Ask for Me Tomorrow

He didn’t move. He had so much to say that the sheer bulk of it overwhelmed him. His fingers were icicles inside their warm blanket of flesh, and his eyelid felt as though someone had sewn it shut.

“Come, come, you’re not going to be uncooperative just because we’re strangers, are you? I am your nurse. You should trust me to practically the same degree that you trust your doctor or your wife. I am with you, Mr. Decker, with you. Let’s try a few basic questions for practice. Wait now, did I say one finger or one blink for yes, and two for no, or was it two fingers or two blinks for yes, and one for no? We’d better start over. I think we’ll say two fingers or two blinks for yes, and one finger or one blink for no. Ready to begin?”

He opened his right eye and gave her a look of such terrible loathing that even Mrs. Morrison, who was not noted for sensitivity, felt a certain coolness in the air.

“We must communicate, Mr. Decker. I’m not a mind reader and you’re not a vegetable, appearances to the contrary. Let’s make that a test question: Are you a vegetable?”

He wasn’t.

“There, that’s better, you are not a vegetable. Is your name Marco Decker? No? Are you being deliberately perverse or are you just stupid? This is a serious matter. Is the sun shining? Yes, it is, so I want two, two for yes. Do you understand me? Another yes, two fingers or two blinks.”

All of his powers of concentration and will were gathered now to move his hand.

“Why, you old goat, I do believe that’s an obscene gesture.”

He blinked twice.

Seventeen

Aragon had been half hoping he wouldn’t be able to find it, but he could hardly have missed. It was the only house on Camino de la Cima, an oiled dirt road southeast of the city. The long winding driveway that led up to it was lined with silver-leaved eucalyptus trees that tossed and trembled at the slightest hint of wind.

The whole hillside was enclosed by hurricane fencing with half a dozen rows of barbed wire along the top. At the entrance the double iron-grilled gates were open, and so was the door of the gatehouse itself. The small building had been constructed like a miniature mission with sand-colored adobe walls and red tile roof. It reminded Aragon of the abandoned church in Bahía de Ballenas where the padre lived, but there was a couple of hundred years’ difference in age. Another and more important difference quickly became apparent. Instead of a kindly old padre coming to the door, there were two young men wearing uniforms and holsters. One of them also carried a rifle.

They watched with polite interest as Aragon parked his car and approached the gatehouse. Then the man with the rifle nodded and his companion went over to the car. He opened the right front door and looked through the glove compartment and under the seat. Then he took out the ignition keys, unlocked the trunk and searched it. He closed it again and replaced the ignition keys. Hernandez was taking good care of his past mordidas.

Aragon said, “Is this the residence of Magistrate Guadalupe Hernandez?”

The man with the rifle did the talking, in a professional monotone. “You have business with the magistrate?”

“Yes. My name is Aragon.”

“It is Saturday afternoon, surely not your ordinary business hours, Mr. Aragon.”

“This was the only time I could get here. I just arrived from Los Angeles and I was hoping Mr. Hernandez would give me an appointment this afternoon.”

“The matter you wish to see him about must be of grave importance.”

“No. I simply thought if I could contact him now, I’d be able to go back home tomorrow.”

“You don’t like our city?”

“It’s fine.”

“Very fine, I think.”

“Yes.”

“Finer than Los Angeles?”

“I’ll have to consider that for a while.”

“Take your time.” He dropped his rifle against the gatehouse door. Then he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed on his chest. “I am in no hurry. Salazar, my assistant, is in no hurry either. Are you, Salazar?”

“No, sir,” the younger man said. “I am on duty.”

“Where would you go if you weren’t on duty?”

“To the jai alai games.”

“I prefer the bullfights. You don’t have bullfights in Los Angeles, Mr. Aragon?”

“No.”

“Jai alai. Do you have jai alai?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“What do you do for amusement?”

“Punch out old ladies, kick dogs, stuff like that.”

“Ah, most uncivilized.”

“Yes.”

“So you must come here for amusement... He won’t find the magistrate very amusing today, will he, Salazar?”

“No, sir.”

“Certainly I’ve heard no one laughing.”

“Neither have I, sir.”

“Perhaps you’d better drive our American visitor up to the house to discover why no one is laughing.”

“I’m not sure that would be wise, sir.”

“You never do foolish things, Salazar? Then you must start by taking Mr. Aragon up to see Magistrate Hernandez.”

“Yes, sir.”