Ask for Me Tomorrow

Nine

He returned to the Hotel Castillo, stopping at the desk for his key and a map of the city, the kind which gas stations back home used to give away free. The map cost two dollars, the key was free. From his room he tried, for the second time that day, to put through a call to Gilly. All the lines were in use, on business, the telefonista implied, much more urgent than his.

Over lunch and beer at the hotel café he studied the map of Rio Seco. Avenida Gobernador was within walking distance and he would have liked to walk, both for exercise and to avoid the insanities of the city traffic. (One of the oddities of the automotive age was how such good-natured, slow-moving people could become irascible speed freaks behind the wheel of a car.) But the Avenida paralleled the course of the river for several miles and he had no way of knowing on what part of it Reynoso’s shop was located. It was not in the telephone directory or on the hotel’s list of shops and services.

He found out why when he reached it. It was hardly more than a hole in the wall on the edge of the red-light district where porno bars alternated with the rows of prostitutes’ cubicles. The neighborhood was quiet and Reynoso’s place closed. Sex as well as shoemakers took a siesta.

A boy about Pablo’s age offered to watch his car to make sure nobody stole the hub caps and windshield wipers and radio antenna. “Hey, man, watch your car? One quarter for watching your car, man.”

“Who’s going to watch you?” Aragon said.

He meant it as a joke but the boy took it seriously. “My brother José. He’s working the other side of the street.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“It’s a holiday.”

“What holiday?”

“I don’t know. Somebody just told me, ‘Hey, man, you don’t got to go to school today, it’s a holiday.’ Watch your car for a quarter?”

“All right.”

He paid the money. The boy climbed on the hood of the car, leaned back against the windshield and lit the butt of a cigar he’d picked up from the road.

Aragon said, “You watch cars around here all the time?”

“Sure, man.”

“I bet you know a lot of people in the neighborhood.”

“I got eyes, don’t I?”

“I’m looking for an American named Harry Jenkins. I was told he lives in a room above Reynoso’s.”

“Whoever told you’s got eyes, too. That’s where he lives, Harry Jenkins. Some cheapskate. Never gave me a dime.”

“Reynoso’s shop is closed.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“For one of the dimes Jenkins never gave you, will you tell me how I can get up to his room?”

“You a hustler, man?”

“Let’s just say that the members of my profession are sometimes called hustlers.”

“Yeah? Okay, then. There’s an alley four, five doors down, takes you straight to Reynoso’s outside stairs.”

The boy pocketed the dime and settled back against the windshield to enjoy the final inch of the cigar.

Jenkins’ door was locked. When Aragon knocked on it, it felt flimsy as though it would collapse like cardboard if he leaned against it too heavily. He wrote a note and pushed it underneath the door:

He returned to the hotel and tried for the third time to put through a call to Gilly. The telefonista must have had a refreshing siesta, she sounded almost human: “You wish to speak personally to Mrs. Marco Decker, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I may have a line for you now. Hold on.”

After about five minutes of back-and-forth chatter in two languages, a man answered the phone. “Hello.” A certain note of petulance in the man’s tone identified him as Reed Robertson, Marco Decker’s nurse.

“I have a person-to-person call for Mrs. Marco Decker. Is Mrs. Decker there?”

“Hold on.” Reed raised the pitch of his voice about an octave. “This is Mrs. Decker, operator. I’ll take the call.”

“Your party is on the line, sir. Go ahead.”

“Hello, Reed.”

“That you, Aragon?”

“Yes.”

“She’s in the pool. Violet Smith just took her out a robe, so she’ll be here in a minute. Listen, amigo, she’s burned up because she hasn’t heard from you.”

“She burns easy. It’s only Monday.”

“Any trace of B. J.?”

“ ‘Trace’ just about covers it. I found his ex-partner, though.”

“Harry Jenkins.”

“I gather Mrs. Decker has confided in you.”

“The old girl has to talk to somebody. It was a toss-up between me and Violet Smith. I won. If you want to call it winning.”

“What do you call it?”

“I call it a living,” Reed said. “Speaking of living, where’s Jenkins doing his, in some castle in the sky?”

“Over Reynoso’s shoemaking shop on Avenida Gobernador. I might say he’s on his uppers if I went in for bad puns.”

“So Jenlock Haciendas never got off the ground.”

“No. All the other news is bad, too.”

“How bad?”

Gilly came on the line. “Aragon? What’s this about bad? Have you found B. J.?”

“No.”

“That’s not exactly bad, is it? I mean, it’s just nothing. How is that bad?”

“B. J. seems to have disappeared.”

“From where?”

“The jail in Rio Seco.”

“Did you say jail?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing in jail?”

“Like all the others in there, he was waiting to get out.”

“Don’t get sharp with me, dammit.”

“I’m trying not to,” Aragon said. “I don’t like delivering news like this any more than you like receiving it.”

“Why was he sent to jail? B. J. wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Flies don’t invest money in real estate developments. People do, and when they discover they’ve been swindled they complain to the police. B. J. and Jenkins were picked up in Bahía de Ballenas. While they were waiting trial B. J. disappeared. One of the other inmates told me he’d been ill and upset and the guards had to give him stuff to calm him down. ‘Stuff’ was the word used. It could have been anything.”

“Oh God, poor B. J.”

She began to cry. Aragon could hear Reed trying to soothe her: Buck up, old girl. Stop it now. Here, here’s a drink. That’s a good girl...

When things quieted down, Aragon continued, “I may get more information tonight or tomorrow. I haven’t talked to Harry Jenkins, but I found out where he’s living and left a note for him.”

“Left a note? You should have waited for him, camped on his doorstep if necessary.”

“He didn’t have a doorstep. He didn’t even have much of a door.”

“Give me his phone number. I want to talk to him myself.”

“I guess I’m not getting through to you, Mrs. Decker. Jenkins is broke. That’s the main reason I expect to hear from him. I offered him money for information about B. J.”

There was a long interval of silence. Then, “Where’s the girl, Tula?”

“I have no recent news about her. When the two men were arrested she went with them to Rio Seco. The word is that she wanted to get away from Bahía de Ballenas and the child, too.”

“Away from her own child?”

“He’s retarded as well as crippled, Mrs. Decker... Now don’t start crying again. The boy’s safe, he’s being looked after by relatives. Mexican families are very close-knit, as I mentioned to you before, and retarded children aren’t considered undesirable.”

“Have you nothing decent, nothing pleasant to tell me?”

“I think it’s both decent and pleasant that Pablo is being taken care of. He’s luckier in many ways than his American cousins.”

“How long ago did they leave him there?”

“Four years. He’s eight now, chronologically. Mentally, perhaps three. There is no way he could fit into your life, Mrs. Decker.”

“I never thought he could,” she said quietly. “I just hoped a little bit. If it were only a matter of his being crippled, I could have paid for doctors, operations... Now, of course, I realize that it’s impossible. I wish I’d never been told of his existence. Maybe B. J. told me deliberately to rouse my sympathy so I’d send him the money he asked for. If I could believe that, it would make it easier for me to accept — what I’m afraid you’re going to find out.”

“Which is?”

“That he’s dead, he died in jail and they dragged him out and buried him like a common criminal.” He heard her take a long deep breath as if to regain control of herself. “Okay, all the news is bad so far. What’s the next step?”

“I’ll talk to Jenkins.”

“Suppose he doesn’t know anything?”

“Then I’d better quit wasting your money and come home.”

“Call me after you’ve seen him. And thanks, by the way, for leveling with me, even though I didn’t like it. The truth hurts... I wonder who first discovered that.”

“Probably Adam.”

“The little boy, does he seem happy?”

“He seems not unhappy. He gets affection and enough food to eat, and he has children to play with who aren’t much more advantaged than he is. You could present a bigger problem to him than any he has now, Mrs. Decker.”

“Yes, I see. It was really stupid of me after all this time to get the idea that — well, anyway, thanks again. And call me.”

“I will.”

She hung up. Reed was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed on his chest, watching her. She had never realized before what cruel little eyes he had. They didn’t match the rest of his face, which smiled a lot.

“You were practically screaming at one point,” Reed said. “Women should learn to modulate their voices.”

“Why?”

“So people will assume they’re ladies. Also to make it harder for eavesdroppers like Violet Smith to hear everything. Violet Smith is ninety-eight percent ears and mouth and two percent common sense. She could be dangerous.”

“I didn’t say anything she can’t broadcast to the world if she wants to.”

“Fear not, she’ll want to. Wait until the next show-and-tell meeting at her church — you and B. J. will be the star attractions, with the kid thrown in for a touch of pathos. By the way, you’re not fooling me for a minute. And if Aragon weren’t such a boy scout, you wouldn’t be fooling him, either.”

“How am I trying to fool anyone?”

“The kid. You wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole even if he had a perfect physique and an IQ of a hundred and fifty.”

“You’re malicious, you’re really malicious.”

“That’s why we get along so well. Malice is something we both understand. Now, Violet Smith isn’t malicious. She’s just dumb and self-righteous, which is a lot harder to cope with. You’d better go and have a talk with her right now. Lay it on the line but keep it light, casual. Don’t let on that it matters too much.”

“You’re giving me orders?”

“Suggestions.”

“They sounded like orders.”

“No, my orders sound quite different,” Reed said. “You may find that out.”

The cleaning woman and day maid had left and Violet Smith was alone in the kitchen, cooking dinner and watching TV.

“Turn that thing off,” Gilly said.

“I’m in the middle of a murder.”

“Turn it off.”

“My stars, you needn’t shout. I didn’t know this was top priority.”

“You do now.”

Violet Smith turned off the set, grumbling. “My programs are always being interrupted, phones ringing, Mr. Decker buzzing—”

“Speaking of phones, did you listen in on the extension to my conversation with Mr. Aragon?”

“I told you, I’m in the middle of a murder, which is a heap more interesting than anything Mr. Aragon has to say.”

“Answer the question. Did you listen in?”

“No. Honest injun, though I’m not supposed to say that. It’s ethnic. I heard all about ethnic from a black man at church. People shouldn’t use ethnic expressions like ‘eeny meeny miney mo, catch a nigger by the toe,’ or—”

“At these church meetings of yours, what do you talk about when it’s your turn?”

“My life.”

“Including the part of it that takes place here?”

“Here it’s your life, not mine.”

“Then you wouldn’t mention my personal affairs in front of the group?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Because what goes on in this house is my own business and I don’t care to have any of it repeated in the name of the Lord or soul cleansing or mental health or any damn thing at all. Understand?”

Violet Smith stood mute as marble.

“Do you understand?”

“I’d like to get back to my murder now, if you don’t mind.”

“Do that.”

“Thank you,” said Violet Smith.

She waited until she heard Gilly go down the hall and open the door of her husband’s room. Then she picked up the phone and dialed the number she had just checked in the directory. The voice that answered was one Violet Smith greatly admired, so soft and sweet and the opposite of Gilly’s.

“Hello?”

“Is that Mrs. Lockwood?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Violet Smith, your friend from church.”

“Oh, of course.”

“You said you’d like me to come over sometime for a little chat.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think this is the time, Mrs. Lockwood.”

It took Marco an hour to eat a meal that would hardly have nourished a sparrow.

Sometimes Gilly sat with him in silence, feeding him his sparrow-sized bites and watching him chew so slowly and awkwardly that she felt her own teeth grinding in frustration. Sometimes she turned on the TV, which Marco didn’t like because he had trouble seeing with only one functioning eye; and sometimes she just talked, dipping into the present or cutting up the past into small digestible pieces.

Consciously or not, she left out a few things about her past and added a few. In the main, though, it was pretty straight talk. During the months of her husband’s illness she’d covered a great many of her fifty years, but more and more her conversation was about those she’d spent with B. J. For the past week it had been almost exclusively about B. J. She talked of falling in love with him right away, bingo, at first sight. She never believed such a thing could happen, to her of all people. He wasn’t much to look at, he had no line of fast talk, he couldn’t play games or dance very well or any of the things that might draw a woman’s attention. And he was married. Happily married, or so his wife claimed when she came to Gilly and told her to leave him alone. Leave him alone. How could she? As long as B. J. was alive in this world she could never have left him alone.

The sick man listened. He had no way of stopping her except by going to sleep or pretending to, and he seldom did either. Gilly had such an impassioned way of talking that she could make a visit from the plumber sound like an earthshaking event. Gilly’s plumber wouldn’t be handsome or witty or charming, but he would have an indefinable irresistible something. She couldn’t bear to let him go — but at twenty bucks an hour she had to.

“I’m giving Reed a few days off,” she said. “He’s getting restless and bossy, he needs a change. I’ve put in a call for a substitute nurse. I’ll ask for two if you think you need them.”

The forefinger of his right hand moved. One would be enough.

“Just one then. We can manage. I usually give you your shots, anyway. Do you need another right now or can you wait?”

Now.

She was very expert at it, better than Reed, who was inclined to hurry, as though he had a ward full of patients waiting for him.

“There. That will help you chew. Let’s try the fish. It might be better tonight. I asked Violet Smith to pour a lot of booze on it... When Reed gets like this, you know, sort of pushy and insolent, a little holiday snaps him back... B. J. and I were going on a holiday when— But I’ve bored you with that story a dozen times, haven’t I?”

Yes.

“I went out and bought this marvelous motor home as a surprise for his birthday so the two of us could drive up to British Columbia, where my folks came from. I called it Dreamboat and I had the name printed on it as a custom touch. Well, you know what happened, don’t you? B. J. added a custom touch of his own. Tula her name was, not as pretty as Dreamboat. Neither was she. All I can really remember about her is a lot of black bushy hair and greasy skin. Oh yes, and her fingernails. She kept them painted bright-red but her hands were always grimy. How she got to B. J. I don’t know. The why was easy enough. She was hungry. She wanted to live like in the movies and there was only one way to do it. So she did it. In the end she lost him, too, not to another woman but to a con man named Harry Jenkins, can you beat it?”

No, he couldn’t beat it, or tie it, or come close. He could only listen.

“It’s funny when you think about it — Henry Jenkins took B. J. from Tula the way she took him from me and I took him from Ethel. We just sort of passed him along from one to another like a used car. Even Ethel, Ethel the Good, she probably took him from somebody else. There was always someone waiting, wanting to use B. J. Where did it all start? The day he was born, the day the car came off the assembly line... Come on, try the mashed potatoes. Violet Smith makes them with real cream.”

He wouldn’t. She didn’t.

“I think B. J.’s real weakness was the way he had of living completely in the present, never looking back to learn from experience, never looking ahead to see consequences. Somebody like Harry Jenkins could have picked him out of a crowd in half a minute. By the way, Aragon has found out where Jenkins is living in Rio Seco. He’ll be talking to him tonight or tomorrow. The trail’s getting really hot now. Isn’t that exciting? Aren’t you excited?”

I am afraid.

He stopped chewing. He refused to swallow. He closed his eye.