Fo'castle Waltz

It was raining and that road was poorly lit by a few scattered unshielded electric bulb lampposts. A cop stood under each of these and they'd look us over as we passed. We had sloughed by the first cop and were about halfway to the next when he whistled a long, shrill blast. Obviously he warned his colleague further up the road to be on the alert—some suspicious-looking Nord Americanos were bearing down on him. We'd passed the next and he'd look us over and did his duty by his brother cop further up the road, until we'd gone by about four of them.

We resented their suspicions. How could anyone walk along a muddy road on a rainy night other than crouched over with coat collar up and hands thrust in pockets, and not look like a lot of sinister characters? I had tried walking with my hands out and swinging and my head up and with an honest look in my eye, but the rain carried by the gusts of wind beat around my head and chilled my neck.

The train ride was short and cheap—only one peso fifty and those trains run often. Bahia Blanca was a pleasant town with broad boulevards and cheerful cafes. They were big places with tremendous windows, clean-looking, and people sat around playing chess, sipping their drinks and reading newspapers. We stopped in one of them for a few drinks and discussed what would be the best way to find the houses of the town—the bordellos. Perry wasn't there to guide us. We were on our own.

Philip was sure if we asked anyone they'd tell us, so we downed our drinks, paid up, and went out on the street again. We stood at the curb making up our minds whom to ask. The rain had stopped. Philip, Joe, Mush, Al, and I just stood around for a while.

There was a vaudeville theater across the wide street that featured, so the posters indicated, a trained dog act. The reflections of the colored lights from its marquee made a sparkling pattern on the wet pavement.

A young guy on a bicycle had stopped and as he balanced his bike with one foot on the ground he stared at us. We egged Philip on to ask him where the houses were, but Philip was reticent. He thought he was too young to know of such matters. We scoffed at that. The guy looked about Mush's age; and then I'd been told a certain amount is included in the allowances of all boys (of the better class, of course) away at preparatory schools to be used in such places as we were looking for. A commendable adult concept, if true—and worthy of consideration, if not.

The young Argentinian had singled me out for special scrutiny and I was getting a little uncomfortable.

"Go on, Philip, ask him," I urged.

"All right." He stepped off the curb and began, "'Buenas noches senor.''

The boy butt in with some questions. Philip replied something that ended with "Nord Americanos."

Then the boy hopped his bicycle over to the curb where I stood and poked his finger at my chest as he queried:

"Nord Americano Indian?"

Everybody turned and looked at me as if they saw me for the first time. He probably had seen some photographs of our noble redmen—not the moving-picture type or those pictured on calendars (the hawk-nosed, lean, befeathered savages, profiled against a setting sun), but the fattish owners of Oklahoma oil wells as they stepped from their high-powered automobiles. I must have been mistaken for one of those since I was tanned pretty deep. Then, too, there were my gold-rimmed specs and that handsome black sombrero—and I was a little fat at the time.

I said, "No—Nord Americano juive."

He laughed, swung his leg over his bicycle, and rolled off.

"Well, where's the houses, Philip?" Mush asked.

"He didn't say." "Oh, nuts, I'm gonna ask that cop." And before we could stop him Mush had broken away from us and squirmed through the busy traffic that seemed to be going every which way, paying no attention to the traffic cop in the center of the road who waved his white baton aimlessly.

Mush climbed up on the little platform the cop stood on, and, though it was some distance from where we stood, we could hear him over the noise of the street.

"Where's—houses—girls?" and he semaphored his arms in every direction, trying to pick one the astonished cop would agree was right.

His voice became louder until it was a shout. Finally, he tried Spanish.

"Where d'hell's—the bordellos—the senoritas and stuff?"

At that the cop lit up with a bright smile. He stepped off his platform and pointed the direction down the street with a lot of chatter. We shoved Philip out into the street to give Mush a hand, since he didn't seem to understand what was being told him. Philip joined them and after a few minutes of polite talk, accompanied by gracious smiles and much flashing of teeth, he bowed, the cop gave him a quick little salute, and we were off to the houses of Bahia Blanca.