chapter 26

The Mex had a black and white checked sport shirt, heavily pleated black slacks without a belt, two-tone black and white buckskin shoes, spotlessly clean. His thick black hair was brushed straight back and shining with some kind of hair oil or cream. "Se.or," he said, and sketched a brief sarcastic bow. "Help Mr. Marlowe carry my husband upstairs, Candy. He fell and hurt himself a little. I'm sorry to trouble you." "De nada, se.ora," Candy said smiling. "I think I'll say goodnight," she said to me. "I'm tired out. Candy will get you anything you want." She went slowly up the stairs. Candy and I watched her. "Some doll," he said confidentially. "You stay the night?" "Hardly." "Es lástima. She is very lonely, that one." "Get that gleam out of your eyes, kid. Let's put this to bed." He looked sadly at Wade snoring on the couch. "Pobrecito," he murmured as if he meant it. "Borracho como una cuba." "He may be drunk as a sow but he sure ain't little," I said. "You take the feet." We carried him and even for two he was as heavy as a lead coffin. At the top of the stairs we went along an open balcony past a closed door. Candy pointed to it with his chin. "La se.ora," he whispered. "You knock very light maybe she let you in." I didn't say anything because I needed him. We went on with the carcass and turned in at another door and dumped him on the bed. Then I took hold of Candy's arm high up near the shoulder where dug-in fingers can hurt. I made mine hurt him. He winced a little and then his face set hard. "What's your name, cholo?" "Take your hand off me," he snapped. "And don't call me a cholo. I'm no wetback. My name is Juan Garcia de Soto-mayor. I am Chileno." "Okay, Don Juan. Just don't get out of line around here. Keep your nose and mouth clean when you talk about the people you work for." He jerked loose and stepped back, his black eyes hot with anger. His hand slipped inside his shirt and came out with a long thin knife. He balanced it by the point on the heel of his hand, hardly even glancing at it, Then he dropped the hand and caught the -handle of the knife while it hung in the air. It was done very fast and without any apparent effort. His hand went up to shoulder height, then snapped forward and the knife sailed through the air and hung quivering in the wood of the window frame. "Cuidado, se.or!" he said with a sharp sneer, "And keep your paws to yourself. Nobody fools with me." He walked lithely across the room and plucked the knife out of the wood, tossed it in the air, spun on his toes and caught it behind him. With a snap it disappeared under his shirt. "Neat," I said, "but just a little on the gaudy side." He strolled up to me smiling derisively. "And it might get you a broken elbow," I said. "Like this." I took hold of his right wrist, jerked him off balance, swung to one side and a little behind him, and brought my bent forearm up under the back of his elbow joint. I bore down on it, using my forearm as a fulcrum. "One hard jerk," I said, "and your elbow joint cracks. A crack is enough. You'd be out of commission as a knife thrower for several months. Make the jerk a little harder and you'd be through permanently. Take Mr. Wade's shoes off." I let go of him and he grinned at me. "Good trick," he said. "I will remember." He turned to Wade and reached for one of his shoes, then stopped. There was a smear of blood on the pillow. "Who cut the boss?" "Not me, chum. He fell and cut his head on something. It's only a shallow cut. The doctor has been here." Candy let his breath out slowly, "You see him fall?" "Before I got here. You like this guy, don't you?" He didn't answer me. He took the shoes off. We got Wade undressed little by little and Candy dug out a pair of green and silver pajamas. We got Wade into those and got him inside the bed and well covered up. He was still sweaty and still snoring. Candy looked down at him sadly, shaking his sleek head from side to side, slowly. "Somebody's got to take care of him," he said. "I go change my clothes." "Get some sleep. I'll take care of him. I can call you if I need you." He faced me. "You better take care of him good," he said in a quiet voice. "Very good." He went out of the room. I went into the bathroom and got a wet washcloth and a heavy towel. I turned Wade over a little and spread the towel on the pillow and washed the blood off his head gently so as not to start the bleeding again. Then I could see a sharp shallow cut about two inches long. It was nothing. Dr. Loring had been right that much. It wouldn't have hurt to stitch it but it probably was not really necessary. I found a pair of scissors and cut the hair away enough so that I could put on a strip of adhesive. Then I turned him on his back and washed his face. I guess that was a mistake. He opened his eyes. They were vague and unfocused at first, then they cleared and he saw me standing beside the bed. His hand moved and went up to his head and felt the adhesive. His lips mumbled something, then his voice cleared up also. "Who hit me? You?" His hand felt for the adhesive. "Nobody hit you. You took a fall." "Took a fall? When? Where?" "Wherever you telephoned from. You called me. I heard you fall. Over the wire." "I called you?" He grinned slowly. "Always available, aren't you, fella? What time is it?" "After one A.M." "Where's Eileen?" "Gone to bed. She had it rough." He thought that over silently. His eyes were full of pain. "Did I—" He stopped and winced. "You didn't touch her as far as I know. If that's what you mean. You just wandered outdoors and passed out near the fence, Quit talking. Go to sleep." "Sleep," he said quietly and slowly, like a child reciting its lesson. "What would that be?" "Maybe a pill would help. Got any?" "In the drawer. Night table." I opened it and found a plastic bottle with red capsules in it. Seconal, 1.5 grains. Prescription by Dr. Loring. That nice Dr. Loring. Mrs. Roger Wade's prescription. I shook two of them loose and put the bottle back and poured a glass of water from a thermos jug on the night table. He said one capsule would be enough. He took it and drank some water and lay back and stared at the ceiling again. Time passed. I sat in a chair and watched him. He didn't seem to get sleepy, Then he said slowly: "I remember something. Do me a favor, Marlowe. I wrote some crazy stuff I don't want Eileen to see. It's on top of the typewriter under the cover. Tear it up, for me, "Sure. That all you remember?" "Eileen is all right? Positive about that?" "Yes. She's just tired. Let it ride, Wade. Stop thinking. I shouldn't have asked you." "Stop thinking, the man says." His voice was a little drowsy now. He was talking as if to himself. "Stop thinking, stop dreaming, stop loving, stop hating. Goodnight, sweet prince. I'll take that other pill." I gave it to him with some more water. He lay back again, this time with his head turned so that he could see me. "Look, Marlowe, I wrote some stuff I don't want Eileen—" "You told me already. I'll attend to it when you go to sleep." "Oh. Thanks. Nice to have you around. Very nice." Another longish pause. His eyelids were getting heavy. "Ever kill a man, Marlowe?" "Yes." "Nasty feeling, isn't it?" "Some people like it." His eyes went shut all the way. Then they opened again, but they looked vague. "How could they?" I didn't answer. The eyelids came down again, very gradually, like a slow curtain in the theater. He began to snore. I waited a little longer. Then I dimmed the light in the room and went out.