Candy Kid Read Online Free PDF Page B

tended their sidewalk stalls; the former with the dignity of ricos, the latter with noisy chant to lure the tourist dollars. Only in this way could they too have fine shops manana. This was border Juarez, turista Juarez, ignorant of the pleasant city of homes and families that lay away from the river; ignorant of the perversions of the cribs that were a hidden sore in the darkness beyond; ignorant of the twisted byways where men could buy any furtive evil, even ugly death, for dollars. One of these back streets would be called La Calle de la Burrita.
    Jose managed to retain the center place as they ambled up the Avenida. Beach’s heels were light; his nose twitched to the delectable Mexican smells. “We needn’t eat yet, need we?” He didn’t want to leave the embrace of color and lights and movement.
    “Yeah, we eat first,” Adam decreed.
    Beach coaxed, “Jo, my intimate one, my own primo hermano, you will decide.”
    Jose was watching eyes as he walked along. Not Mexican eyes alone, more especially the turistas, the innocent-appearing turistas. Those who resembled the man in the seersucker suit and the other men who sat in the Chenoweth lobby. He had to think what Beach had said before he answered, “Let’s eat.” Once they got Adam into the Senora’s he’d simmer down. And a big leisurely dinner would somewhere along the way afford an opportunity for Jose to slip out to the Street of the Little Female Burro.
    Before Beach could object further, Jose winked at him. “Adam and I are hungry. I can smell that Gallino Mole. After dinner, we’ll make the rounds.” Quickly he diverted Adam. “We’ve got to get the rum for Lou, don’t we? We won’t stay long.”
    They turned off the Avenue at the second block. The side street, Calle Herrera, was brief as all the side streets which wandered off the Avenue. It was also dead end. But it was not perilous. Senora Herrera had a magnificent sign in red and green and orange lights hung crookedly over her gate, spelling out Cafe Herrera. When she’d first started to cook for discriminating tourists, a small, carved, wooden plaque had been the only guidepost.
    The walls of her garden stood flush to the street. A door in the wall opened, with a jangling bell, into a patio lit with pink paper lanterns. There were wicker chairs in which to recline. A tiny plashing fountain was ringed with geraniums in yellow lard cans. Great wooden tubs of oleanders decorated the whole with lacy shadows. The patio was traditional; the cafe had been the Herrera casa before the border was given over to American aliens and their money. Across the flagstones were the amber windows of the cafe. Through them came the hum of satisfied diners, good food smells, the strum of music and plaint of Mexican song.
    The Senora was older but there was no gray in her ebony braids; she might have been plumper but she was more the brisk, efficient business woman than ever. She and Adam were familiar friends, business brought him so often to the border. But without any prodding she recalled the Aragon boys who hadn’t been here for so many years. She accepted their compliments as renewal of friendship. “Your table, it is waiting for you. Senorita Chenoweth telephoned to say you were coming here.”
    There was nothing wrong with the table except that it wasn’t backed by a wall. You learned in the business Jose had been in that it was wise to have a wall behind you. He circled the neighboring tables with his eyes before seating himself. There was no sign of Tosteen or of Dulcinda Farrar. Or of anyone particularly interested in him. Yet he appreciated the reassurance of Adam speaking to a table here and a table there, an El Paso group, another from Carlsbad. He could relax.
    Jose insisted upon ordering highballs all around, they hadn’t had a stiff drink all day. He’d have to put a couple under Adam’s belt to have time to make his side trip. He also insisted upon ordering a dinner of some length and great