The Black-Eyed Blonde

11

I never did find out their names. For the sake of convenience, in my mind I called them Gómez and López. Not that my convenience, or anyone else’s, was going to be high on their list of priorities; I knew that straight off. Gómez was the brains, such as they were, and López was the muscle. Gómez was short and squarely built, and on the heavy side, for a Mexican, while López was as lean as a rattlesnake. The old guy across the street had said they were stylish dressers, but his sartorial judgment, I could see, wasn’t to be trusted. Gómez wore a powder-blue double-breasted suit with boxy shoulders and a tie with a half-naked bathing beauty painted on it, not very expertly. López’s Hawaiian shirt was about the loudest I’ve ever seen. His white deck pants would have been clean when they were bought, a long time ago. He wore open-toed sandals, and his toes were filthy.

Look, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Mexicans. They’re gentle, kindhearted people, most of them. I like their food and their beer and their architecture. I once spent a very pleasant weekend in Oaxaca, in a fine hotel there, in the company of a friendly lady of my acquaintance. The days were warm and the nights were cool, and at twilight we sat in the Zócalo drinking salty margaritas and listening to the mariachi bands. That’s my Mexico. Gómez and López came from a different place. I’d put them down to a barrio in one of the more raucous towns just south of the border. I heard Lynn Peterson catch her breath at the sight of them. I probably caught my own breath. They were quite a sight, after all.

They came through the door in a big hurry. They were impatient fellows in general, as I was to find out. Gómez’s gun was a hefty silver-plated automatic that looked as if it would have the firepower of a small howitzer. A man with a gun like that in his paw is not a man to quibble with over petty details. From the negligent way he held it, I could see that he and the gun were chums from way back. López, though, would be a knife man; he had that nervy, wild-eyed look. I recalled Travis, the bartender at the Beanery, making a joke about this pair — it had to have been them — toying with their gun and knife. Some joke. He didn’t know how right he’d turn out to be.

At first Gómez didn’t even look at Lynn Peterson or me. He stalked straight through the kitchen into the living room, was silent in there for a moment or two, checking the place out, I supposed, then came back. He was a twitchy type, like his partner, and kept sort of throwing himself around inside that roomy suit of his. López meanwhile stood in the open doorway eyeing Lynn Peterson. Gómez gave her his attention too, but it was me he spoke to. “Who are you?”

It was a question I was getting tired of being asked. “Marlowe’s the name,” I said, then added, “I think there must be some mistake here.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“I’m sure we’re not who you think we are, Miss Cavendish and I.” I felt Lynn Peterson’s surprised stare. It was the only name I’d been able to come up with on the spot. “Miss Cavendish is a rental agent. She’s showing me the house.”

“Why?” Gómez asked. I had the impression he was asking just for the sake of asking, while he thought up some sharper questions, ones with more point.

“Well,” I said, “I’m thinking of renting.” This amused López, and he laughed. I noticed he had a harelip, badly stitched. “Are you detectives?” I asked. This made López laugh some more. When the gap opened in his lip, a yellowish tooth glinted in there.

“Sure,” Gómez said, without even a smile, “we’re the cops.” He turned his attention to the woman beside me. “Cavendish,” he said. “That’s not your name. Am I right?” She began to protest, but he waved the barrel of his gun wearily in front of her face, like a huge reproving forefinger. “No, no, no, senorita. You don’t lie to me. You do, you pay for it. What’s your real name?” She said nothing. He shrugged, the padded shoulders of his jacket tilting to the left. “It don’t matter. I know who you are.”

He moved away, and in his place López came forward and stood in front of the woman, smiling into her eyes. She flinched from him. His breath probably wasn’t the sweetest. Gómez said something in Spanish that I didn’t catch, and López scowled. “What’s your name, baby?” he crooned softly. “I bet you got a real nice name.”

He put a hand under her right breast and hefted it, as if guessing its weight. She jerked herself back, out of his reach, but he followed her, still with his hand out. He wasn’t leaving me much choice. I got him by the wrist with one hand and by the elbow with the other and yanked both joints in different directions. It hurt, and he gave a yelp and tore his arm out of my grasp. Sure enough, a knife had appeared in his other hand, the left one. It was a small knife, with a short blade, but I wasn’t fool enough not to know what he’d be able to do with it.

“Look, take it easy,” I said, letting my voice go high-pitched, trying to sound like a guy whose only interest was renting a house at a nice rate and staying out of trouble. “But keep your hands off the lady.”

I could feel Lynn Peterson’s fear; it was in the air, like a fox’s scent. I happened to have my.38 Special in a spring-loaded holster on my belt at the side. I hoped the Mexicans wouldn’t notice it until I had figured out a way to get at it without being shot or sliced first. You see them in the movies, the quick-draw artists; their guns come out like greased lightning, spinning on their index fingers. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works in real life.

López was closing in again — on me, this time, not Lynn, his little knife at the ready. But his sidekick said something in Spanish that I didn’t catch and waved the automatic at him, and he held off.

“Give me your wallet,” Gómez said to me. His English was good, though he spoke it with a Spanish lisp. I held up both my hands.

“Look,” I said, “I told you, you’re making a—”

That was as far as I got. I hardly saw the gun move before I felt the barrel of it land on my right cheekbone with a dull smack that made my teeth on that side shiver at their roots. Lynn Peterson, beside me, gave a little scream and put a hand to her mouth. I almost went down but caught myself in time and managed to stay on my feet. The skin of my cheek was broken, and I felt warm blood run down and form drops along the line of my jaw. I put up a hand, and it came away smeared with crimson.

I began to speak, but Gómez interrupted again. “Shut up, hijo de la chingada!” he said, baring his front teeth but keeping them clenched together. They looked very white against his dark skin. He must have had Indian blood. That’s the kind of thought that crosses your mind when you’ve just been pistol-whipped. It was then or never, I decided. Pretending to reach toward my pocket for a handkerchief, I moved instead to my belt and got the flap of the holster up and my fingers on the spring. That was the last thing I was aware of doing for a long time.