NTHONY HECHT HAD no idea whatsoever about this unshaved and slightly filthy rough calling him by name. Looking at a business card held up like a cigarillo between two fingers told him even less.
Hecht took the card. Saw what was scribbled on the back. He had been in dialogue with the consul and excused himself.
'You are?'
'Rawbone, Mr. Hecht.'
'And the card means to me?'
'I saw Merrill two days ago outside El Paso. He told me to meet him here. Introduce myself to you. Said there might be some work for me with him.'
'Two days? Where again?'
'A roadhouse near Fort Bliss. He was with a couple of gents.'
The old man rubbed his lower lip with the tip of his finger. Was that worry or doubt in those fierce old eyes?
'How do you know James?'
Rawbone laughed. 'You ever see that photo he carries in his wallet? Manila Harbor. The China. Him and members of his squad. The one on the far right is yours truly. 'Course I was younger.' He winked. 'And more brash.'
He could see the old man was taking the trap. 'Is Merrill back?' he asked.
'He is not.'
'Oh,' said Rawbone. He'd edged the word in disappointment. Then, with a hint of worry himself, said, 'I thought he would be.'
'I thought he would be, too.'
The son watched the two men from the street. They might look like a curious pair, but stripped down, the son had a feeling they were brothers of necessity. The talking went on for a while, though it was mostly Rawbone, who seemed appropriately toned down and serious. The son-of-a-bitch even got to the point where he was showing Hecht the automatic he carried in his belt, the old man regarding it deferentially.
THE BOY FOUND Anthony Hecht easily enough. He had been working the Customs House rally with a gang of other boys, running to get buggies for tips, sprinting to the tobacconist or the saloon around the corner for beer and liquor.
'I was asked to deliver this to you, sir.' He held out one of the ALLIANCE FOR PROGRESS fliers. It had been folded in half.
Rawbone watched as the old man read. The shill was being applied to him alright, and hard. Hecht's eyes grew enormous and wild, and that but for an instant, otherwise the old man was as self-contained as a can of processed meat.
'Who asked you to deliver this?'
'A fella outside.'
Hecht followed the boy as best he could, but he was already amongst the night crowd on the sidewalk when Hecht caught up with him.
'He was here,' said the boy.
'Was he driving a truck?'
'No. He was standing here. And he pointed at you.'
JOHN LOURDES WALKED back to the funeraria to wait. It was quiet when he arrived. Upstairs was an apartment. Panes of light emanated from the adobe walls where a hulking shadow leaned into the porch railing above. It was McManus. He called for John Lourdes to come upstairs.
The apartment was filthy. Wash hung from a line in an area by the stove. A near-hairless mongrel drank from drip puddles that had accumulated on the floor. There were reels of film everywhere. An old ratty couch was literally buried under them. McManus sat at a table strewn with beer bottles. He was rolling what looked to be a cigarette when he told John Lourdes to sit and steal himself a Single X.
Rolling that cigarette with just one hand, he was dexterous as some dancing fancy. 'You were asking about the Alliance for Progress and Anthony Hecht.' He licked the paper closed and pointed it at a reel of film lying on the table. 'I've got something to runup on the projector. If you find it valuable, maybe you'll toss a little extra goodwill my way.'
John Lourdes thumbed open the beer cap. 'Why not.' He drank. 'It's not my goodwill I'll be handing out.'
McManus raised his prosthesis with its oddly spread fingers. 'There we go.'
