The Night People (28 page)

“Yes, certainly.”

“I only ask because you are alone. Sometimes visitors are affected by the water.”

“There’s been no problem so far.”

“Good! If one should develop, just call me. I’ll have him back on his feet in no time.”

It was odd, Edna thought, walking back to Mama Lopez’s house. Odd that the doctor expected some illness to befall Arthur and not her. Perhaps she just looked healthier—though even the mayor had commented on her husband’s good physical condition the day they arrived.

That evening they sat outside drinking beer and looking at the stars, and Edna felt at peace with herself for the first time in days. Perhaps Rita was right. Perhaps one could come to love this place after a while.

Mama Lopez had told Arthur she would make him a suit of clothes as a farewell gift, which was certainly an unexpected kindness. He’d grumbled about it privately, expecting an ill-fitting white suit like the mayor’s, but he allowed himself to be measured for it. Edna watched it all and decided that even Arthur was beginning to like the people of Latigo.

When she saw Mayor Friega driving by the following afternoon she waved to him. He pulled over to the side of the road and called out, “You’re remembering our fiesta this weekend? It is the high point of the year in Latigo.”

“I’m remembering. It’s hard to believe we’ll be going back home next week. Once I adjusted to the tempo of life here, the days just flew by.”

He nodded understandingly. “There is always some adjustment necessary, wherever one lives.”

On Saturday morning Edna awoke to find the town’s main street festooned with gaily colored streamers. People were out and about earlier than usual, and the few shops that were usually open on Saturday had closed. “Isn’t it nice the fiesta is on our last weekend?” she remarked to Arthur.

He was doing push-ups on the bedroom floor. “I suppose so. It almost seems as if they planned it for us.”

“We’ve had all this for practically nothing!”

“I wouldn’t call the airfare nothing.”

“No, but I mean the rest of it. You’ve got to admit there’s no place on earth we could have stayed for three weeks as cheaply as this. And you’re getting a suit besides!”

“We haven’t seen it yet.”

“Grumble, grumble! That’s all you do any more. Remember how it was when we were first married?”

“I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I guess I can make it through a few more days.”

“Admit it’s not as bad as you expected. Go on, admit it.”

He smiled for the first time in days. “All right. Anything to keep you happy.”

She glanced out the window. “There’s Rita Quinn. We really should spend some time with her this last weekend.”

“What for?”

“Well, simply because she’s a fellow American. I told you she lost her husband over here in an accident.”

“What sort of accident?”

“She didn’t say. An auto accident, I suppose.”

“I’ll admit she’s pretty cute.”

“Arthur!”

“Well, I can look, can’t I?”

They spent all that day at the fiesta, eating and drinking and even dancing a bit. Every one of the town’s residents had turned out for it, except Mama Lopez, who told them she had just a little more work to finish on Arthur’s suit.

It was early evening, on their way back home, when Arthur first complained of stomach pains. Edna remembered Dr. Manuela’s warning. “The water can be bad here,” she said.

“We’ve both been drinking it for two weeks.”

“But all the dancing and everything—”

“Damn! It’s awful!”

As soon as they reached Mama Lopez’s house Edna called Dr. Manuela on the town’s primitive telephone system. He came at once, carrying his familiar black bag. “I was lucky to catch you at home,” she said. “I thought you’d be at the fiesta with everyone else.”

He shook some pills into his hand. “There are always sick calls on fiesta night. Here, these will fix him up, but he needs a good solid night’s sleep. Mama Lopez—do you have a spare room where he could sleep?”

“Certainly!”

“But … is it that serious, Doctor?” Edna asked anxiously.

“It’s not serious at all,” he assured her. “But we take no chances.”

Arthur was put to bed in a room down the hall, and he was asleep before Edna left him. She didn’t much like it, but Dr. Manuela seemed to know what he was doing.

As Edna pulled the shade in her own room before retiring, she glanced out to see a large black van passing the house slowly. It was closed, with no markings, and she wondered where it had come from. She had never seen such a van in Latigo before. Someone from the next town, she supposed, who’d driven over for the fiesta.

It was strange sleeping alone, but she dropped off quickly. When she awakened she was startled at having slept so soundly. Her watch showed it was after nine.

When she came out of the bathroom she saw that Arthur’s room was empty. Mama Lopez was just going in to make the bed. “Your husband was up earlier,” she explained. “He is feeling better, but he went to Dr. Manuela for some further medication.”

“I see,” Edna said, but it puzzled her.

Before she had a chance to think about it, Mayor Friega arrived. In honor of the fiesta he was wearing a white suit that fit him somewhat better and he’d even managed to button it across his stomach. “I come to join you for breakfast,” he announced, “and then I will personally escort you to the afternoon’s festivities.”

“I’m sure Arthur will be back by then.”

“I have just seen him at Manuela’s. He is resting there and says he will join us later.”

“I should go to him.”

“No, no. He is fine.”

Edna peered out the front window and saw the black van parked in the lot across the street. Two young men stood nearby, as if guarding it.

She went in and sat down to breakfast with Mama Lopez and the mayor.

It was shortly after noon when she walked across the street between the two of them and joined the others in the grandstand. “Why have we come here?” she asked Mama Lopez.

“For the final event of the fiesta weekend.”

Suddenly Rita Quinn, the American, was at her side. It was as if they were her bodyguards, protecting her. She stared down at the ring in the center of the low grandstands and was surprised to see Dr. Manuela stride out to the middle of the ring and speak rapidly in Spanish, as if introducing someone.

Then she saw Arthur.

He came on from the side, dressed in a tight sequined suit that shimmered in the sunlight. Edna knew without asking that it was the suit Mama Lopez had made for him. He staggered slightly as Manuela left him alone in the center of the ring.

“What’s the matter with him?” Edna demanded, jumping to her feet. “What’s he doing out there?”

But the mayor’s firm hands were gripping her, pulling her back to her seat. “There is nothing to fear,” he said above the growing chant of the small crowd.

She looked on, unbelieving, as Manuela returned, carrying the traditional red cape and sword. Arthur accepted them and turned to gaze up at her for just a moment. His eyes were blurred as if by drink.

“He’s no bullfighter!” Edna screamed above the crowd. “What have you done to him?”

Mayor Friega kept his grip on her. “The doctor has administered certain drugs which diminish the sense of fear and inhibition. He is a strong man. He will do well.”

And then she saw the black van with its rear doors open, saw the raging bull released into the ring. “That bull will kill him!”

“No, no …”

“He has no training! He’s never done this!”

“The odds are still good. Last summer the man killed the bull.”

“Last summer …” The full horror of what was happening began to dawn on her. “And the summer before that?” she asked, remembering Rita Quinn’s husband. “What about the summer before that?”

But Rita was holding her down now too, and her cries went unheard against the roar of the crowd. The bull charged and Arthur stepped aside, barely dodging the deadly horns.

“Ole!”
the crowd shouted with one voice.

Mama Lopez said into her ear, “Don’t you understand? It’s the sport that is important here, not whether the man or the bull wins! It is the sport that brings back the old life to this poor town, once each year. Our men will no longer fight, so we must depend on outsiders like your husband.”

The bull charged again, barely missing Arthur’s thigh, and the crowd cheered once more. Arthur looked dazed. He was shaking his head, perhaps wondering what he was doing there. But even as Edna saw him weaken she knew it wouldn’t matter. This was what they had come here for, and Mama Lopez was right. It didn’t matter who won. The sport and the town were all that mattered to them.

And as the bull made its next deadly pass she was on her feet with the others.

“Ole!”
she shouted,
“Ole!”

C
ROCKER WAS AWAKENED BY
the ringing of the telephone next to his bed. He opened one eye and guessed by the amount of light filtering through the drapes that the time must be somewhere around noon. He picked up the phone and gave a mumbled hello.

“Is this Steve Crocker?” a young woman asked.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

He didn’t like calls from strangers.

“You don’t know me, but my name is Amy Brand. I’d like to interview you for a magazine article.”

“What for?” he asked, sitting up in bed.

“Well, you’re the one they call the Rattlesnake Man, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, I don’t give interviews,” he said and hung up before she could reply.

He got out of bed and pulled open the drapes, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the Las Vegas sun. In the distance he could see the hotels along the Strip, rising like modern monoliths from the desert floor. But he preferred looking in the other direction, toward the hazy mountains with their promise of escape.

Crocker poured himself some orange juice and wondered how the girl had obtained his number. It was in the book, of course, and almost anyone could have told her his name.

He remembered suddenly that it was Monday. Stunt night, when the suckers came to see him perform. What the hell—it was a living.

After he showered, Crocker went downstairs to the lobby of the small residential hotel where he’d lived for nearly a year. It might be time to find another place, he speculated, and get an unlisted phone number.

Sammy called to him from behind the desk. “Got an incoming call for you, Mr. Crocker.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man. Sounds like Mr. Qually.”

“I’ll take it here,” Crocker said, and went to pick up the phone at the end of the desk.

“Crocker?” the familiar voice rasped. “This is George Qually.”

“How are you?”

“Not bad. I wanted to tell you about tonight. There are some Arabs in town with big money. They want some real action. Don’t be surprised if somebody brings them around.”

“That’s your end of it,” Crocker said. “As long as they’re betting real dollars, you can have whoever you want.”

“Another thing,” Qually said quickly, as if sensing the conversation was about to end. “Holston is looking for you. Yesterday he came by my office. You got dealings with him?”

“Not if I can help it. Thanks for the tip.”

“You’ll be here tonight?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

Crocker hung up before Qually could answer. He waved a goodbye to Sammy and went out into the sunlight.

Another day.

But a Monday.

He had breakfast at the Hilton, lingering over his coffee while he played a few losing games of Keno. “It’s not your lucky day,” the red-haired Keno girl told him.

“I hope you’re wrong about that,” he replied.

He gave her a generous tip, maybe to change his luck, and took a cab downtown. The city was full of tourists, as always, and the sight of them depressed Crocker. He wondered why he stayed in Vegas, carrying on his strange Monday-night ritual for the high rollers. Was it only to demonstrate that he could beat this city after all?

A stick man at one casino told him, “Holston’s looking for you.”

“So I hear.”

He went on to another place, nervously killing time as he always did on Monday afternoons. He was looking over the race results from the eastern tracks at one of the betting parlors off Fremont Street when a young woman he’d never seen before came up to him and said, “You’re Steve Crocker, aren’t you?”

Her precise eastern accent was like a voice remembered from a dream. “Yeah,” he admitted.

She extended her slim white hand. “Amy Brand. I called you a few hours ago for an interview.”

“You woke me up,” he said. “Have you been following me? How’d you find me here?”

“You were pointed out to me once. When I saw you walking along the street just now I thought I’d ask you again about that interview.”

“The answer’s still no.”

“I wouldn’t take long. Really!”

She was wearing a white-linen pants outfit that was dressier than usual for Las Vegas by day. With her blonde hair and slim figure she looked more like a model or a high-priced hooker than a reporter. Maybe that was why he said, “Sit down. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Thanks!” She brushed the hair from her eyes and slipped a tiny cassette recorder from her purse. “You don’t mind if I tape this, do you? It saves taking notes.”

A shout went up from some of the customers as the late results from another track were posted. “Maybe you’d like someplace quieter,” he suggested.

“This’ll be all right. I sometimes think there’s no really quiet place in Vegas.”

“Try the casinos on a Monday morning, when everybody’s sleeping off the weekend.”

She snapped on the recorder and began. “Mr. Crocker, there have been a great many stories circulating about the Monday-night game that’s played at a secret location here in Las Vegas. I understand that only important people—movie stars, special visitors, and the casino owners themselves—are admitted.”

“You know more than I do,” he said with a smile.

“Hardly, Mr. Crocker. Among certain people you’re known as the Rattlesnake Man because of your participation in these Monday-night games.”