Read Online Ride the Pink Horse by Dorothy B. Hughes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
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and the night. He walked on, striking his heels viciously into the broken sidewalk. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid of the spic waiter or of any man who walked. He had never known man fear since the old man had been buried, his strap fastening his pants around his obese middle.
He walked back up the dark street one block, the second, and he cut slantwise across to the murky bar by the barber shop. Not because he wanted a drink. Because he saw the cadaverous frame of Ignacio, the guitar player, through the smoky open doorway. Because he would find Pancho, and Pancho would find a place where he might rest.
This wasn’t a dump like Keen’s Bar, this was a dive. A two-by-four saloon with a dirty bar and no fixings. Not even a juke. This was where men, poor men, went to get drunk when the whip of poverty fell too hard for endurance. This was the kind of saloon the old man had hung around whenever he had the price of cheap rotgut. Where the old man had spent the dimes that the old lady brought home for bread. When the old man couldn’t stand up on his feet, he’d stumble home and beat the hell out of the kids because there wasn’t any bread to give them.
The old man lay in a pauper”s grave where he belonged. The old lady lay beside him; it wasn’t her fault that she wore out scrubbing floors for bread and left the kids on the street. Some day he’d dig her up; have a white headstone put over her old bones. The girls were drabs, the boys worked for a living. Some living clerks, day laborers. All but him. That hadn’t been good enough for him. He’d known what he wanted, money, enough money to go North Shore. No small change. No more stir. Safe jobs. Big pay. He was useful to the Sen because he didn’t drink and he looked good in the clothes the Sen bought him. He was a good-looking kid and the Sen liked the men around him to look North Shore. He had good shoulders from boxing; he was quick and tough; he’d done the Sen’s dirty work since he was a punk of seventeen and never let the Sen down. The dirty stinking Sen.
A nice white headstone. Maybe with an angel praying on top it. Here lies. He didn’t know when the old lady was born or where. Died: Chicago slums, 1936. Rest in peace. The only peace she’d ever known.
He was inside the red murk of the bar and the stench turned his stomach. Rotgut. And marijuana. But he had to find Ignacio, find out where Pancho slept. He went along the bar, craning his head into men’s faces, dark, ugly faces, sotted with cheap liquor, babbling in their strange tongues. He went along smelling their dirty pants and dirty shirts, their dried sweat and dung and foul breaths. Until he found Ignacio.
He demanded, “Where’s Pancho?”
Ignacio looked at him as if he’d never seen Sailor before. Blank, black eyes, sad drunken eyes in his half-starved face. He said something in Spanish. “Quien es Pancho?”
The language barrier was stifling. More stifling than the foul smell of the dive. “Pancho,” Sailor shouted. He remembered then, Pancho Villa was the name he had given the fat man; he didn’t know the man’s real name. He said, “Your boss. The fat guy. The guy who runs the merry-go-round.” He found the Spanish. “Tio Vivo.”
The cadaver continued to look at him out of sad, blank eyes.
But he’d been talking too loud and the others at this end of the bar were listening, watching. Suspicious of Sailor’s city suit and hat, matted as it was; suspicious of his nose and his eyes and his English-speaking tongue. Suspicious and wary, waiting for Sailor to edge across the line, waiting with knives for him to start something. His fists knotted as the squat man behind Ignacio stumped forward. But the man didn’t lash at him, he grinned from behind his snag teeth.
“He say who ees Pancho,” the man said, grinning like a monkey. His accent was thick as the red smoke. “He no spic the Englees. He no understand what you say. I taal him.” He tapped his wilted blue
He walked back up the dark street one block, the second, and he cut slantwise across to the murky bar by the barber shop. Not because he wanted a drink. Because he saw the cadaverous frame of Ignacio, the guitar player, through the smoky open doorway. Because he would find Pancho, and Pancho would find a place where he might rest.
This wasn’t a dump like Keen’s Bar, this was a dive. A two-by-four saloon with a dirty bar and no fixings. Not even a juke. This was where men, poor men, went to get drunk when the whip of poverty fell too hard for endurance. This was the kind of saloon the old man had hung around whenever he had the price of cheap rotgut. Where the old man had spent the dimes that the old lady brought home for bread. When the old man couldn’t stand up on his feet, he’d stumble home and beat the hell out of the kids because there wasn’t any bread to give them.
The old man lay in a pauper”s grave where he belonged. The old lady lay beside him; it wasn’t her fault that she wore out scrubbing floors for bread and left the kids on the street. Some day he’d dig her up; have a white headstone put over her old bones. The girls were drabs, the boys worked for a living. Some living clerks, day laborers. All but him. That hadn’t been good enough for him. He’d known what he wanted, money, enough money to go North Shore. No small change. No more stir. Safe jobs. Big pay. He was useful to the Sen because he didn’t drink and he looked good in the clothes the Sen bought him. He was a good-looking kid and the Sen liked the men around him to look North Shore. He had good shoulders from boxing; he was quick and tough; he’d done the Sen’s dirty work since he was a punk of seventeen and never let the Sen down. The dirty stinking Sen.
A nice white headstone. Maybe with an angel praying on top it. Here lies. He didn’t know when the old lady was born or where. Died: Chicago slums, 1936. Rest in peace. The only peace she’d ever known.
He was inside the red murk of the bar and the stench turned his stomach. Rotgut. And marijuana. But he had to find Ignacio, find out where Pancho slept. He went along the bar, craning his head into men’s faces, dark, ugly faces, sotted with cheap liquor, babbling in their strange tongues. He went along smelling their dirty pants and dirty shirts, their dried sweat and dung and foul breaths. Until he found Ignacio.
He demanded, “Where’s Pancho?”
Ignacio looked at him as if he’d never seen Sailor before. Blank, black eyes, sad drunken eyes in his half-starved face. He said something in Spanish. “Quien es Pancho?”
The language barrier was stifling. More stifling than the foul smell of the dive. “Pancho,” Sailor shouted. He remembered then, Pancho Villa was the name he had given the fat man; he didn’t know the man’s real name. He said, “Your boss. The fat guy. The guy who runs the merry-go-round.” He found the Spanish. “Tio Vivo.”
The cadaver continued to look at him out of sad, blank eyes.
But he’d been talking too loud and the others at this end of the bar were listening, watching. Suspicious of Sailor’s city suit and hat, matted as it was; suspicious of his nose and his eyes and his English-speaking tongue. Suspicious and wary, waiting for Sailor to edge across the line, waiting with knives for him to start something. His fists knotted as the squat man behind Ignacio stumped forward. But the man didn’t lash at him, he grinned from behind his snag teeth.
“He say who ees Pancho,” the man said, grinning like a monkey. His accent was thick as the red smoke. “He no spic the Englees. He no understand what you say. I taal him.” He tapped his wilted blue
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