Candy Kid Read Online Free PDF

“Don’t forget, kids. After dinner, we head right back to El Paso.”
    “If you were a gentleman,” Beach mused, “you would give the keys to me or to Jo. There’s two of us, you should take the cab to the Chenoweth.”
    “If you were a scholar,” Adam rumbled back at him, “you’d know that two in a cab are safer than one in this part of town.”
    “Not two borrachos.”
    “I hope you’ve got sense enough not to get drunk across the bridge. Not both of you at once.”
    They were crossing the street, headed toward the bridge. Jose stayed out of the conversation. He focused all his nerve centers on possible danger—smell, sight, sound. The smell was sour, but that was normal. The sound too was normal, the drift of babble and music from the garish lights beyond. As for sight, there wasn’t anyone who appeared suspicious around here. The faces of those who worked in this neighborhood were no more sinister, and no less, than the faces of Pablo and Jaime. Beach led across the narrow bridge walk to the customs gate, Jose managed to be next, with Adam as rear guard. Caution over valor. Below was the sluggish, murky trickle of the Rio Grande, protected by mid-high, dark, cindery banks.
    And then they were at the double barrier. On this side uniformed officials, matter-of-fact, recognizing the look of men such as Adam and Beach and Jose, average fellows out for an evening’s fun. Inspection was perfunctory. With it there may have been an unspoken cynical hope that the three make no trouble for official United States while across the border. The uniforms on the other side of the barrier were quieter and even less concerned. They mumbled their few words, that was all. North American business was the life blood of Juarez. Their hope would be more pious, that no international incident come of the Norte Americanos, so often bad-mannered and always uncivilized drinkers.
    The crossing of the barrier was always quiet this way, as if it were set up to offer contrast to the blare of color and sound and smell that smote you as you stepped off the bridge. No matter how many times you crossed the bridge, it was the same. The quickening of the pulse to meet the lively Latino tempo. The watering of the mouth at the spice of garlic and roasting ears and chestnuts and chile scenting the air. The scent covered the less enticing odors of unwashed flesh, cheap powder and paint, and beer and whiskey and rum and gin and tequila and pulque and other temptations to turista palates. The toes danced to the American music, played badly, pouring from cafe loud-speakers, and to the dainty pluck of strings, played well, by the dirty fingers of strolling musicos. It was always bad and always good; the odor of evil ever-present beneath the spangled perfume. It wasn’t Mexico; it was border. And borders were ever venal because they catered to venality. This one was no different from any other.
    The turistas looked exactly what they were, middle-westerners, Texans and New Mexicans, passing through El Paso on their summer vacations, staying overnight for a whirl at Juarez. Middle-aged couples for the most part, strolling the few blocks of border Juarez; loitering in the open curio shops, pricing, buying French perfume cheaper than in the States; buying booze cheaper, if the laws of their own state permitted them to carry it across the border; buying knickknacks, straw dolls, painted pigs, souvenir sombreros, postal cards. Only the bold walked the length of Avenida Juarez and found their way to the Mercado. The turistas did not feel exactly safe surrounded by strange faces and a strange tongue. They pushed together near the reassurance of the bridge.
    A scattering of young couples from El Paso promenaded with more assurance, with less interest in the shops, with no undercurrent of strangeness to bother them. They came here often, as in another town they’d go to the lake or the dance hall for an evening out. And the natives tended their shops and