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Authors: Helen Nielsen
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something!”
Mitch could see, all right. A little more of this waiting and Norma Wales would be seeing little green men with pink eyes. Even a wild-goose chase was better than wringing the skin off your hands.
“Let’s get out of here!” he announced abruptly. “I’ve just thought of another place Dave might be, and if Ernie wants to play games we’ll give him a real run for his money!”
By the time Mitch and Norma reached the street Ernie had collected quite a following. In addition to McMahon, Kendall Hoyt’s one-man prowl car had joined the party, and the three of them were having some very serious conversation that stopped abruptly when Mitch helped Norma into the coupé. It was a shame to spoil the boys’ fun, Mitch decided.
“You needn’t wait up for us,” he called cheerfully. “I’m taking Mrs. Wales down to Mexicali for the evening.”
“Souvenir-hunting?” Hoyt suggested.
“Not exactly. Confidentially, she’s got her husband hidden out in a marijuana patch and we’re bringing him some clean socks.”
A new topic of conversation was just what the party needed, and Mitch was grinning wickedly as he drove away.
A border town collects crowds like a two-dollar window at the race track. It would have been worse on a Saturday night, but every night is Saturday to tourists and that was Mexicali’s specialty. It was a place where pink-faced men from the Middle West could get their first (and probably last) taste of tequila while their wives filled the back seat of the sedan with a lot of trinkets they’d never know what to do with when they got home. It was a place where the highway became a narrow, crowded street and the most essential part of an automobile was the horn.
But Mitch wasn’t taking Norma sight-seeing. They weren’t going to take snapshots, buy souvenirs, or look for quaint eating-places, because the only place in Mexicali big enough and loud enough for Dave was a night club that belonged to Vince Costro even if his name wasn’t on the lease. “The place seems kind of empty tonight,” Mitch murmured, as they elbowed through the doorway. The floor show was just getting under way with a band that sounded like a boiler factory plus maracas, and the crowd at the entrance had just wandered in to see what all the noise was about. Once inside it was no trick to find a table, especially one off in the corner where they could watch everybody without being noticed.
The table was small with a tiny lamp that pricked feebly at the darkness ringing the stage. “I should have brought my boy scout flash,” Mitch muttered. “They might at least provide flares to send up for a waiter.”
“Let’s just sit and watch,” Norma suggested. “Do you really think Dave Singer might be here?”
“It’s possible,” Mitch conceded, and she grew thoughtful. “From what you’ve told me about Singer and Costro and that woman, they sound like criminals,” she said. “I don’t understand how Virginia could have been mixed up with people like that.”
“I thought you didn’t know her.”
“I didn’t, but Frank did. She wasn’t like that. He said she liked running around and having fun with young kids—that’s one of the reasons they couldn’t get along. Frank just isn’t the bobby-sox type. It was silly, maybe, but hardly sinister.”
“People change,” Mitch reminded. “In three years’ time they can change a lot. Which reminds me, I was going to ask you about that illness of Virginia’s. Maybe you can tell me—”
When the band was playing Mitch had to yell to make himself heard, but when it suddenly stopped he felt a little foolish. Forms stirred in the darkness, and shadows with faces turned around to stare. “At least now somebody knows we’re here.” Mitch grinned. “Maybe we’ll attract a waiter.”
“We’ve attracted something,” Norma observed, “but I’m not sure what.”
Mitch looked up to see a wide grin at his elbow. Then the grin acquired a face and
Mitch could see, all right. A little more of this waiting and Norma Wales would be seeing little green men with pink eyes. Even a wild-goose chase was better than wringing the skin off your hands.
“Let’s get out of here!” he announced abruptly. “I’ve just thought of another place Dave might be, and if Ernie wants to play games we’ll give him a real run for his money!”
By the time Mitch and Norma reached the street Ernie had collected quite a following. In addition to McMahon, Kendall Hoyt’s one-man prowl car had joined the party, and the three of them were having some very serious conversation that stopped abruptly when Mitch helped Norma into the coupé. It was a shame to spoil the boys’ fun, Mitch decided.
“You needn’t wait up for us,” he called cheerfully. “I’m taking Mrs. Wales down to Mexicali for the evening.”
“Souvenir-hunting?” Hoyt suggested.
“Not exactly. Confidentially, she’s got her husband hidden out in a marijuana patch and we’re bringing him some clean socks.”
A new topic of conversation was just what the party needed, and Mitch was grinning wickedly as he drove away.
A border town collects crowds like a two-dollar window at the race track. It would have been worse on a Saturday night, but every night is Saturday to tourists and that was Mexicali’s specialty. It was a place where pink-faced men from the Middle West could get their first (and probably last) taste of tequila while their wives filled the back seat of the sedan with a lot of trinkets they’d never know what to do with when they got home. It was a place where the highway became a narrow, crowded street and the most essential part of an automobile was the horn.
But Mitch wasn’t taking Norma sight-seeing. They weren’t going to take snapshots, buy souvenirs, or look for quaint eating-places, because the only place in Mexicali big enough and loud enough for Dave was a night club that belonged to Vince Costro even if his name wasn’t on the lease. “The place seems kind of empty tonight,” Mitch murmured, as they elbowed through the doorway. The floor show was just getting under way with a band that sounded like a boiler factory plus maracas, and the crowd at the entrance had just wandered in to see what all the noise was about. Once inside it was no trick to find a table, especially one off in the corner where they could watch everybody without being noticed.
The table was small with a tiny lamp that pricked feebly at the darkness ringing the stage. “I should have brought my boy scout flash,” Mitch muttered. “They might at least provide flares to send up for a waiter.”
“Let’s just sit and watch,” Norma suggested. “Do you really think Dave Singer might be here?”
“It’s possible,” Mitch conceded, and she grew thoughtful. “From what you’ve told me about Singer and Costro and that woman, they sound like criminals,” she said. “I don’t understand how Virginia could have been mixed up with people like that.”
“I thought you didn’t know her.”
“I didn’t, but Frank did. She wasn’t like that. He said she liked running around and having fun with young kids—that’s one of the reasons they couldn’t get along. Frank just isn’t the bobby-sox type. It was silly, maybe, but hardly sinister.”
“People change,” Mitch reminded. “In three years’ time they can change a lot. Which reminds me, I was going to ask you about that illness of Virginia’s. Maybe you can tell me—”
When the band was playing Mitch had to yell to make himself heard, but when it suddenly stopped he felt a little foolish. Forms stirred in the darkness, and shadows with faces turned around to stare. “At least now somebody knows we’re here.” Mitch grinned. “Maybe we’ll attract a waiter.”
“We’ve attracted something,” Norma observed, “but I’m not sure what.”
Mitch looked up to see a wide grin at his elbow. Then the grin acquired a face and
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