The Ferguson Affair

singing.

Padilla emerged from the alley. His movements were furtive, like a dog’s that has been kicked. He looked up and down the street, pretending for an instant that he couldn’t see me.

I got out of the car. “Did she do any more talking to you?”

“Yeah.” He moved uneasily, on his toes, his left shoulder slightly raised. “I don’t get it. She says it was Holly May that Secundina was scared of.”

“Did she name her?”

“She didn’t have to. It was her, all right. Secundina saw her with Gaines and Gus Donato the night before last, the night she disappeared. They had a reefer party up in the mountains.”

“Where in the mountains?”

“Arcadia doesn’t know that. She only knows what Secundina told her. Gus had marijuana contacts and he provided the weed. Secundina went along for the ride. It was quite a party, the way she told it to her sister. Holly was picking fights with people, yelling that she was the greatest actress in the world. Also, she had the most beautiful figure in the world. At one point she took off her clothes to prove it. Gus made a play for her, and Secundina stepped in, and Holly broke off the end of a bottle and went for her. I don’t get it. She never acted like that on liquor.”

Padilla dropped his protective left shoulder and stood back on his heels.

“Was Holly smoking marijuana?”

“She was certainly high on something.”

“It changes people sometimes, Tony. It acts like a trigger on unstable people.”

“Yeah. I know, I’ve tried it.” He caught himself. “I mean, away back when.” His eyes were shabby.

“Where?”

“When I was a kid.”

“In town here?”

“Yeah.” He looked up and down the street. “I didn’t mean to tell you that, Mr. Gunnarson. It’s something I’m not proud of. I ran with the ice-plant gang for a while, before I caught on to what it was all about. We used to smoke the stuff when we could get it.”

“Did you know Gus in those days?”

“Him and Secundina, too.”

“Granada?”

“Yeah. I was there the night that Gus and him had their big fight. I could have stopped them, I was boxing in those days. But, hell, I let them fight. I was hoping they’d knock each other off. No such luck.”

“What did you have against them?”

The color left his face. After an ivory interval, he said: “Now wait a minute, Mr. Gunnarson. You wouldn’t be trying to tie me in with all this.” He glanced over his shoulder into the shadowed alley. “That was all years ago. I was just a crazy kid out of high school, looking for kicks.”

“So was Granada, wasn’t he?”

“Him and Gus was different. I’ve always hated the bastards, both of them.”

“On account of Secundina?”

“Yeah.” The blood rushed back into his face and turned it cordovan. “I used to know her way back in Sacred Heart School. She was in the third grade, I was in the sixth. She was just a bright-eyed little kid, not a care in the world. Her mother sent her in clean dresses, ribbons in her hair. Christ, she played an angel in the Nativity. Look at her now.”

“You can’t blame the men in her life. People grow up.”

“Down,” he said. “They grow down.” He grimaced at the sidewalk as if he could see hell under it.

“I want you to think about it, Tony. Could you be mistaken about Granada?”

“Yeah,” he answered slowly, “I could be mistaken. I could be wrong about anybody, I guess. I’m sorry if I gave you a bum steer.”

I didn’t answer him. I was sorrier.

“I got carried away, maybe, too many things at once. I get these days when my whole damn life rears up on its hind legs and smacks me.”

He threw a short left hook at an invisible opponent. His fist completed its arc at the side of his own jaw. He half turned toward the alley.

“Where are you off to, Tony? Shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”

“Arcadia wants me to stay with her. She put Torres in the clink for nonsupport. Now she’s scared to be alone herself. She thinks maybe she’s getting susto, too.”

“What is susto?”

“Bad sickness. The doctor says it’s psychological, like. My mother says it’s from an evil spirit.”

“Which do you say?”

“I dunno. They taught in high school there was no such thing as evil spirits. But I dunno.” His eyes were like occulted lights.

He moved away into the mouth of the alley. I drove back to my office on automatic pilot. My thoughts remained with Tony and Arcadia, caught in the ambiguous darkness between two towns, two magics.

chapter 21

MY OWN NAME, WM. GUNNARSON, stenciled on the stucco wall at the head of my parking slot, reminded me where I was and what I was doing. I turned off the engine and used my key to the back door of the building. There was a light behind the office door.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” Mrs. Weinstein said. She looked tired, and her smile was wan. “I believe I’ve located the place you’re looking for. It’s a small city called Mountain Grove, inland from here about sixty miles, in the Valley. More than half of the names check out, and I have their addresses for you.”

She handed me a carefully typed list. There were street and telephone numbers for six of the names, including an Adelaide Haines who lived on Canal Street. I felt a rush of satisfaction. I had been needing it.

“No Dotery?” I said, and spelled it out.

“No. It was an old telephone book, though, that they had at the answering service. While I was there, incidentally, some man called for you. Colonel Ferguson. He wants you to come out to his house, he said. He intimated that it was very urgent.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Twenty minutes or so. I just got here.”

“You’re a treasure, Belle.”

“I know. Buried treasure. Do you want to tell me what it’s all about?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps, when I get back from Mountain Grove.”

She looked at me with concern. “You’re not leaving town without going home? Mrs. G. has a stiff upper lip, but you don’t want to strain it.”

“You’ve done me a big favor. Would you do me another?”

“I know. Spend the night with Mrs. G. I could see that one coming a long way off.”

“Will you?”

“I’ll be glad to, Bill.” She seldom called me by my first name. “You take care of yourself. I like working for you, in spite of all the alarms and excursions.”

The floodlights were burning outside Ferguson’s house, throwing Chirico shadows along the cliff and up the driveway. A dusty late-model Ford stood in the turnaround. I thought I knew it, and looked in. It was a rented car, according to the registration slip. A light hat with a sunburst band lay on the front seat.

When Ferguson opened the door, the short and passionate man from Miami was standing close to his elbow. He said to Ferguson: “Who did you say this is?”

“Mr. Gunnarson, my local attorney. This is Mr. Salaman, Mr. Gunnarson.”

“I know him.”