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A cacophony of trumpet-guitar music assaulted him on the square, coming out of the open-walled fronts of three cantinas which stood open to the plaza like pe
It was a cheap saloon with pungent atmosphere—two pinball machines, a dark scratched bar like a Western movie saloon set, no bar stools; half a dozen small tables standing on uneven legs on sawdust and grease. There was a straightforward row of bottles—cheap wine, Mexican beer, rum and tequila—under a wall crowded with beer posters, dusty snapshots, and half a dozen broken rusty old guns of the sort obtainable at a hock shop for ten or fifteen pesos. The terrible band stood around at the far end of the bar, four musicians, one tooting a raucous trumpet and the others playing guitars of various sizes and resonances. There was a great deal of smoke and noise. Charley Bass tried to remember whether it was Thursday or Friday night. There were plenty of people in the place. Almost all of them looked like locals; Caborca wasn’t a tourist town.
Except the girl. She was from the States, that was obvious. Charley Bass crowded up to the bar and after an exercise in bad Spanish and sign language managed to buy a glass of black beer which he sipped as he turned his back to the bar and studied the girl over the rim of his glass.
Her dress was soiled, her fingernails dirty, her hair tangled in ropy disorder, but she was big and sloppy and exciting, her mouth full and sensuous, her eyes pushing out a sleepy, provocative sexual aura as tangible as the smell of the bar room. Her hefty hips and big freewheeling breasts made straining curves against her tight soiled dress.
She had a lot of fingerprints on her. But she was a girl who wanted sensation and did as she pleased: a woman in heat.
Charley Bass bought another beer and carried it over to her table. “May I join you? I’m unarmed.”
She looked up; her cranky, pouty expression changed. Charley Bass adjusted his smile, ready for her rebuff. The girl picked up her margarita and drank fast; some of it ran down her chin. He realized, what he hadn’t seen before, that she had had quite a few. Her eyes were slightly vague and she almost upset the glass when she set it down. She stared moodily at him and stuck out a pudgy index finger to swirl the ice cube in the squat glass; she still hadn’t said a word. The air around her was thick with the heavy scent of cheap perfume.
Finally she spoke but her voice was pitched low and he couldn’t make out what she said against the heavy background of talk and laughter. He bent down, staring at the heavy lard-white mass of bunched cleavage visible in the scoop-neck of her dress. “Beg pardon?”
“I said siddown.”
“Thanks.” He settled into a fragile-looking chair across from her. When he put his elbow on the table it rocked toward him. It was a tiny table, hardly large enough for two drinks and four elbows. Noise and crowd swirled close-packed around them. He said, “I’m Charley Bass.”
“Good for you.”
He put on his hearty red-cheeked smile. “Hell of a town to get stuck in, isn’t it?”
“You can say that again.”
He wondered how old she was. Twenty-five, maybe; getting a little too soft and suety. A few years more and she’d start getting passed down the line until some smart guy came along and took her on a little vacation to Hong Kong or South America, and then they’d cop her passport and unload her into a crib where she’d get beat all the way down until she didn’t even want to go home. He knew: he’d plied that trade himself.
She was watching him sleepily. He said, “Here I had a great weekend all set up, meet some friends down at Rocky Point and go out on their boat for marlin in the Gulf. But what happens? My damn Buick blows a wheel-bearing five miles up the road and I spend the whole damn day getting a tow back to this lousy town. Stuck here till morning now. How do you like that?”
“Yeah,” she said. “We had a breakdown too, back up the road. Seven stinking hours in this heat before the good-for-nothin’ grease monkey got the water pump fixed.”
He said quickly, “We?”
“Yeah, some—some people I hitched a ride with.” Her restless eyes shifted away, combing the crowd.
His hands felt sticky. “You don’t mean to tell me you’re alone here? What a godawful place.”
“You can say that again.”
“How about another drink, hey?”
“You paying?”
“Of course, honey.”
“Okay, then. I’m kind of short, you know? The guy with the bugle over there bought me these, but then some fat Mexican woman came in and dragged him away by the ear.” She didn’t laugh. “His wife, I guess. Seven or eight months pregnant from what I could see. Poor son of a bitch must be pretty uptight if she keeps after him like that all the time. Why didn’t she just let him enjoy himself? Who’d be hurt by it?”
“It wouldn’t have bothered you?”
“Me? I like it, they like it. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well,” Charley Bass said, “you know these Catholics.”
“I was raised Catholic. I know all about it.”
“Say, what’d you say your name was?”
“Billie Jean. I forgot your name.”
“Charley Bass. Like Sam Bass, the Texas outlaw, ever heard of him?”
“I don’t know. You related to him or something?”
“Who knows?” He turned and signaled the barmaid. She came over with a cork-lined metal tray and a bored face and Charley Bass made a circular gesture to order another round; the barmaid turned away, expressionless, giving no indication whether she had understood the order.
He shifted his chair forward when he turned back to face the table. His knee touched against Billie Jean’s and she did not withdraw; he gave her a lidded smile and said, “I’m in the oil business. Buy and sell leases. From Pasadena, believe it or not. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m from—just around, you know.”
His hand, under the table, explored her thigh. Under the thin fabric of her dress he saw her nipples grow, harden and swell. Her eyelids drooped and she squirmed on the chair. He said, “I got a room in the old hotel a couple of blocks up the street. How about it, Billie Jean? Nice way to pass the time.”
“Maybe,” she said. A crafty light came into her eyes. “Look, Mister Charley Bass, maybe you’d like to do a girl a favor.”
“Just name it.”
“Well, it’s like this, see—these people I, uh, hitched a ride with, they’re still here in town, but when I came along with them I didn’t know what they were like. I found out they’re, you know, involved in something kind of shady-like. I ain’t sure what it is,” she added hastily, “maybe dope smuggling or something, but I’m pretty sure they think I’m onto them on account of something one of them let slip in the car. Soon as we got here I split, you know? They ain’t come looking for me but just the same I’d just as soon not see them again, you know what I mean? They’re pretty tough, you know?”
He reached out and patted her hand. “I’ll be glad to give you a ride, honey.”
“Well, it—”
She broke off because the barmaid had returned. The barmaid set down drinks on the table and waited indifferently until Charley Bass paid her, whereupon she counted the money laboriously and turned away without a word or a nod.
Billie Jean said, “It ain’t just a ride I need.”
“What, then?”
“Well, these people I was with, they’ve still got my papers. You know, my tourist permit. Mister, I don’t want to go back there and face them just to get that piece of paper. I tell them I want my permit back and they’ll sure as hell think there’s something fishy going on, you know? Maybe think I’m go