Miss Shumway Waves a Wand (5 page)

The fat man picked his cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it across at me. It landed on the table between us.

If any other greaser had done that, I’d have pinned his ç ears back, but I’ve got a superstition about hitting a guy twice my size. I’ve been over that with you before. But when that guy gets so that he’s three times
my
size, I’ll take an awful lot from him before I go into action.

Myra didn’t mind pushing me into a fight. That’s like a woman. They think uneven odds is a sign of chivalry.

“Why don’t you poke that fat boy in his pantry?” she asked.

Maybe the guy couldn’t speak anything but his own language, but how was I to know? The most unlikely people get educated these days.

“What do you want me to do?” I whispered. “Commit suicide?”

“You’re not going to let a pail of lard insult me?” Myra said, her eyes suddenly flashing.

“Didn’t you see what he did?” She pointed to the cigarette end that smouldered near her hand.

“That little thing?” I said, hastily. “Why, that was an accident. He didn’t mean anything. You pipe down. It’s dames like you who cause revolutions.”

Just then the thin Mexican came out of the shop. He edged round the fat party as if he were passing close to a black widow. Then he set two beers in front of us and faded back to the shop fast.

The fat party was smoking again and he took his cigarette out and flipped it once more. I had my hand over my glass as the smoking cigarette curled through the air, but it dropped into Myra’s glass.

I took her glass before she could say anything and gave her mine. “There you are, sweetheart, and for the love of Mike don’t make anything of it.”

Myra’s face scared me. She’d gone a little white and her eyes looked like those of a cat in the dark.

The fat party suddenly laughed. It was a high tinny sound that went with his sideboards and pencilled moustache. “The senor has milk in his veins,” he said, slapping his thick thigh and looking as if he was having the time of his life.

I considered getting up and giving him one, but something warned me off. I’ve knocked around this country for some time and
I’ve
seen plenty of tough greasers, but this party was something special. If I was going to do anything,
I’d
have to do it with a gun. That was the kind of guy he was and I didn’t have a gun with me

That didn’t put Myra off. She gave him a look that would have stopped a runaway horse and said, “Go jump into a lake, you fat sissy; if one won’t hold you, jump into two.”

You could have heard a feather settle on the ground.

The fat party stopped laughing. “You’ve got a very big mouth, little rabbit,” he said. “You should be careful how you use it.”

Boy! Could that guy look mean?

“Get out of the sun, fat boy,” Myra said. “Before your dome melts. Take the air—drift— scram—dust off.”

The fat party put one hand under his
sarape
. I guess he was going after his arsenal, so I said quickly, “We don’t want any trouble, pal, we’re just going.”

But, he wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t even moving any more. He just stood like a great block of granite with his eyes sticking out of his head like long-stemmed toadstools.

I looked at Myra. She had her hands on the table and between her cupped fingers was the head of a little green snake. It darted its spade-shaped head in a striking movement and its forked tongue flickered in and out in a way that gave me the heebies. Then she opened her hands and the snake wasn’t there any more and she smiled at the fat party as if they’d known each other for a long time.

I wish you could have seen his face. One minute he was all brag, meanness and confidence and then, in a moment, he was a deflated bag of wind. He covered his eyes with his hand end then shook his head. He seemed to hitch himself together with an effort.

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” she said to him. “Beat it. You’re using too much air.” Then the thin elderly Mexican came out quickly and said something to the fat party. He looked sick as he pointed down the road.

The fat party followed his trembling finger and then glared over at us. “We meet again,” he said. “Especially will I meet the senorita. She has too big a mouth. I put a hornet in it and sew her lips together,” and he went quickly into the shop, leaving the thin elderly Mexican watching a cloud of dust that was coming up the road at a pretty fast lick towards us.

I eased my collar. “Did you get that line about the hornet?” I said. “And you had to crack wise with a guy like that.”

She picked up her hat. “Skip It,” she said. “He was as yellow as a canary.”

“I know. And I loved the way he sang,” I returned. “Come on, we’ll beat it too. I have a feeling that there’s a cloud of trouble heading our way.”

We hardly got to the car before a bunch of Federal soldiers came galloping up.

A little guy with a complexion like stale cream cheese pulled his horse over to us and slid to the ground. He was an officer by the look of his dirty uniform and he seemed excited.

I said, “Hello,” and automatically felt for my papers. But, he wasn’t interested in me. He asked if we had seen a big fat guy anywhere around.

Myra opened her mouth, but I stumbled against her. My elbow hit her in the wind and that held her.

“No one around here,” I said. “Maybe some one else has seen him. Have you asked?”

The officer spat in the dust. “They said he was here. Not five minutes ago,” he said, fiddling with his revolver butt.

“Well, a lot can happen in five minutes,” I said. “Maybe he was in a hurry. Who was he anyway?”

But the officer had lost interest in me and went over to the thin, elderly Mexican. I shoved Myra into the car and got in myself. I wanted to put a lot of space between me and likely trouble.

Myra had got her breath back. “Why didn’t you tell him?” she demanded. “You’re riot scared of him, are you?”

“It’s not a matter of being scared,” I said starting the engine and throwing in the clutch.

“I’ve been around in this country long enough never to interfere with anyone. It’s paid me pretty well up to now, and I’m seeing that it continues to do so.”

I sent the car snarling towards Orizaba.

Myra began to laugh. “Did you see that fat boy’s face when I did the snake trick?”

“I did,” I said grimly. “And I heard what he said about the hornet.”

“So what? You don’t think that means anything, do you?”

“I know it does,” I replied. “A guy like that would do just that little thing and think nothing of it. The next time we meet, I’m going to shoot him first and apologize after.”

The idea seemed to shock her and we went back to the hotel without saying another word. Bogle was sitting on the verandah drinking beer and he waved to us as we came up the steps. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, putting his mug on the table and getting up. “Doc’s worried sick. He thought you’d walked out on him.”

Myra said, “Hello, Samuel. You ought to keep in the shade. The light’s a little too hard on you.”

Bogle watched her disappear into the hotel He scowled at me. “One of these days she’ll shoot her mouth off once too often,” he said darkly. “Don’t that prove you can’t be too careful in picking a blonde? I knew a dame once with hair just like hers. Got the nicest mouth I’ve ever listened to. You oughta hear the drippy names she used to call me. You’d’ve been surprised.”

It surprised me that Bogle had a sentimental streak in his make-up, but I didn’t tell him so.

“Your love life bores me,” I said, grinning at him. “Never mind about the drippy names. They won’t get you any place. Where’s Doc?”

Bogle sniffed. “Oh, he’s feeding his face. I didn’t feel hungry, but maybe I’d better do something about it now.”

“Come and feed with me,” I said. “No sense in eating alone”

Bogle brooded darkly. “I’d rather eat alone than with that blonde wise guy,” he said at last.

“I’ll wait. When I sit down to a meal I like to enjoy myself.”

“If that’s how you feel,” I returned and moved towards the lounge.

Just then a kid came quietly up the verandah steps. He was a little Indian boy, very dirty, wearing a dirty white shirt and a pair of ragged trousers. He carried a small wooden box In one of his grubby bands and he looked at Bogle with a calculating eye.

Bogle smirked at him. “Hullo, son,” he said. “Coming to have a talk with old Uncle Sam?” The kid stared at him thoughtfully with his head on one side and shuffled his bare feet on the verandah floor.

Bogle looked over at me. “I like kids,” he said simply, exploring his teeth with his finger nail. “This little punk’s all right, ain’t he?”

The kid shuffled a few paces nearer. “Shine, Johnny?” he said, hopefully.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Bogle said, leering at him. “Come and tell Uncle Sam all about it.”

The kid didn’t seem full of confidence, but he put his box down and said again, “Shine, Johnny?”

Bogle stared at him. “Wadjer mean… shine?”

“He wants to shine your shoes, you dope,” I said, grinning. “He’s got beyond Uncle Samuel’s bedside chats for kiddies.”

Bogle looked disappointed. “Gee! I thought the kid was lonely.”

“Shine, Johnny?” the kid repeated monotonously.

“He’s got a one-track mind, ain’t he?” Bogle said, then seeing the kid was a bit restless, he waved his hand grandly. “Sure, help yourself, son,” and he stretched forward one of his great feet.

The kid flopped on the floor and began turning up Bogle’s trouser ends.

“Well, I’m hungry,” I said. “I’ll tell ‘em to leave you something.”

“What’ll I give the little punk?” Bogle asked, watching the kid polishing away at his shoe.

“What you like,” I returned. “These kids ain’t particular.”

Another kid in a dirty red shirt came sidling up the steps. He took one look at Bogle and ran over and shoved White Shirt out of the way.

Bogle blinked. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, as Red Shirt began to lay out his shining materials.

“You’ve got competition,” I said, feeling that I might enjoy this. I leaned against the wall and prepared to watch. From past experience I knew what leeches these kids were, once you encouraged them.

Bogle looked quite gratified. “I told you kids liked me,” he said, smirking. “They’ll even fight over me.”

He’d got something because White Shirt recovering from his surprise grabbed Red Shirt by the throat and put on squeeze.

Bogle was quite shocked. He dragged them apart and held them, one in each great fist.

“Hey!” he said. “This ain’t the way to behave. Now, listen, you two…”

Red Shirt kicked out at White Shirt and succeeded in landing a bone shattering smack on Bogle’s leg. Bogle let the kids go like they were red hot and clasped his leg with a grunt of anguish.

The two kids began to mix it all over the verandah.

“Holy Moses!” Bogle gasped. “Can’t you stop ‘em?”

“Don’t bring me into It,” I said, watching the kids with interest. “I’ll just be the historian.” Bogle got to his feet and managed to separate the kids. “Shut up, you two!” he said fiercely.

“No fighting! Now, listen, you can do a shoe apiece. How’s that?”

Neither of them understood what he was saying, but they quieted down and looked at him with bright, intent eyes.

Bogle seemed pleased with his tactics. “See that?” he said, sitting down again. “I can handle kids. All you’ve got to do is reason with ‘em.”

He was hardly in his seat when the two kids streaked at him and grabbed his right leg. They began thumping each other and dragging his leg backwards and forwards. Bogle hung on to the table, his eyes popping in alarm.

They struggled first one way and then another, worrying at his leg like a couple of bull terriers.

“Reason with ‘em, Sam,” I said, weak with laughter.

He beat them off finally with his hat and they stood back, breathing heavily. If he’d’ve been a nice juicy pork chop with a little frill at the end of it, they couldn’t have eyed him with more interest.

As they edged towards him again, he raised his hat threateningly. “Keep off, you punks,” he growled, then catching my eye, what the hell do you find funny in this? Tell ‘em to behave themselves.”

I came over and explained to the kids that they could each clean one of Bogle’s shoes and there was no need to fight about it.

They considered this for a moment, then they wanted to know if the payment would also be divided.

I referred this to Bogle.

“Aw, the hell with it” he said, losing patience. “Tell ‘em to dust. I thought they were nice kids. Money’s all these brats think of. I don’t want to be bothered with ‘em.”

“Hey! Where’s all this stuff about liking kids?” I said severely. “You’ll disappoint ‘em, you know.”

Bogle fanned himself with his hat. “Iszatso?” he said violently. “What about me? They nearly broke my gawdamn leg.”

“Have it your own way,” I said and explained to the kids that Bogle had changed his mind. When it had sunk in, they started howling at the tops of their voices.