A Stranger in My Grave (16 page)

“Where'd you get a hold of that Juanita business anyway?”

“I thought the two names were the same. There's this old song, see, about a girl called Nita, Juanita.”

“There is, eh?”

“Yes, and I naturally assumed—”

“Hey, Chico.” She motioned to the busboy, and he came over to the booth, pushing his broom ahead of him. “You ever hear tell of a song called ‘Nita, Juanita'?”

“Nope.”

Juanita turned back to Fielding, her full mouth pressed tight against her teeth, so that it seemed half its size. “Sing it for me. Let's hear how it sounds.”

“Here? Now?”

“Sure, here now. Why not?”

“I don't remember all the words. Anyway, I can't sing. I have a voice like—”

“Try.”

She was very quiet in her insistence. No one in the café was paying any attention to the scene except Mrs. Brewster, who was watching them with her bright, beady little eyes.

“Maybe there's no such song, eh?” Juanita said.

“Sure there is. It goes back a long way. You're too young to remember.”

“So remind me.”

Fielding was sweating from the heat, from the beer, and from something he didn't want to identify as fear. “Say, what's the mat­ter with you anyway?”

“I like music, is all. Old songs. I like old songs.”

Mrs. Brewster came out from behind the counter making little sweeps of her apron as if she were brushing away invisible cob­webs. Juanita saw her coming and turned her face stubbornly toward the wall.

“What's up?” Mrs. Brewster asked Fielding.

“Nothing, I just—that is, she just wanted me to sing a song.”

“What's wrong with a bit of music?”

“It wouldn't be music. I can't sing.”

“She's a little crazy,” Mrs. Brewster said. “But I can handle her.” She put a scrawny hand firmly on Juanita's right shoulder. “Snap out of it. You hear, girl?”

“Leave me alone,” Juanita said.

“You don't snap out of it, I call your mother and tell her you're having trouble with your
cabeza
again. Also, I write to Joe. I tell him, Dear Joe, that wife of yours, you better come and get her locked up. O.K., you snap out of it now?”

“All I wanted was to hear a song.”

“What song?”

“‘Nit
a, Juanita.' He says it's a song. I never heard of it, I think he's lying. I think he's a spy from the police or the Probation Department.”

“He's not lying.”

“I think he is.”

“I can spot a cop a mile away.” Mrs. Brewster said. “Also, I know that song. I used to sing it when I was a girl. I had a pretty voice once, before I breathed in all this foul air. Now you believe me?”

“No.”

“O.K., we sing it together for you, him and me. How about that, mister? We make a little music to cheer Nita up?”

Fielding cleared his throat. “I can't—”

“I begin. You follow.”

“But—”

“Now. One, two, three, here we go:

 

‘Soft o'er the fountain,

Lingering falls the southern moon;

Far o'er the mountain,

Breaks the day too soon.

In thy dark eyes' splendor

Where the warm light loves to dwell,

Weary looks yet tender,

Speak their fond farewell.
'”

 

Juanita's face was still turned to the wall. Mrs. Brewster said, “You're not listening.”

“I am so.”

“Isn't it pretty, all that sadness? Now comes the chorus with your very own name in it.”

Fielding joined, softly and a little off key, in the chorus:

 

“‘
Nita, Juanita,

Ask thy soul if we should part.

Nita, Juanita,

Lean thou on my heart.
'”

 

During the chorus Juanita slowly turned her head to watch the two songsters, and her mouth began to move slightly, as if she were silently singing along with them. She looked like a child again in that moment, a little girl wanting desperately to be part of a song she never knew, a harmony she never heard.

When the chorus was over, Mrs. Brewster blew her nose on her apron, thinking of her pretty voice that had vanished in the foul air.

“I like the part with my name in it the best,” Juanita said.

Mrs. Brewster patted her shoulder. “Naturally. That's the best part.”

“‘Lean thou on my heart.
' Imagine anyone saying that to me. I'd drop dead.”

“Things like that don't get said in real life. You feeling better now, girl?”

“I'm all right. I was all right before, too. I just wanted to hear the song to make sure he wasn't lying.”

“She's a little crazy,” Mrs. Brewster said to Fielding. “But she handles easy if you know how.”

“I didn't really think you were lying,” Juanita said when Mrs. Brewster had gone. “I have to check things, that's all. I always check things. It's funny the way spooks like her think everybody else is crazy.”

Fielding nodded. “It
is
funny. I've noticed it myself.”

“You didn't believe her for a minute, did you?”

“Not for a minute.”

“I could tell you didn't. You have a very kind expression. I bet you like dogs.”

“Dogs are fine.”

His fear had gone now, leaving in his throat a little knot of pity which he couldn't swallow or cough up. It wasn't often that Fielding experienced pity for anyone but himself, and he didn't like the feeling. It seemed to immobilize him. He wanted to get up and run away and forget about this strange, sad girl, forget about the whole bunch of them—Daisy, Jim, Ada, Camilla. Camilla was dead. Jim and Daisy had their own lives, and Ada had hers. . . .
What the hell am I doing here? It's dangerous. I may stir up a storm and get caught in the middle of it. I'd better go while the going's good.

The girl was staring at him gravely. “What kind of dogs do you like best?”

“Sleeping ones.”

“I had a fox terrier once, but it chewed up one of my old lady's crucifixes, and she made me take it to the pound.”

“That's too bad.”

“I get off work in fifteen minutes. Maybe we could take in a movie this afternoon.”

It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he didn't hesitate. “That would be very nice.”

“I have to go home first and change clothes. I only live about three blocks away. You could wait here for me.”

“Why don't I come along? It's a good day for a walk.”

She looked suddenly tense again. “Who said I was going to walk?”

“I assumed—well, since you only live three blocks away ...”

“I thought maybe you meant I wasn't the kind of girl that'd have a car.”

“I didn't mean that at all.”

“That's good, because it's not true. I've got a car. I just don't bring it to work. I don't like leaving it parked in the hot sun for all those niggers to lean against and scratch up the finish.”

He wondered whether the car, and “all those niggers” who leaned against it, existed outside Juanita's mind. He hoped they were real and not symbols of the dark and ugly things that had happened to her, in or out of the hot sun.

“I take real good care of the finish.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“Here's your check. Eighty-five cents.”

He gave her a dollar, and she went behind the counter to get his change.

“How you feeling now, girl?” Mrs. Brewster said softly.

“Fine.”

“When you get off work, you go home to your mother, lie down, take a little rest. You do that, eh?”

“I'm going to the movies.”

“With
him
?”

Both the women turned and looked at Fielding. He wasn't sure what was expected of him, so he smiled in a tentative way. Neither of them smiled back.

“He's all right,” Juanita said. “He's old enough to be my father.”

“Sure,
we
know that, but does
he
?”

“We're only going to the movies.”

“He looks like a lush,” Mrs. Brewster said, “all those broken veins on his nose and cheekbones, and see the way he shakes.”

“He only had one beer.”

“And suppose one of Joe's friends sees you with this man?”

“Joe doesn't know anybody in town.”

Mrs. Brewster began fanning herself with her apron. “It's too hot to argue. Just you be careful, girl. Your mother and me, we're old friends; we don't want you to start running wild again. You're a respectable married woman with a husband and kids, remem­ber that.”

Juanita had heard it all a hundred times; she could have recited it forward and backward and in Spanish. She listened without interest, watching the clock on the wall, leaning her weight first on one foot, then another.

“You hear me, girl?”

“Yeah.”

“Pay it some mind, then.”

“Oh sure,” Juanita said, and gave Fielding an amused little glance:
Listen to this spook, will you?
“Can I go now?”

“It's not two yet.”

“Can't I go early just this once?”

“All right, just this once. But it's no way to conduct a business, I ought to have my head examined for soft spots.”

Juanita went over to the booth where Fielding was sitting. “Here's your change.”

“Keep it.”

“Thanks. I can go now; the spook says it's O.K. Shall I say ‘money' and make her giggle again, just for fun?”

“No.”

“Don't you want to hear it?”

“No.”

For some reason she couldn't figure out, Juanita didn't want to hear it again either. She walked very quickly to the door without glancing back to see whether Mrs. Brewster was watching or Fielding was following.

Outside. This was what Juanita liked best, to be out and free, to be moving fast, going from one place to another, not being any­where in particular or with anyone in particular, which was the same thing, because people were like places, like houses, they tied you down and made you live in them. She wanted to be a train, a huge, beautiful, shiny train, which never had to stop for fuel or to let people off or on. It just kept on going, blowing its big whis­tle, frightening everyone off the tracks.

These were the high points of her life, the times between places.

She was a train.
Awhoooeeeee….

13

I am alone, surrounded by strangers in a strange place. . . .

 

It was 2:30
when Pinata reached the neighborhood of the Velada Café. Before he got out of the car, he took off his tie and sports coat, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and unbuttoned it at the neck. He planned on using the direct approach, asking for the girl and letting it be assumed he was one of her admirers.

But he hadn't figured on Mrs. Brewster's sharp, suspicious eyes. He was barely inside the door when she spotted him and said to Chico the busboy out of the corner of her mouth, “Cop. You in trouble?”

“No, Mrs. Brewster.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying. I'm—”

“If he asks your age, you're twenty-one, see?”

“He won't believe it. I know him. I mean, he knows me from the Y; he taught me handball.”

“O.K., hide in the back room till he leaves.”

Chico made a dash for the back room, riding his broom like a witch frightened by a bigger witch.

Pinata sat down at the counter. Mrs. Brewster approached him, holding her apron in front of her like a shield, and said very politely, “Can I get you something, sir?”

“What's your lunch special?”

“We're not serving lunch. It's after hours.”

“How about a bowl of soup?”

“We're fresh out of soup.”

“Coffee?”

“It's stale.”

“I see.”

“I could make you some fresh, but it'd take a long time. I move slow.”

“Chico moves pretty fast,” Pinata said. “Of course, he's young.”

Mrs. Brewster's eyes glittered. “Not so young. Twenty-one.”

“My guess would be sixteen.”

“Twenty-one. He's got a birth certificate says twenty-one, all printed up proper.”

“He must have his own printer.”

“Chico looks young,” Mrs. Brewster said stubbornly, “because his whiskers are slow to come through the skin.”

Pinata was well aware by this time that his plans for a direct approach were useless, that it would be impossible to get infor­mation from a woman who'd refused to serve him lunch or cof­fee. He said, “Look, I'm not a policeman. It's not my concern if you're employing underage help. Chico just happens to be a friend of mine. I'd like to talk to him for a minute.”

“What for?”

“To see how he's getting along.”

“He's getting along good. He minds his own business, which is how everybody should do.”

Pinata looked toward the rear of the café and saw Chico's eyes peering out at him through the little square of glass in one of the swinging doors. Pinata smiled, and the boy grinned back in a friendly way.

Seeing the grin, Mrs. Brewster hesitated, wiping her hands uneasily on her apron. “Chico's not in trouble?”

“No.”

“And you met him at the Y, eh?”

“That's right.”

Mrs. Brewster's snort indicated her low opinion of the Y, but she motioned to Chico with her apron, and he came sidling out of the door dragging his broom behind him. He was still wear­ing his grin, but it seemed in close-up to be less friendly than anxious.

“Hello, Chico.”

“Hello, Mr. Pinata.”

“I haven't seen you for a long time.”

“No, well, I been busy, one thing and another like.”

Three men in coveralls came in and sat at the far end of the counter. Mrs. Brewster went over to take their orders, giving Chico a little frown of warning as she passed.

“How's your schoolwork coming along?” Pinata said.

Chico stared up at an interesting spot on the ceiling. “Not so good.”

“You're getting passing grades, I hope.”

“That grade bit's all in the past. I quit school at Christmas­time.”

“Why?”

“I had to get a steady job to keep my car running. That after-school errand stuff wasn't enough. You can't take the chicks out in a machine that don't run good.”

“That's a foolish reason for quitting school.”

The boy shrugged. “You asked. I answered. Maybe in your day the chicks was different, maybe they liked to do things like walk in the park, see? Now when you ask a chick out, she wants to go to a drive-in movie like, and you can't go to a drive-in without you got a car.”

“Unless you have a car.”

“That's what I mean. Without you got a car, you don't rate, you're the most nothing.”

In the past few years Pinata had heard this same story fifty times, often from brighter and more educable boys than Chico. Each time it depressed him a little further. He said, “You're pretty young to be working in a place like this, aren't you, Chico?”

“There ain't no harm in it,” the boy said nervously. “Honest to God, Mr. Pinata. It's not like I go around lapping up what's left in the glasses. Croaky does that—he's the dishwasher. It's part of his salary like.”

“What about the other people who work here? The waitresses, for example. How do they treat you?”

“O.K.”

“The blonde standing beside the back booth, who's she?”

“Millie. The other one's called Sunny, short for sunshine on account of she never smiles. She says, what's to smile at.” Chico was relieved to have the conversation switched from himself, and he intended to keep it that way if he could. “Millie's real cool. She used to teach dancing at one of them schools, you know, like cha cha cha, but it was too hard on her feet. They were flat to begin with and got flatter.”

“I thought there was a new girl around, Nita somebody-or-other.”

“Oh, her. She's a funny one. One minute you're her best friend—good morning, Chico, ain't it a beautiful morning, Chico—and the next minute she looks at me like I'm the thing from outer space. She's a snappy waitress, though. Real jet. Her and the old bird”—he indicated Mrs. Brewster with a slight movement of his head—”are pretty palsy because the old bird knows her mother. I hear them talking about it a lot.”

“Isn't Nita working today?”

“She was. She took off an hour ago with a guy. There was some trouble about a song, ended up with Mrs. Brewster and the guy singing this real square song with her name in it, Juanita. Nobody was drunk; it wasn't that kind of singing.”

“Could the man have been her husband?”

“Naw. He's in hock. This other guy, he's the one put him here.”

God, Fielding's back in town. I wonder if Daisy knows.

“I spotted him soon as he came in,” Chico added with pride. “I got a good memory for faces. Maybe I don't dig that math bit so good, but faces I never forget.”

“How old a man was he?”

“Old enough to be my father. Maybe even old enough to be
your
father.”

“That's pretty old,” Pinata said wryly.

“Sure. I know. I was kinda surprised Nita'd want to go out with him.”

“Out where?”

“To the movies. Nita and the old bird had an argument about it, not a real fight like, just quiet. You go home to your mother, the old bird says, but Nita wasn't having any of that stuff, so she and the guy take off. Nita don't like to be told a thing. Like the other day it's raining, see, and I says to her, look, it's raining. That's all, nothing personal. But she gets sore as hell, like I'd told her her lipstick was on crooked or something. Me, I think she's
zafada
, she needs a headshrinker.”

Mrs. Brewster turned suddenly and called out in a sharp, pen­etrating voice, “Chico, sweep!”

“Sure. Yes, ma'am,” Chico said. “I got to get back to work now, Mr. Pinata. See you at the Y, huh?”

“I hope so. I'd hate to think you've given up everything merely to support a car.”

“That's the way it is these days, if you dig me.”

“Yes, I guess I dig you, Chico.”

“You can't change it, I can't change it, that's the way it is.”

“Chico!” Mrs. Brewster screamed. “Sweep!”

Chico swept.

The
public phone booth on the corner smelled as if it were used during the dark hours for more personal communication and needs than the telephone company had planned on. The walls were covered with telephone numbers, initials, names, messages:
winston tastes good. winston, 93446. sally m is cool. don't be haf safe. greetings from jersey city. life is rotten. you guys are all nutz. 24t, u4 me. hello crule world goodby.

Pinata dialed Daisy's number and received a busy signal. Then he called Charles Alston at his house.

Alston himself answered. “Hello?”

“This is Steve Pinata, Charley.”

“Any luck?”

“That depends on what you mean by luck. I went to the Velada. Juanita wasn't on duty, but there's no doubt she's the girl.”

Alston's heavy sigh could be heard even above the street noises coming through the open door of the telephone booth. “I was afraid of this. Well, I have no alternative. I'll have to let the Proba­tion Department know about her. I hate the idea, but the girl's got to be protected and so do the children. Do you think—that is, you agree, don't you, that I should notify the Probation Department?”

“That's up to you. You know the circumstances better than I do.”

“They're closed for the weekend, of course, but I'll call them first thing Monday morning.”

“And meanwhile?”

“Meanwhile we wait.”

“Meanwhile you wait,” Pinata said. “I don't. I'm going to try and find her.”

“Why?”

“She happens to be out with an ex-client of mine. I'd like to see him again for various reasons.”

“When you find her, go easy on her. For her sake,” Alston added, “not yours. I assume you can take care of yourself. Where's she staying?”

“With her mother, I think. At least she's in contact with her, so I'll try there first. Where does Mrs. Rosario live?”

“When I knew her, she was living in a little house on Granada Street. It's very likely she's still there, since the house belongs to her. She bought it a long time ago. She used to be the housekeeper on the old Higginson ranch. When Mrs. Higginson died, she left Mrs. Rosario a few thousand dollars, as she did all her other employees. By the way, if Juanita is out with this ex-client of yours, why do you expect to find her at the house on Granada Street? Believe me, she isn't the type to bring the boys home to mother.”

“I have a hunch she might have dropped in to change her clothes. She was working, in uniform, until two o'clock. She wouldn't be likely to keep a date while wearing a uniform.”

“Definitely not. So?”

“I thought I'd try to get some information from Mrs. Rosario.”

Alston's laugh was loud and brief. “You may or may not get it. It depends on whether you have a
mal ojo.
By the way, I set up your appointment with Roy Fondero for three o'clock.”

“It's almost that now.”

“Then you'd better get over there. He's driving down to L.A. for the game tonight. Oh yes, one more word of advice, Steve: in dealing with Mrs. Rosario, play up the clean-living, high-thinking angle. You never swear, drink, smoke, blaspheme, or fornicate. You go to Mass and confession and observe saints' days. You don't happen to have a brother or uncle who's a priest?”

“I might have.”

“That would help,” Alston said. “Incidentally, do you speak Spanish?”

“Some.”

“Well, don't. Many Spanish Americans who've been here a long time, like Mrs. Rosario, resent people addressing them in Spanish, although they may use the language themselves with their friends and families.”

A dozen Doric columns entwined with giant Burmese hon­eysuckle made the front of Fondero's place look like an old southern mansion. The impression was destroyed by the long black hearse parked by the side door. In the driveway behind the hearse stood a small bright red sports car. The incongruity of the two vehicles amused Pinata.
The death and the resurrection
, he thought.
Maybe that's how modern Americans imagine resurrection, as a bright red sports car whitewalling them along a Styrofoam road to a nylon-Orlon-Dacron nirvana.

Pinata went in the side door and turned right.

Fondero was watering a planter full of maranta. He was a man of massive proportions, as if he'd been built to withstand the weight and pressure of other people's griefs.

“Sit down, Mr. Pinata. Charley Alston called me to say you want some information.”