Ask for Me Tomorrow

Eighteen

For the next three hours Aragon answered questions, many of them repetitious: What was he doing in Rio Seco? What was he actually doing? What was he really actually doing? Who was Lockwood? Had he ever met him? What kind of man was he?

“It’s unlikely he could have committed any crime of violence,” Aragon said. “He was, by all accounts, a very gentle person.”

“A lot of gentle persons go into the Quarry and come out not so gentle. You speak of yesterday, I must think of now and tomorrow. Lockwood could be a changed man. You agree?”

“Yes.” I agree again. This time it’s real.

“As you can see” — the superintendent pointed to the table with the opened bottle of wine and the two glasses — “Hernandez was preparing to offer his visitor a drink. Which indicates that either he was a friend or he had come on a friendly mission such as bringing Hernandez something, a gift, say.”

“Say a mordida.”

“All right, a mordida. I don’t like the word but it is a fact of life so we’ll use it. Certainly we can assume that Hernandez was expecting someone, if not this particular person, because he left the gate open and no one is on duty in the gatehouse at night except on special occasions. So the caller arrived. Let’s call him Lockwood.”

“Let’s not.”

“Very well — Mr. Mordida, then. How’s that?”

“Better.”

“Mr. Mordida drove up to the house and Hernandez let him in. It was obviously an informal visit. Hernandez was wearing a paisley print robe over white silk pajamas. He brought Mr. Mordida here into the office and opened a bottle of wine. Up to this point the meeting was amicable. What happened to change it, I don’t know. The children and servants occupy another wing of the house and most of them were sleeping. Mrs. Hernandez heard nothing, no car driving up, no sounds of quarreling or of the office being ransacked. This isn’t surprising, since the adobe walls are a foot thick and she was in the bedroom watching television. Shortly after ten o’clock she came to say good night to her husband and found him dead and the room looking like this. She telephoned the doctor, who in turn called me. I came right out with Ganso, my photographer, and several other men. I’ve been on duty ever since, both here and at the hospital where Hernandez’s body was taken to determine the cause of death. There were no marks on him, he gave every evidence of having died naturally of a heart attack or a stroke. Except for the condition of the room, we might have left it at that. Would you like to see some of the pictures Ganso took of the body?”

“Not particularly.”

“Ganso likes to take pictures of everything. No one ever looks at them, which is a shame because the film is expensive. Are you sure you—?”

“I’m sure.”

“Very well, I’ll proceed. When Hernandez’s robe was removed at the hospital I noticed a very small spot of blood on the back of his pajama top. It seemed a peculiar place for a bloodstain. If it had been on the front it could have passed as the result of a shaving nick or even a dribble of red wine which, as you can see, Hernandez fancied. After I drew the doctor’s attention to the spot he examined Hernandez’s back very carefully and found, under the left shoulder blade, a puncture wound made by an extremely thin sharp instrument, something in the nature of an icepick. But I don’t believe it was an icepick. You see the forced-air opener still in the cork of the wine bottle over there? I think before it was inserted in the cork, it was inserted in Hernandez. The wound was so small that the skin closed over it almost immediately and all the bleeding, except for that one drop, took place internally. Death occurred fairly quickly, since the weapon penetrated the heart and the pressure of blood in the pericardial sac caused the heart to stop beating. I’m not a medical expert, I’m merely repeating roughly what the doctor told me. Whoever struck the blow was either very lucky or very skillful.”

“Lockwood was neither,” Aragon said. “All his luck was bad and his only skill seems to have been attracting women.”

“That sounds to me like good luck.”

“Not for him.”

“I could use such luck, call it good or bad.” The superintendent stared down at his belly as if he were wondering how it got there. “This Lockwood, he was probably thin?”

“No. In the only pictures I saw of him he was quite fat.”

“Tall?”

“No.”

“But very handsome?”

“No.”

“That’s most encouraging, a small fat homely man attracting many women. Yes, I like that very much, it tempts me to view you in a much friendlier light. But such a thing would be unprofessional. I am always professional.”

“I can see you are.”

“It shows, then?”

“It shows.”

The superintendent sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and Ganso immediately took a picture of him. There was complete silence while the film was developing. The finished product showed a small homely fat man.

The superintendent gazed at it soberly. “I must keep reminding myself of Lockwood and all those women. Were they nice sensible women, the kind a man would choose to marry and to bear his children?”

“I only know one of them. She’s—” He wasn’t sure that “nice” and “sensible” were the right words to describe Gilly. “She’s very interesting.”

“Why has she not formed an attachment to some other man?”

“She did. Or at any rate she married him.”

“How is it, then, that she wants you to find Lockwood?”

“Her present husband is dying. I think she is afraid of being left alone.”

“How old is she?”

“About fifty.”

“I am not interested in any woman beyond childbearing age.”

“Naturally not.” Poor Gilly will be heartbroken. “One of the other women is still young, only twenty-three.”

“That is much better. And she likes fat homely men?”

“Her personal preferences don’t matter. She’s a hustler here in Rio Seco. You might know her. In a professional way, of course — your profession, not hers.”

“We have a great many hustlers in Rio Seco. Most of their customers are American tourists who drive down for the races or the bullfights, Navy men who drive by the busload from San Diego and Marines from Camp Pendleton.”

“Her name is Tula Lopez.”

The superintendent shook his head. “The hustlers don’t come up to me on the street and introduce themselves. If I were a private citizen and wanted to find a particular young woman, I’d put her name on the grapevine and offer a sum of money for information.”

“Or hire a shouter.”

“So you have been to the Quarry. Good. That will give you some idea of what happens to people who don’t watch their behavior... Do you know a man named Jenkins?”

“Jenkins is a common name in my country.”

“In my country it’s most unusual. Thus, when someone named Jenkins performs an unusual act like jumping off our new bridge, it arouses my curiosity and wonderment. Do you have much wonderment, Mr. Aragon?”

“Enough.”

“Then let’s wonder together about various coincidences. Mr. Jenkins and your friend, Lockwood, were both Americans. Jenkins served time in the Quarry for the same offense that Lockwood did. You tell me that Lockwood was released by Magistrate Hernandez after a payment of some kind. Now I tell you that Jenkins also was released by this same Magistrate Hernandez after paying a fine. What do you make of all this?”

“That Hernandez had ways of supplementing his income.”

“His income wouldn’t have bought the rug on this floor. Our public servants are very poorly paid, that is why they become private bosses. A little mordida here, and a little there, keeps them from starving.”

“Hernandez was about as far from starving as I am from being named to the Supreme Court.”

“Mordida is part of your system, too, so I hope you didn’t come riding across the border on a white horse.”

“I don’t ride a horse of any color,” Aragon said. “Just a ten-speed bicycle.”

“I dislike all forms of exercise except that of the imagination. From the neck up I am very athletic. I am like a greyhound chasing a mechanical rabbit at the dog track. Only I catch the rabbit... You smile, I see, because I don’t look like a greyhound. Well, you don’t look like a rabbit. But here we both are.”

Aragon had already stopped smiling. “I’m not sure what a greyhound would do to a real rabbit if he caught one.”

“Probably nothing. The chase is what matters to him. But the rabbit doesn’t know that. What matters to him is escape. Sometimes he makes a serious error and runs into a hole which has no exit. That’s what you did. You ran right up that driveway and into this house.”

“My coming here was a coincidence.”

“I can swallow only a certain number of coincidences. Then I start to upchuck. So let’s eliminate some of these coincidences, shall we?”

“I don’t know how.”

“We’ll begin once more at the beginning.”

The superintendent got up, walked around the room quite rapidly as if his athletic imagination were chasing him, then sat down again in the swivel chair. Aragon stared out the window, but it was dark. All he could see was the reflection of the room itself, the fat man in uniform behind the desk, the middle-aged man with the camera poking around in the clutter of ransacked papers, and the young man standing at the window peering through his hornrimmed glasses like a rabbit that had entered a hole with no exit.

“No, Mr. Aragon, tell me frankly, what brought you here this afternoon?”

“A telegram from someone at the U.S. consulate who found out that Lockwood had been released from prison by Magistrate Hernandez.”

“Did you expect to see the magistrate?”

“Yes.”

“And to ask him questions?”

“Yes.”

“And to receive answers?”

“Yes.”

“Mordidas,” the superintendent said, “do not appear in filing cabinets or record books. Or magistrates’ answers.”

“I thought it was worth a try, since my previous attempts to find Lockwood failed.”

“Now this one has also failed. What will be your next step?”

“I think I’ll go home.”

“But there is still the girl. Aren’t you going to look for her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid to.”

“Afraid? You’re strong, young—”

“I’m not afraid for myself. I do all right. I don’t back into sharp instruments or fall off bridges.”

“So...” The superintendent leaned his elbows on the desk and the tips of his fingers came together to frame an arch like a bridge. “So you did know Jenkins.”

“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?”

“I didn’t commit anything. You don’t have to commit anything to land in jail here. You just have to look as though you did or might or could.”

“I never thought you looked especially criminal,” Gilly said. “Perhaps a little on the sly side at times. You know, cunning, crafty. Maybe it’s your glasses. Do you have to wear them?”

“No, I wear them for fun.”

“You don’t have to sound so mad. It was a perfectly simple question. Everyone seems awfully touchy tonight. Reed got mad at me because I refused to fire Marco’s new nurse. He’s jealous. She’s a good nurse and I enjoy talking to her. He won’t admit that I have to see other people for a change instead of spending all my time listening to him yak about food and Violet Smith about religion. Poor Reed. I think he’d like to marry me, but someone got his bootees mixed up in the nursery.”

“Marry you?”

“Not me as in me, me as in money.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“He’s a boy. Boys are for girls. Or in Reed’s case, for other boys. If he should ever become insistent, I’ll give him a nice bonus and tell him to get lost. He’ll be leaving eventually, anyway, when Marco—” The sentence dangled unfinished like a half-knotted noose. “All right, your job’s over, Aragon. You might as well come home.”

“My other trip home lasted less than forty-eight hours.”

“This one will be permanent. I’m tired, you’re tired.”

“I have to stay here awhile.”

“You’re to come back now,” she said sharply. “We’ll settle the account. It’s probably cost me a bundle already, bribing half the people in Baja and paying for all the margaritas you’ve been swilling.”

“Margaritas don’t swill easy. I charge extra.”

“By the way, I intend to go over your expense account line by line.”

“Do that. I’ll submit it to you when I return.”

“Which will be tomorrow.”

“No.”

“You’re not hearing me, Aragon. I said—”

“I heard you and I said no. I’m going to stay here and look for the girl.”

“Wait. Listen to me—”

“Good night, Gilly.”

He put down the phone and ordered another margarita to see if it could be swilled. It couldn’t. He used it to clean his teeth — it had a very stimulating effect on the gums — and went to bed.