Джо Горес - Cases

Goodbye hooked him completely. He read it at the library, he read it on the bus home, he read it in bed far into the night and finished it at three in the morning.

The rich beautiful woman who attracted P.I. Philip Marlowe, Linda Loring, was nothing at all like Penny but reminded him of Penny all the same. It took a hell of a good writer to get his characters into your mind that way. How did you get that good?

Dunc was always saying that writing was all he would want out of life, but then was always getting himself sidetracked, neglecting his own dream for Nitro Ned’s, letting Penny take over his whole mind. Where would he find the discipline?

“Put your typewriter on a table and your butt on a chair,” his creative writing teacher at Notre Dame, Mr. Sullivan, had said, “and start typing. When you stand up ten years later, you’ll be a writer.”

But Hemingway had implied that if all you did was write, you’d end up with nothing to write about — and here was Dunc with a whole summerful of experiences, and he wasn’t even keeping up his notebook.

Sunday morning after church he helped around the house, then sat out under a tree with his notebook and started writing. He had nothing down about Las Vegas, was already forgetting details, and some of the details he remembered were almost too painful to write down.

Nitro Ned, his huge spirit stilled at last, being carried out of the Flamingo Hotel... Artis, covered with blood, dying eyes burning fierce into his... He wished he had the notebooks Falkoner had driven off with in El Paso. He had to get them back. Sometime...

Gus would leave for Taliesin before Labor Day; Penny would go back to school right after the holiday. Dunc would move on then, too. Like Shane. The lone gunman, fixing things up before riding off into the sunset. Friday would tell for sure.

He talked to Gus as they wheeled liquid “mud” up the ramps and across the top of the building on the spidery network of two-by-twelves. “Who around here do you think knew that the immigration guys were coming, and knew when they’d come?”

“Osvaldo,” said Gus promptly. “He’s got his green card and he’s been around long enough.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s the Judas goat, but he just happened to go to the John just before the immigration guys came — right at the morning break, so they were all together.”

“So it’s safe to assume he’s the one. What do we do?”

“You’re the architect. Design something — like a sticking door on the crapper so he can’t get out and see what I’m doing.”

“Gotcha,” said Gus. “And what will you be doing?”

“I’m going to hablar with Alejandro” — he nodded toward the young, scarred Mexican — “whenever were working together. I want him to get used to me, so he’ll understand and trust me when the time comes.”

At 9:50 Friday morning Donovan headed for the job site office, where he could put his feet up and drink coffee for the fifteen-minute break. Sure enough, Osvaldo headed for the portable toilet. Gus sauntered along behind him.

Dunc gestured to Alejandro.

“Vamos,” he said. Alejandro stared at him with uncomprehending eyes. Dunc grabbed his arm, half dragged him to his feet. “Venir. Rápido.” He swept his arm at the rest. “All of you. Ah...” He’d memorized the phrase. “Todo el mundo. Rápido! Rápido!"

Alejandro spat Spanish at them, they scrambled to their feet, Dunc started running for the cornfield fifty feet from the edge of the construction site. They ran after him, impelled by fear of unknowns he couldn’t even imagine. Thirty yards in, surrounded by head-high stalks, green and rustling, heavy with golden-silked ears, the rows at right angles to the seminary, Dunc stopped. He pointed at each in turn.

“Ustedes,” he said. “Esperar. Yo regresar. Comprender?"

He lay down in the depression between rows to give them the idea, stood up again, swung his arm around in a big circle, then pointed in turn to each of them.

“Usted... usted... usted... comprender?"

They understood. As they spread out through the corn rows, Dunc ran back to the site. When he heard the car and the van roaring up, he sat down quickly in the shade, lay back with his hands interlaced behind his head, the sweat drying under his blue work shirt.

The vehicles skidded to a stop. The four agents jumped out and began to fan out through the site. Suddenly they stopped and looked around, surprise on their faces. No Mexicans.

“Hey! You!” It was the redheaded immigration agent with the bulging neck who’d braced them two weeks ago.

Dunc sauntered over to them, all innocence. “Yeah?”

They ringed around him in a loose circle.

“Where are the Mexicans?” asked Thick-Neck.

Dunc shook his head in simulated bewilderment. One of the uniformed agents snapped, “The wetbacks.”

“The illegal aliens,” Thick-Neck amended quickly, his close-set eyes darting about. “We received a report there were illegal Mexican immigrants working on your cement crew.”

“You guys took ’em away two weeks ago.”

“Bullshit!”

“Gotta talk to Donovan about that. I just wheel cement.”

“Where’s the Mex honcho?” The other man wearing a suit was lean and stooped, with a big Adam’s apple.

Dunc tried to look stupid. “They all look the same to me.”

Osvaldo appeared, Gus strolling along a discreet distance behind. The agents surrounded the Mexican for low-voiced discussion and arm-waving. Osvaldo kept shrugging, looking more and more miserable. Finally they got back into their vehicles and spun out of there in an angry cloud of red dust.

“Royally pissed off,” said Dunc happily. “How’d you keep Osvaldo in there long enough?”

“Stuck a little wedge in the bottom of the door, he finally had to kick it open. He didn’t even notice what it was.”

Dunc brought the Mexican crew back from the cornfield. Joshua collared him when he got back up on the forms. “Didn’t I tell you leave well ’nough alone?” he scolded.

“Who’s going to do anything about it? Osvaldo?”

“Wasn’t thinkin’ of him,” muttered Joshua darkly.

At the union office Joshua and Samuel were ahead of them, just pocketing their greenbacks. The table-man gave a start of ill-concealed surprise when the Mexicans came crowding behind Dunc and Gus, chattering and laughing among themselves.

Dunc would remember it later. But not today. Tonight he had a date with Penny, his workweek fatigue was dropping away.

The front door opened and Penny skipped lightly down the front steps. Dunc ran around the car to open the other door. Her hair was loose around her face, she brought the scent of flowers with her. She was wearing a plaid skirt and a blue blouse and dark blue pumps. He got in under the wheel. She turned to face him on the seat, eyes shining.

“Okay, tell me! What are you going to do?”

“Gee, about what?” he asked blandly.

She lunged toward him, laughing, pretending to strangle him. Her skirt rode up, giving him a glimpse of inner thighs. He instantly looked away. She blushed and pulled the skirt down.

“You know very well what I mean! The Mexicans.”

“Oh, them. We already did it.”

On the parkway he told her about his day. Toward the end her elation turned to concern.

“What did Joshua mean? Why was he worried for you?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll ask him on Monday.”

They went to see Strangers on a Train in Pasadena. Dunc gave a start of surprise at the credits: one of the screenwriters was Raymond Chandler, his new writing hero!