Serenade - James M. Cain [49]
Chadwick went into a gag clinch with me when we came in, but when she saw Juana the grin froze on her face and her eyes looked like a snake's. There were twenty or thirty people there, and she took us in and introduced us, but she didn't take us around. She stood with us, near the door, rattled off the names in a hard voice. Then she sat Juana down, got her a drink, put some cigarettes beside her, and that was all. She didn't go near her again, and neither did any of the other women. I sat down on the other side of the room, and in a minute they were all around me, particularly the women, with a line of Hollywood chatter, all of it loud and most of it off color. They haven't got the Hollywood touch till they cuss like mule-skinners and peddle the latest dirty crack that was made on some lot. I fed it back like they gave it, but I was watching Juana. I thought of the soft way she talked, and how she never had said a dirty word in her life, and the dignified way she had stood there while she was being introduced, and the screechy way they had acted. And I felt something getting thick in my throat. Who were they to leave her there all alone with a drink and a pack of Camels?
George Schultz, that had done the orchestrations for "Bunyan," went over to the piano and started to play. "Feel like singing, boy?"
"Just crazy to sing."
"Little Traviata?"
"Sure."
"O.K., give."
He went into the introduction of Di Provenza il Mar. But this thing in my throat was choking me. I went over to Juana. "Come on. We're going home."
"You no sing?"
"No. Come on."
"Hey, where are you? That's your cue."
"Yeah?"
"You're supposed to come in."
"I'm not coming in."
"What the hell is this?"
We went out and put on our things and Chadwick followed us to the door. "Well, you don't seem to enjoy my little party?"
"Not much."
"It's mutual. And the next time you come don't show up with a cheap Mexican tart that--"
That's the only time a woman ever took a cuff in the puss from John Howard Sharp. She screamed and three or four guys came out there, screen he-men, all hot to defend the little woman and show how tough they were. I stepped back to let them out. I wanted them out. I was praying they'd come out. They didn't. I took Juana by the arm and started for the car. "There won't be any next time, baby."
***
"They no like me, Hoaney?"
"They didn't act like it."
"But why?"
"I don't know why."
"I do something wrong?"
"Not a thing. You were the sweetest one there."
"I no understand."
"You needn't even bother to try to understand. But if they ever pull something like that on you, just let me know. That's all I've got to say. Just let me know."
We went to the Golondrina. It's a Mexican restaurant on Olvera Street, a kind of Little Mexico they've got in Los Angeles, with mariachis, pottery, jumping beans, bum silverware, and all the rest of it. If she had dressed for me, I was bound she was going to have a good time if I had to stand the whole city on its ear to give it to her. She had it. She had never been there before, but as soon as they spotted her they all came around, and talked, and laughed, and she was back home. The couple in the floor show made up a special verse of their song for her, and she took the flower out of her hair and threw it out there, and they did a dance with it, and gave her some comedy. Their comedy is a lot of bum cucaracha gags, with a lot of belly-scratching and eye-rolling and finger-snapping, but it was funny to her, so it was funny to me. It was the first time I had ever had a friendly feeling toward Mexico.
Then I sang. A big movie shot is an event in that place, but a Mexican would never pull anything, or let you know he was looking at you. I had to call for the guitar myself, but then I got a big hand. I sang to her, and to the girl in the floor show, and whanged out a number they danced to, and then we all sang the Golondrina. It was two o'clock before we left there. When we went to bed I held her in my arms, and long after she was asleep