I didn’t say anything because I needed him. We went on with the carcass and turned in at another door and dumped him on the bed. Then I took hold of Candy’s arm high up near the shoulder where dug-in fingers can hurt. I made mine hurt him. He winced a little and then his face set hard.
“What’s your name, cholo?”
“Take your hand off me,” he snapped. “And don’t call me a cholo. I’m no wetback. My name is Juan Garcia de Soto yo Soto-mayor. I am Chileno.”
“Okay, Don Juan. Just don’t get out of line around here. Keep your nose and mouth clean when you talk about the people you work for.”
He jerked loose and stepped back, his black eyes hot with anger. His hand slipped inside his shirt and came out with a long thin knife. He balanced it by the point on the heel of his hand, hardly even glancing at it. Then he dropped the hand and caught the handle of the knife while it hung in the air. It was done very fast and without any apparent effort. His hand went up to shoulder height, then snapped forward and the knife sailed through the air and hung quivering in the wood of the window frame.
“Cuidado, senor!” he said with a sharp sneer, “And keep your paws to yourself. Nobody fools with me.”
He walked lithely across the room and plucked the knife out of the wood, tossed it in the air, spun on his toes and caught it behind him. With a snap it disappeared under his shirt.
“Neat,” I said, “but just a little on the gaudy side.”
He strolled up to me smiling derisively.
“And it might get you a broken elbow,” I said. “Like this.”
I took hold of his right wrist, jerked him off balance, swung to one side and a little behind him, and brought my bent forearm up under the back of his elbow joint. I bore down on it, using my forearm as a fulcrum.
“One hard jerk,” I said, “and your elbow joint cracks. A crack is enough. You’d be out of commission as a knife thrower for several months. Make the jerk a little harder and you’d be through permanently. Take Mr. Wade’s shoes off.”
I let go of him and he grinned at me. “Good trick,” he said. “I will remember.”
He turned to Wade and reached for one of his shoes, then stopped. There was a smear of blood on the pillow.
“Who cut the boss?”
“Not me, chum. He fell and cut his head on something. It’s only a shallow cut. The doctor has been here.”
Candy let his breath out slowly, “You see him fall?”
“Before I got here. You like this guy, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer me. He took the shoes off. We got Wade undressed little by little and Candy dug out a pair of green and silver pajamas. We got Wade into those and got him inside the bed and well covered up. He was still sweaty and still snoring. Candy looked down at him sadly, shaking his sleek head from side to side, slowly.
“Somebody’s got to take care of him,” he said. “I go change my clothes.”
“Get some sleep. I’ll take care of him. I can call you if I need you.”
He faced me. “You better take care of him good,” he said in a quiet voice. “Very good.”
He went out of the room. I went into the bathroom and got a wet washcloth and a heavy towel. I turned Wade over a little and spread the towel on the pillow and washed the blood off his head gently so as not to start the bleeding again. Then I could see a sharp shallow cut about two inches long. It was nothing. Dr. Loring had been right that much. It wouldn’t have hurt to stitch it but it probably was not really necessary. I found a pair of scissors and cut the hair away enough so that I could put on a strip of adhesive. Then I turned him on his back and washed his face. I guess that was a mistake.
He opened his eyes. They were vague and unfocused at first, then they cleared and he saw me standing beside the bed. His hand moved and went up to his head and felt the adhesive. His lips mumbled something, then his voice cleared up also.
“Who hit me? You?” His hand felt for the adhesive.
“Nobody hit you. You took a fall. ”
“Took a fall? When? Where?”
“Wherever you telephoned from. You called me. I heard you fall. Over the wire.”
“I called you?” He grinned slowly. “Always available, aren’t you, fella? What time is it?”
“After one A.M.”
“Where’s Eileen?”
“Gone to bed. She had it rough.”
He thought that over silently. His eyes were full of pain. “Did I—” He stopped and winced.
“You didn’t touch her as far as I know. If that’s what you mean. You just wandered outdoors and passed out near the fence, Quit talking. Go to sleep.”
“Sleep,” he said quietly and slowly, like a child reciting its lesson. “What would that be?”
“Maybe a pill would help. Got any?”
“In the drawer. Night table.”
I opened it and found a plastic bottle with red capsules in it. Seconal, 1.5 grains. Prescription by Dr. Loring.
