Ask for Me Tomorrow

“I think B. J.’s real weakness was the way he had of living completely in the present, never looking back to learn from experience, never looking ahead to see consequences. Somebody like Harry Jenkins could have picked him out of a crowd in half a minute. By the way, Aragon has found out where Jenkins is living in Rio Seco. He’ll be talking to him tonight or tomorrow. The trail’s getting really hot now. Isn’t that exciting? Aren’t you excited?”

I am afraid.

He stopped chewing. He refused to swallow. He closed his eye.

Ten

About the time Aragon would be thinking of going to bed back home, Rio Seco was just opening up for the night. From the window of his hotel room he watched the street below. There were crowds of people, including whole families, in the cafés and markets and in a long line in front of the cinema. The curio and art dealers, the silversmiths and street vendors and sandal makers were starting the real business of the day.

Except for an hour off for dinner, Aragon had spent the evening waiting to hear from Harry Jenkins. He’d written a long letter to his wife and a short note to Smedler. He read the evening paper, La Diaria, and twice he went down to the desk to ask for messages. There were none. A third time he went down for a can of insecticide to get rid of the mosquitoes. What might have been an unusual request in most hotels was taken for granted at the Castillo. The insecticide was provided by the night clerk free of charge. “We have this problem with the bugs, sir. When we kill them, they come back. When we don’t kill them, they don’t go away.”

“I understand.”

The clerk looked surprised. “You do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“That’s it, then. Lawyers understand everything, even bugs, yes?”

“Especially bugs,” Aragon said. “Good night.”

He sprayed the room until the mosquitoes were all dead. Then he had to open the window to get rid of the fumes, and a whole new swarm of mosquitoes entered. He settled down with some beer to match them, pint for pint. For every pint they took from him, he drank a pint to replace the fluid.

The din from the street below increased in volume. He almost missed hearing the knock on his door shortly after midnight.

He unlocked the door. “Mr. Jenkins?”

“That’s me, Harry Jenkins.”

“I’m Tom Aragon. Come in, won’t you?”

“Don’t mind if I do, seeing as you offered some reimbursement for my time and trouble. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Jenkins closed the door behind him. He was a small thin man in his mid-forties, dressed in a dark-blue suit frayed at the cuffs and so shiny across the seat of his pants that he looked as though he’d slipped in a pool of melted wax. “So you want to talk about B. J., right?”

“No. I want you to talk about him.”

“Same difference, like they say. After I read your note I sat me down to do some thinking. Here’s how it came out. One of B. J.’s old big-shot friends got a pang of conscience for not helping him out before and now he, or she, wants to buy a little peace of mind.”

“Go on.”

“Any damn fool knows that that’s the only piece of something not for sale in the world. So I figure it has to be a she, since they don’t go by the rules of reason. The question is, ‘What she?’ ”

“I thought the question was, ‘How much do you know and what is it worth?’ ”

“You have yourself a point there, laddie.”

Jenkins moved quickly and gracefully across the room, balancing on the balls of his feet like a featherweight boxer between punches. Everything about him seemed to be in motion except his eyes. They had no more life in them than patches of grey suede.

“If you read my note this afternoon,” Aragon said, “what took you so long to get here?”

“A place like this cramps my style. I don’t even have the clothes for it. I had to borrow the suit from a friend. It’s not much of a suit, but then, he’s not much of a friend, either.”

“Clothes don’t matter much anymore.”

“They do in my business.”

“What’s your business, Mr. Jenkins?”

“It varies. Right now things are slow, but I’m tossing a few ideas back and forth.” He smoothed his thinning hair across the bald spot on top of his head as if to protect the source of the ideas. “I can’t work at an ordinary job. Don’t have the stomach for it. Or the papers. The immigration boys are a nervous bunch. One little mistake and they jump you.”

“Jenlock Haciendas was more than a little mistake, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d be the first to say it. I got in over my head. My other business ventures are less ambitious.”

“Sit down, will you?”

“Thanks.”

“Join me in a beer?”

“Might as well, I guess.” Jenkins stood at the window looking down at the street. “I’d like to get out of this crappy town.”

“Why don’t you?”

“There was a little episode in Albuquerque and maybe a couple of other places. Not everybody shares my philosophy of forgive and forget... How’d you track me down, anyway?”

“Went to the Quarry and hired a shouter. One of the inmates came over to talk to me.”

“Emilia.”

“Yes.”

“What’d she tell you?”

“That when she’s released she’s going to mash you like a turnip.”