“How close did I come?”
“Close enough. A few details wrong, but they are not important. It was a quick deal and some of it was improvised and I didn’t know myself just what was going to happen. I was told to do certain things and to leave a clear trail. Mendy didn’t like my writing to you, but I held out for that. He undersold you a little. He never noticed the bit about the mailbox.”
“You know who killed Sylvia?”
He didn’t answer me directly. “It’s pretty tough to turn a woman in for murder—even if she never meant much to you.”
“It’s a tough world. Was Harlan Potter in on all this?”
He smiled again. “Would he be likely to let anyone know that? My guess is not. My guess is he thinks I am dead. Who would tell him otherwise—unless you did?”
“What I’d tell him you could fold into a blade of grass. How’s Mendy these days—or is he?”
“He’s doing all right. In Acapulco. He slipped by because of Randy. But the boys don’t go for rough work on cops. Mendy’s not as bad as you think. He has a heart.”
“So has a snake.”
“Well, what about that gimlet?”
I got up without answering him and went to the safe. I spun the knob and got out the envelope with the portrait of Madison on it and the five C notes that smelled of coffee. I dumped the lot out on the desk and then picked up the five C notes.
“These I keep. I spent almost all of it on expenses and research. The portrait of Madison I enjoyed playing with. It’s all yours now.”
I spread it on the edge of the desk in front of him. He looked at it but didn’t touch it.
“It’s yours to keep,” he said. “I’ve got plenty. You could have let things lie.”
“I know. After she killed her husband and got away with it she might have gone on to better things. He was of no real importance, of course. Just a human being with blood and a brain and emotions. He knew what happened too and he tried pretty hard to live with it. He wrote books. You may have heard of him.”
“Look, I couldn’t very well help what I did,” he said slowly. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I wouldn’t have had a dog’s chance up here. A man can’t figure every angle that quick. I was scared and I ran. What should I have done?”
“I don’t know.”
“She had a mad streak. She might have killed him anyway.”
“Yeah, she might.”
“Well, thaw out a little. Let’s go have a drink somewhere where it’s cool and quiet.”
“No time right now, Senor Maioranos.”
“We were pretty good friends once,” he said unhappily.
“Were we? I forget. That was two other fellows, seems to me. You permanently in Mexico?”
“Oh yes. I’m not here legally even. I never was. I told you I was born in Salt Lake City. I was born in Montreal. I’ll be a Mexican national pretty soon now. All it takes is a good lawyer. I’ve always liked Mexico. It wouldn’t be much risk going to Victor’s for that gimlet.”
“Pick up your money, Senor Maioranos. It has too much blood on it.”
“You’re a poor man.”
“How would you know?”
He picked the bill up and stretched it between his thin fingers and slipped it casually into an inside pocket. He bit his lip with the very white teeth you can have when you have a brown skin.
“I couldn’t tell you any more than I did that morning you drove me to Tijuana. I gave you a chance to call the law and turn me in.”
“I’m not sore at you. You’re just that kind of guy. For a long time I couldn’t figure you at all. You had nice ways and nice qualities, but there was something wrong. You had standards and you lived up to them, but they were personal. They had no relation to any kind of ethics or scruples. You were a nice guy because you had a nice nature. But you were just as happy with mugs or hoodlums as with honest men. Provided the hoodlums spoke fairly good English and had fairly acceptable table manners. You’re a moral defeatist. I think maybe the war did it and again I think maybe you were born that way.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “I really don’t. I’m trying to pay you back and you won’t let me. I couldn’t have told you any more than I did. You wouldn’t have stood for it.”
“That’s as nice a thing as was ever said to me.”
“I’m glad you like something about me. I got in a bad jam. I happened to know the sort of people who know how to deal with bad jams. They owed me for an incident that happened long ago in the war. Probably the only time in my life I ever did the right thing quick like a mouse. And when I needed them, they delivered. And for free. You’re not the only guy in the world that has no price tag, Marlowe.”
He leaned across the desk and snapped at one of my cigarettes. There was an uneven flush on his face under the deep tan. The scars showed up against it. I watched him spring a fancy gas cartridge lighter loose from a pocket and light the cigarette. I got a whiff of perfume from him.
“You bought a lot of me, Terry. For a smile and a nod and a wave of the hand and a few quiet drinks in a quiet bar here and there. It was nice while it lasted. So long, amigo. I won’t say goodbye. I said it to you when it meant
