A. Fair: All Grass Isn't Green

“All right. I’ll call him. I’m staying in Calexico. I followed a lead across to Mexicali, and I expect to have something definite by tomorrow.”

“You’re on a hot trail?”

“A hot trail.”

“At fifteen cents a mile,” Bertha said.

“We’re making money at fifteen cents a mile,” I reminded her.

“Not when it cuts into our retainer,” Bertha said. “It’s easier to sell personal services at fifty dollars a day than cars at fifteen cents a mile.”

“All right,” I told her. “This case has been more complicated than we had anticipated and there’ll be a bill for expenses.”

“Where are you going to be tonight, Donald? Where are you staying?”

“In Unit Number Seven at the Maple Leaf Motel in Calexico. I think that the man we want is going to show up within twenty-four hours. I’ll give you a ring just as soon as I get anything definite.”

“Well, call up and tell our client,” Bertha said. “He’s wearing holes in the carpet.”

“All right. I’ll call him,” I promised, “but I don’t want him messing into the play.”

“Be sure to call him right away,” Bertha said. “He said if I heard from you before midnight you were to call him. You have the number — six-seven-six-two-three-o-two. Now, play it cool, Donald, and keep the guy happy with what we’re doing.”

I promised her I would and hung up.

I called the number Bertha had given me.

Calhoun’s voice came rasping over the line. “Hello, who is it?”

“Donald Lam,” I said.

“Well, it’s about time!” he exclaimed.

“About time for what?”

“About time for you to make a report.”

“You didn’t hire me to make reports,” I said. “You hired me to find somebody.”

“Have you found him?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“At the moment I’m in Mexico.”

“In Mexico!”

“That’s right.”

“What the hell are you doing in Mexico?”

“Looking for the person I’m supposed to find.”

“Well, you’re not going to find him down there.”

“Are you sure?”

When he hesitated at that one, I said, “I’ve followed what I think is a live lead.”

“What is it?”

“His girl friend,” I said.

“His what?”

“His girl friend.”

“Who?”

“I don’t like to mention names over the telephone, but she lives not too far from where the man you want lived and she disappeared at about the same...”

“Don’t tell me you’ve found her?”

“I’ve found her.”

“The hell you have?”

“Why?” I asked. “Is that important?”

“I agree with you, Lam,” he said, his voice suddenly friendly. “That’s a very, very live lead. Is she near where you are now?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I’m talking over a public telephone,” I said, “on the south side of the international border. I don’t want to go into details.”

“Damn it, Lam,” he said, his voice sharp with irritation, “ I’m the one to take the responsibility. I’m the one who’s paying you. Where is she?”

I said, “She’s on the other side of the line at Calexico.”

“Where?”

“At a motel.”

“What’s the name of the motel?”

I hesitated a moment, then said, “The Maple Leaf. She’s in Unit Number Twelve, but I don’t think our man is going to join her there. I think the rendezvous is to be somewhere south of the border.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“Not at this time. I had quite a job locating her. She tried to cover her back trail and she’s here under an assumed name.”

“What name?” he asked.

I said firmly, “I’m not going to give that out over telephone. What’s your interest in the girl? You hired to find somebody else.”

“I’m interested in finding out what you’re doing. I spend money, I want to know what I get in return it.”

I said, “Hello, operator... operator... you’ve cut off... operator.”

Then I gently slid the receiver into its cradle and went back to enjoy my dinner.

It was a wonderful dinner. The sweet-meated lobsters Baja California, a side dish of chile con carne, not bean dish which is really a misnomer, but chunks tender meat swimming in hot, red sauce.

There were also tortillas and frijoles refritos .

Just as I was finishing my meal a man came up to manager at the cash register, which was directly behind the table where I was sitting.

“I was expecting to meet someone here,” he said, “but I was delayed on the road. Did anyone leave any messages for me?”

“What’s the name?”

“Sutton.”

The manager shook his head. “No messages, Sutton.”

The man looked around the restaurant dubiously.

The manager said, “There was a señorita, an American girl, who came here and waited and waited, then had dinner and departed in a taxicab.”

“But no message?” Sutton asked.

“I am sorry, señor, no message.”

The man walked out.

I grabbed a bill, threw it at the cashier, didn’t wait for the check or any change, but hurried to the door. I was in too much of a hurry. My waiter grabbed me. “The check, señor. You have not paid.”

“I paid,” I told him. “I put money on the counter at the cash register.”

“It is not possible to pay without the check,” he insisted.

Trouble in Mexico can be serious trouble. I lost precious seconds convincing the guy.

When I finally had him convinced, I brushed aside his apologies and made it out to the street. There was no sign of the man. He had turned the corner, but I couldn’t tell which corner. I tried the one to the east. It was the wrong comer. It had started to rain while I had been eating.

It had been cloudy during the evening, but it rains very little there in the desert and I had expected the clouds would simply blow over. Now there was a steady drizzle of rain.

When it rains in the Imperial Valley it makes trouble.

The crops in that fertile soil are predicated upon moisture from irrigation and the ranchers don’t want rain. The soil is largely silt from the prehistoric deposits of the Colorado River, and rain turns that soil into a slick clay that is as adhesive as wet paint. Automobile tires spread it over the pavement. It sticks to the soles of the shoes and, on certain surfaces, makes it as difficult to proceed as if one were walking on glare ice.

I went back into the restaurant.

“That man who was just in here saying someone was to have met him — do you know him?” I asked the manager.

“No, señor, I have never seen him before.”

“Can you get me a taxi, quick?” I asked.

He went to the door, looked out, looked up at clouds, looked up and down the street, and shook head. “Not tonight, I am afraid, señor. This is not across the border in the United States. Here we usually have one, sometimes two taxicabs. Tonight it is and there is none.”

Mexico is a wonderful country, but there are things Mexicans can’t understand or don’t want to understand. Our hurry and sense of urgency leave them cold.

My man had given me the slip, but I had had a good look at him. I wouldn’t forget him.

I had to go to the place where I had left my car, and it being a rainy evening, there was only one way to get there.

It wasn’t too long a walk. I buttoned my coat and made the best of it, keeping under the protection buildings, porches and awnings wherever possible, and hurrying across the intersections.

Soon I came to the line of cars that was waiting to clear United States Customs at Calexico.

It was a long line.

Overworked immigration men and customs inspectors were at the checking point far up ahead, asking motorists what country they were citizens of, whether they had anything they had bought in Mexico, occasionally putting a sticker on the windshield which meant the car had to pull over out of the fine for a detailed search. For the most part, however, after a brief inspection, the cars were waved on.