurt. It was all rotten. The kids who should have gotten us away from those two didn't do a d.a.m.n thing. They just left us there. Jerry wasn't so bad. Gillian had the idea he'd be all right if he'd get away from Rocko. Jerry has this fantastic black beard. It's the biggest, blackest beard I ever saw. All that shows are his eyes and a little bit of cheekbone and the end of his nose. I saw her in the market two or three days ago and she said they'd been out to Mitla and she saw Jerry walking along with a kind of ugly little Mexican woman walking behind him, so she made Ricky stop the car and she went back, but he was very strange. He didn't want to talk to her at all. He's living out there someplace, but he wouldn't say where. I haven't any idea where Rocko went, and I couldn't care less. I heard that the dark one, Minda? Yes, Minda. She's supposed to be up in Mexico City and her father is here waiting for her to come back. So that's all I know."

She got up and smiled good-by and said she couldn't say thank you or she'd start crying again. But she bent over and kissed Meyer in a very quick, shy, small-girl way. And fled.

"How did you know she'd grab at it?"

He shrugged. "I didn't. But sometimes you can smell despair. Besides, all generosity is selfish. It made me feel good all over."

Quickly I told him about Bruce Bundy's quest. It was logical, Meyer agreed, that Bundy would have a good contact among the waiter staff, because it would be useful to know what was going on at all times.

"But," asked Meyer, "what is he so d.a.m.ned jumpy about?"

"That is what we now go to find out."

He looked doleful. "A minute ago I felt good all over."

Nine.

So I left the car at the end of the block and once again, this time by night, we walked along Calle las Artes, to the narrow front of number eighty-one.

Hundreds of years of dedicated and diligent theft have made Mexican homes very hard to crack. They grill everything you can reach. They put that busted gla.s.s into the tops of their patio walls. And they listen for thieves all the time without knowing they are listening. Thievery is a recognized, though not highly respected, profession. Artists use a limber length of bamboo with a hook at the end to snag the tourist trousers and pull them through the bars of the bedroom window.

There was a light upstairs, and the patio area, seen through the entrance corridor, was lighted. We stood in the shadowed darkness across the narrow street, and I said in a low tone, "I do not think we can talk our way through the gate. He won't buy a drunk act. He won't be bluffed, and he won't be hustled. And it would take a trampoline or a Tarzan act to pop in there uninvited."

"I'm still afraid you'll think of something, Travis." I was afraid I wouldn't. And then luck took a hand. If you sit still, you don't give that lady much of a chance to operate-for or against you. But if you moved around, she can get into the act oftener. She sent the tired old clattering cab down the street to pull up in front of Bruce's house. When the back door opened the dome light went on. Bruce got out. David Saunders was in the back seat. Bruce went a few steps and looked back and then came back to the cab. He leaned in. The rough idle of the motor made it impossible to hear what he was saying. But his expression, seen through smeared gla.s.s, was animated, amused, coaxing. He made little shrugs and hand gestures. And at last David hitched himself along the seat. Bruce reached in and lifted a large suitcase out, put it down, paid the driver. The cab drove away. They moved toward the gate, Bruce carrying the suitcase. They talked outside the gate in low tones. Bruce unlocked the gate and swung it open. He began to lead David through the gate, with a quieting, comforting arm across David's back in such a way that it reminded me of that cla.s.sic, The Specialty of the House, when the plump customer is being taken into the restaurant kitchens.

So I was on my toes with good knee action, angling across, hoping Meyer was reasonably close behind me. When Bundy spun, hearing the sudden unexpected sound, I was coming through the gate full out, shoulder already dipped, and a tenth of a second from impact.

Karate, judo, boxing, jiujitsu, wrestling-not one of the formal schools of unarmed combat prepares a man for the special problem of suddenly catching a sack of bricks that has fallen out of a third story window. It was a driving, rolling block coming in from the blind side, and the impact was impressive. It took us both ten yards down that tiled corridor, right to the end of it where it opened up onto the patio. We picked up a small table en route, along with some decorative crockery that had been on it. I rolled up onto my feet, my back toward him, and spun and was bemused and disconcerted to see him bounce up in a springy way and land in the dangerous balance of the expert, hands low and slightly forward. I did not want him to start that business of Hah! and Huh! The table was on the corridor floor between us, the three remaining legs aimed toward me. So I punted it at him, getting a lot of leg into it, and getting a nice lift on it. He got his hands up in time, and as the table fell away, I was right there to pop him with a short overhand right, slightly off target, and correct the error when he came back off the wall. He had been obliging enough to wear a leather thong as a belt for his vermilion stretch slacks, and I yanked it loose, rolled him onto his face and took two fast turns around the wrists and two fast hitches that would hold long enough for me to solve Meyer's problem, even if Bruce woke up right now, which didn't seem plausible.

I came upon the Mexican woman standing crouched in terror, wringing her hands. I smiled broadly and told her that it was a game Americans play. Don't worry, senora. We are all very happy.

Meyer was between the gate and the entrance to the central corridor. He was clumping around in a small circle, taking quick steps to the side now and again to catch his balance. He was shaking his big head and muttering to himself. David Saunders sat spraddled like a chunky little kid. He was swaying from side to side, cradling something against the lower part of his big chest and making a small thin keening sound. He looked like he was rocking a little dolly, and he couldn't carry a tune in a basket.

I got the gate shut and latched. I caught Meyer as he came around his circle. He stopped and shook his head violently and knuckled his eyes.

"Violence is vulgar," he said. "It offends me."

"You won, didn't you?"

"By giving him a frightful blow on the fist with my forehead. The expression is, 'I ducked into it.'"

I helped Saunders up and walked him past Bundy into the bright area of the walled court and eased him into a white iron armchair. I pulled the hand away from his chest. It was beginning to puff. Broken hands are unpredictable. There are ten thousand nerve bundles, and if the break doesn't involve them, you don't feel a thing until later on. But if the broken bone or bones grind into the right nerves, it is an agony that prevents you from thinking about anything else in the world, and keeps you right on the twilight edge of a faint.

I plucked Brucey off the floor and put him on a purple chaise, rolled him onto his side and neatened the thong. The maid stood staring at us. I smiled at her. Meyer smiled at her. After a few moments she smiled back and scuttled away.

Bruce lifted his head, coming awake all at once. He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. He worked his jaw from side to side and licked his lips and looked at me and said in a totally masculine manner, "You are pretty G.o.ddam impressive, McGee. Men your size are supposed to be slower." He looked at David and frowned. "What's the matter with him?"

"He broke his hand hitting me on the head," Meyer said. "Terribly sorry about that."

"But he's in agony!" Bruce said. "He's terribly hurt. He needs medical attention immediately. Look at his poor hand!"

"He'll get it, after we have a little chat."

"What in the world do we have in common worth talking about, McGee?"

"The subject of discussion is what makes you so nervous about my asking questions about Walter Rockland and the Bowie girl."

"Am I nervous?"

"Nervous enough to talk to that redhead earlier tonight and tell her I was trying to make something out of nothing."

"Aren't you?"

I kicked a chair closer and sat facing him, about four feet away. "Brucey, the trouble with playing games is that you never know how much the other party knows. Rocko moved in here with you at your invitation, and put the camper in the shed out in back, and tried to hit you for a large loan, and then he tried to make off with a lot of valuable little goodies, but you'd read him right and disabled the truck. Took the rotor, probably. He jumped you and you black-belted him pretty good."

He tossed his head to throw the bangs back. He turned pale under his golden tan, and the odd brown eyes turned to dingy little slits. At that moment he looked his age.

"I shall never, never, never forgive that treacherous, rotten British b.i.t.c.h." He continued at some length. He had a truly poisonous mouth.

"All through? So why are you so edgy about it?"

"I can't afford to get involved in anything."

"What is there to get involved in, Bruce?"

He hesitated. "What if I happened to know that someone saw Walter Rockland and the Bowie girl together just a week ago? Ah... at the airport, getting on a flight to Acapulco."

Misdirection. Nice footwork. Toss in a thought that warps the mind. Maybe it was true. So how to test it?

It took me quite a segment of silence to come up with the leverage. "You are a clever man, Bruce. Look at it this way. n.o.body knows where Rocko is. It wouldn't be hard to prove he lived here with you. You are very nervous about the whole thing. I can get the information to Sergeant Martinez that you fought with Rockland. I can tell him that he can find traces of human blood on the stone floor of the shed out behind this place. I can tell him your story about Rockland going to Acapulco, and I guess they could check that out and see if he did. Then I would suggest that they take this place apart looking for a body and take you apart to see what you know about it."

"You are such a cruel son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"So?"

"All right! All right! All right! I nearly moved away from here after the first four months. I had a stupid mishap with the car I had then. A drunken old fool on a bicycle ran right into the side of the car. And so I... enjoyed the hospitality of the local prison. My dear friend Freddy, now deceased, tried frantically to get me out, but they managed to hold me there five days. Police the world over seem to have this compulsion to mistreat men of my particular s.e.xual pattern. They treated me with contempt. I did not mind that. I considered the source. The brutality from the jailors could be endured. But each night I was locked into a very large cell with the very dregs of Mexico, who had been informed, of course, of what I was. And so I was used and abused. They degraded me. It put me into a depression that lasted for months. Freddy talked me out of leaving Mexico. He said it would be the same anywhere in the world. That is a valid observation. We have no recourse in the law, really. And Walter Rockland knew that when he tried to make off with some very valuable things. He knew that I would not report the theft, that I would not dare report it for fear they'd think of some pretext for locking me up again. I don't think I could endure that a second time. If you understand that, Mr. McGee, and understand my absolute terror, then I can tell you what happened."

He told us that Walter, as he called him, had stayed in bed all day Friday, and had said on Sat.u.r.day morning that he still felt unwell, but begged to be allowed to leave. Bruce told him to rest. At noon on Sat.u.r.day while Bruce was in the kitchen fixing something for a light lunch, he had been struck from behind and knocked unconscious. When he regained consciousness, Walter was gone. So were his car keys, a couple of hundred pesos from his wallet, and his yellow English Ford. At first he had been afraid Walter had broken in and taken the valuables which he had locked up after the first atiempt, but they were still there. He had no intention of reporting it as a theft. He still had the truck and camper, and they were worth more than the car Walter had taken.

On Monday, in the middle of the morning, the police had come to see him. They had asked him about his car, asked him where it was. He had thought they had picked Walter up, and he remembered Walter's hints about needing the money for some illegal act. He could not be tied in with any illegality, so he had invented the fict.i.tious young American named George, and had described him in a way that would fit half the young Americans in Mexico on summer vacation. Only after they had made him go over the story several times did they tell him that an unidentified girl had gone off the mountain road, that his car was a total loss and the girl was dead.

Later that day, before learning that Eva Vitrier had identified the body, Bruce had gone to Becky and told her the whole story and had asked her what she thought he should do. He was frightened that Walter was involved somehow in the girl's death, and that if they picked up Walter he would manage to involve Bruce somehow.

Becky thought it was logical that Walter Rockland would come back after his truck, and that Bruce should leave the shed unlocked and leave the keys in it, and replace the rotor. Maybe somebody would steal it, or Rocko would retrieve it. And if neither happened, she would help him get rid of it some dark night, follow in her car while he parked it somewhere else in the city; and bring him back. In the small hours of the night, at a little after two o'clock on Tuesday morning, he heard the truck start, heard the backing and filling in the narrow alleyway, heard it speed away, the drone fading into the normal night sounds. And he did not care whether Rocko had taken it or a thief had taken it. He thought he was out of it.

"So weeks later," he said bitterly, "you show up at my door, telling your lies about insurance. I had to let you in, because I had to be certain Rocko hadn't sent you on some kind of blackmail project. But you didn't say the right things because you had no way of knowing."

"Like I have no way of knowing that all this is true."

"It is true. And the Bowie girl is dead. Eva telephoned me to say good-by. She said she did not know when she would be back."

"Where did she go?"

"She never says. I have no idea. I know she was very upset. It was unlike her to... identify the body. I think she had to be certain in her own mind that it was the blond girl, and she was too impatient to wait for them to identify her in some other way. I think it was quite a strong and unusual infatuation for poor Eva."

"Infatuation?"

"You aren't as aware as I thought, McGee. It seemed to me that Becky made it obvious last night that Eva and I are opposite sides of a very old coin. But the approach is not the same. She is very rich and quite impersonal about her... requirements. When she arrives here she will usually have a personal maid with her, never the same one. Girls of a certain type. Bovine, Nordic, bursting with health, quite young, tailored drab uniforms, terribly submissive and polite and humble. Northern Europeans. I suppose it is a great deal more efficient and less wearing than forming emotional attachments, and of course she can afford it without pain. I must say I did get a certain dirty satisfaction out of hearing how distressed she was, and realizing she is just as human and vulnerable as the rest of us. My hands are getting awfully numb. And poor David is in misery. And I have told you the whole thing."

I looked over at Meyer. He had several small purple knuckle-lumps on his forehead. "Do you buy it?" I asked him.