Ask for Me Tomorrow

The blacktop road that led to the house was about half a mile long. Salazar drove it as though he were practicing for the Indianapolis 500 in low gear. He stopped at the entrance to a carport on the east side of the house. There was space for four cars but only one was in it at the moment, a late-model jeep station wagon.

“Thank you, Salazar,” Aragon said. “That was a very interesting ride.”

“I am a fine driver, do you think?”

“You are a very fine driver.” Like Rio Seco is a very fine city and your boss is a very fine man.

Salazar took the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Aragon with a solemn nod of the head. “I have only driven twice before. I guess it is a natural talent.”

The main house was a combination of mission and ranch style. Under the wide beamed overhang of the tile roof, about an acre of patio circled the house. It was furnished with dark heavy wooden benches and decorated with glazed clay pots painted in such vivid colors that the plants they contained looked drab by contrast and secondary in importance. Many of the plants were dead or dying, as if the effort of competing with the pots had been too much of a strain.

Under the arch of the main entrance, two Cadillac limousines and a Jensen Interceptor were parked with a chauffeur behind the wheel of each. The three chauffeurs and Salazar were the only people in sight, and the only sound was Salazar’s voice: “Someday when I attain a position of importance, I will buy a big car like one of those. Meanwhile I will practice by going to the cinema and watching carefully how they are driven. The important thing is aim.”

“Aim?”

“Like a rifle. You aim it just so and it shoots in that direction just so.”

Aragon hoped he wouldn’t be in the vicinity when Salazar bought his big car and aimed it just so.

An older man came out of one of the side doors. Like Salazar and the gatekeeper, he was in uniform. Either the uniform had been too small to begin with or he’d grown fat in the wearing of it. He was stuffed into it like a sausage balancing on two toothpick legs.

He said to Salazar, “Who is this person?”

“An American who flew in from Los Angeles this afternoon. His name is Aragon.”

“Does he speak Spanish?”

“Yes, Superintendent. Very well.”

“What does he want?”

“To see Magistrate Hernandez.”

“I’m sorry I barged in like this,” Aragon said. “If Mr. Hernandez is in the middle of an emergency, I can wait for a later appointment.”

The superintendent gazed at him pensively. “Oh no. The emergency has passed.”

“Is something the matter around here?”

“Why do you think something is the matter?”

“The security precautions seem excessive.”

“Excessive for what?”

“The house of an ordinary magistrate.”

“Magistrates have great power in this part of the world. Where there is great power, there are many enemies.”

“I assure you I’m not one of them.”

“I thought not,” the superintendent said. “Enemies don’t usually appear at the front gate and give their names. Unless, of course, they’re subtle. Which you are not. I consider myself an excellent judge of character and you appear to me a heavy young man — heavy-handed, heavy-footed, heavy-minded. Is this correct?”

“It may be a trifle too flattering.”

“Your tone indicates that I hit a nerve. Which nerve?”

“I ran the mile in four ten in college.”

“That’s good?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, we’ll take out the heavy-footed. The rest stays. Come inside.”

He led the way through a long narrow room that looked like a combination of art gallery, church and library. The books were leatherbound copies of English classics translated into Spanish. The pictures, in ornate gilt frames, were of a religious nature — madonnas, crucifixions, resurrections — except for one large oil painting of a man wearing a magnificent scarlet uniform with gold epaulettes and silver scabbard and sword. A dozen or more candles burned in silver candelabra below the painting and on the altar at the far end of the room.

The superintendent surveyed the room proudly as if it were his own and the man in the scarlet uniform were an earlier self, or at least a relative. “The galleria is most impressive, don’t you agree, Mr. Aragon?”

“Yes.” I hope this agreeing business starts getting easier. I may have to do a hell of a lot more of it. “Most impressive.”

“But I detect a certain hesitancy in your manner. You’re not a religious man, perhaps?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Religion can be a great solace for people in trouble.”

“Are you implying that I’m in some kind of trouble, Superintendent?”

“What kind of trouble could you be in when you only arrived in Rio Seco this afternoon? You’ve hardly had time to go out looking for it. Perhaps I can help. Come, I’ll show you the magistrate’s office.”

Beyond the altar was a massive, elaborately carved oak door with iron hinges which creaked a warning when the superintendent pushed the door open.