Read Online Ride the Pink Horse by Dorothy B. Hughes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
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“Listen, you—”
“I am Pablo Gonzalez’” the man said. “I speak the Englees. He no speak the Englees. I taal him.”
“Tell him I want to know where Pancho is.” He scowled quickly. “His name isn’t Pancho. He’s the big guy. The boss of the merry-go-round. Tio Vivo.”
Pablo Gonzalez rattled Spanish at the blank eyes. Sailor waited, hopeful, hopeless. The thin guy was shaking his thin head.
“For Christ’s sake, he works for the guy—”
Pablo interrupted patiently. “He does not know where ees Don José Patrico Santiago Morales y Cortez—” his grin was more monkey— ”that you call Pancho.”
That ended it. He flipped a quarter at the monkey face. “Buy yourself five drinks,” he growled. He got out of the dive fast.
Ignacio was lying. Or the monkey face didn’t spic the Englees any better than the guitarist. The barrier of language was even more frustrating. If he could talk to Ignatz he’d find out where the long name was. Pancho had a name like a duke, not like a guy playing the carnivals.
He couldn’t talk Spanish and that left him where he’d been before, on the street. Walking up the narrow street, pounding the pavement of a hick town. Standing on a street corner in a dark strange town, with colored lights festooned above his head and grotesque paper masks leering at him.
There was nothing to do about it now but camp on the Sen’s doorstep. Give the old biddy at the desk a tall tale and get to the Sen. Scorn in the clean blue eyes of Iris Towers wasn’t as important as getting between the sheets. He walked on, past the dark shops, past the dim lighted pane of the hotel where his bag was parked, on to the corner. But he didn’t cross to the hulk of hotel. He stayed his steps. Stayed them to a voice in the night. A voice in song.
Through the trees he saw the gentle rocking of a gondola of Tio Vivo. The song came from there, a ragged minor song, lifted into the night. He turned his back on the hotel and he walked towards the little merry-go-round.
Sailor remained in shadow until the song was done. “Adios,” the singer sang. “Adios, mi amigo.” The sweet voice trailed into silence. But the silence was not the silence of the dark street with the mean shops. The leaves in the trees were rustling and the gondola creaking and the echoes of the sad song were in the ears. Pancho gurgled a bottle to his mouth. He lay sprawled in a gondola, his girth swinging it gently. His hat was on his knees and his bare feet were propped on the seat across. He lowered the bottle, smacked his lips, corked it and laid it in his hat. He saw Sailor then.
“Ai yai!” he cried. “Mi amigo!” His face dented with smiles. His arms flopped open, warm and wide. “Mi amigo! Where have you gone to? Come have a drink.”
Sailor unlatched the gate and entered the enclosure. “I don’t want a drink,” he said. “I want a bed.”
“I will share with you my bed,” Pancho vowed. “But first we will have a drink.” He held up the unlabeled bottle, peered through the glass and beamed. “We will have a drink and another drink. And I will sing for you.” He pulled the cork with his teeth, held out the bottle.
Sailor said, “No, thanks. All I want is some sleep.” The fat man could sing him all the lullabies he wanted if he’d just show him a bed.
“But no!” Pancho’s mouth dropped. His whole face drooped. “You are my friend, no? You are my friend and you will not drink with me?” He looked as if he were going to cry. He’d killed half the pint already. Even without the evidence you’d know that; he was too ready to laugh, to cry, to sing, to vow friendship.
Sailor took the bottle. You couldn’t argue with a drunk. He wiped the mouth with the palm of his hand, tipped and drank. Only friendship kept him from sputtering as he set the bottle away. The stuff burned like lye; it tasted like pepper, black pepper. He pushed the bottle back to Pancho.
“Ahh!” The fat man
“Listen, you—”
“I am Pablo Gonzalez’” the man said. “I speak the Englees. He no speak the Englees. I taal him.”
“Tell him I want to know where Pancho is.” He scowled quickly. “His name isn’t Pancho. He’s the big guy. The boss of the merry-go-round. Tio Vivo.”
Pablo Gonzalez rattled Spanish at the blank eyes. Sailor waited, hopeful, hopeless. The thin guy was shaking his thin head.
“For Christ’s sake, he works for the guy—”
Pablo interrupted patiently. “He does not know where ees Don José Patrico Santiago Morales y Cortez—” his grin was more monkey— ”that you call Pancho.”
That ended it. He flipped a quarter at the monkey face. “Buy yourself five drinks,” he growled. He got out of the dive fast.
Ignacio was lying. Or the monkey face didn’t spic the Englees any better than the guitarist. The barrier of language was even more frustrating. If he could talk to Ignatz he’d find out where the long name was. Pancho had a name like a duke, not like a guy playing the carnivals.
He couldn’t talk Spanish and that left him where he’d been before, on the street. Walking up the narrow street, pounding the pavement of a hick town. Standing on a street corner in a dark strange town, with colored lights festooned above his head and grotesque paper masks leering at him.
There was nothing to do about it now but camp on the Sen’s doorstep. Give the old biddy at the desk a tall tale and get to the Sen. Scorn in the clean blue eyes of Iris Towers wasn’t as important as getting between the sheets. He walked on, past the dark shops, past the dim lighted pane of the hotel where his bag was parked, on to the corner. But he didn’t cross to the hulk of hotel. He stayed his steps. Stayed them to a voice in the night. A voice in song.
Through the trees he saw the gentle rocking of a gondola of Tio Vivo. The song came from there, a ragged minor song, lifted into the night. He turned his back on the hotel and he walked towards the little merry-go-round.
Sailor remained in shadow until the song was done. “Adios,” the singer sang. “Adios, mi amigo.” The sweet voice trailed into silence. But the silence was not the silence of the dark street with the mean shops. The leaves in the trees were rustling and the gondola creaking and the echoes of the sad song were in the ears. Pancho gurgled a bottle to his mouth. He lay sprawled in a gondola, his girth swinging it gently. His hat was on his knees and his bare feet were propped on the seat across. He lowered the bottle, smacked his lips, corked it and laid it in his hat. He saw Sailor then.
“Ai yai!” he cried. “Mi amigo!” His face dented with smiles. His arms flopped open, warm and wide. “Mi amigo! Where have you gone to? Come have a drink.”
Sailor unlatched the gate and entered the enclosure. “I don’t want a drink,” he said. “I want a bed.”
“I will share with you my bed,” Pancho vowed. “But first we will have a drink.” He held up the unlabeled bottle, peered through the glass and beamed. “We will have a drink and another drink. And I will sing for you.” He pulled the cork with his teeth, held out the bottle.
Sailor said, “No, thanks. All I want is some sleep.” The fat man could sing him all the lullabies he wanted if he’d just show him a bed.
“But no!” Pancho’s mouth dropped. His whole face drooped. “You are my friend, no? You are my friend and you will not drink with me?” He looked as if he were going to cry. He’d killed half the pint already. Even without the evidence you’d know that; he was too ready to laugh, to cry, to sing, to vow friendship.
Sailor took the bottle. You couldn’t argue with a drunk. He wiped the mouth with the palm of his hand, tipped and drank. Only friendship kept him from sputtering as he set the bottle away. The stuff burned like lye; it tasted like pepper, black pepper. He pushed the bottle back to Pancho.
“Ahh!” The fat man
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