Serenade - James M. Cain [29]
"But he is político--"
"And because he's político, and he's fixed you up with a lousy sailor's whorehouse, he thinks he's going to take part of his graft in trade. He made a mistake. You're not going."
"But--"
He stepped up, then, and shot a rattle at me in Spanish, so close I could feel the spit on my face. We hadn't been talking loud. I was too sore to yell, and Mexicans say it soft. He finished, straightened up, and jerked his thumb at me again, toward the hotel. I let him have it. He went down. I stamped my foot on his hand, grabbed the pistol out of the holster. "Get up."
He didn't move. He was out cold. I looked at the hotel. All you could hear was this mumbling and moaning. They hadn't heard anything at all. I jerked open the car door and shoved her in, hatboxes and all. Then I ran around, threw the pistol on the seat, jumped in and started. I went out of the court in second, and by the time I hit the road I was in high.
I snapped on the lights and gave her the gun. In a few seconds I was in the town, and then I knew what a mistake I had made when I came out of that court, and cut right instead of left. I had to get out of there, and get out of there quick before that guy came to, and I couldn't turn around. I mean literally I couldn't turn around. The street was so narrow, and so choked with burros, pigs, goats, mariachis, and people, that even when you met a car you had to saw by, and a turn was impossible. It was no through street. It went through the town, and then, at the hill, it led up to the big tourist hotel, and that was the end of it. I crawled along now, the sweat coming out on my brow, and got to the bottom of the hill. There was no traffic there, but it was still narrow. I turned right on a side road. I thought I might hit a way, after a block or two, that would lead back where I had come from. I didn't. The street just tapered off into two tracks on an open field, that as far as I could see just wandered up in the hills. I pulled into the field, to turn around. I thought I still might have time to slip back through the town, though it didn't look like even Jess Willard could stay out that long. Then back of me I heard shots, yells, and the screech of a motorcycle siren. It was too late. I was cut off. I doused the lights and bumped over to a grove of coconut palms, where anyway I would be shaded from the moonlight.
I lined up toward the town, so I could see, and tried to think. It all depended on whether I had been noticed, turning off the main street. If I hadn't, I might be able to lay low till the moon went down and they were asleep, then go through the town fast, and be on my way to Mexico City before they even knew I had got away. I tried not to think about the ship.
In a minute or so, the sirens began to screech louder, and three single lights streaked out of town around the harbor. That meant they had no idea I was still around. They thought I was on my way to Mexico, and were out after me. That meant we would be safe here for a little while, maybe the whole night. But where it put me, when I did start up to Mexico, and met those patrols coming back, I hated to think. And Mexico was the only place you could go. There wasn't any other road.
We sat there a long time, and then I knew she was crying. "Why you do this? Why you do this to me?"
"Don't you know? Why I--" I tried to make myself say "I love you," but it stuck in my throat. "I wanted you. I didn't want him to have you."
"That is not true. You go away."
"What makes you say that?"
"You sing now, yes? You sing better anybody in Mexico. You stay in Acapulco, in a house? Why you lie? You go away."
"I never even thought of it."
"Now for me, very bad. No house, no. Maybe he shoot me, yes. I can no work more in Mexico. He is very big político. I--why you do this? Why you do