“You know, for the first time I actually feel glad I came to Mexico,” he said.
The look that appeared on her face lasted for only a second, and then she smiled. Laughter erupted from her throat and the sound of it was like a ship’s bell across water.
Seven
It was evening when Dillinger awakened. The coverlet had slipped from him in his sleep, and he lay there naked for a moment, watching the shadows lengthen across the ceiling, before swinging his legs to the floor. The window to the balcony stood open, and the curtains lifted in the slight breeze.
The courtyard at the rear of the hotel seemed deserted when he peered out. He quickly filled the enamel basin on the washstand with lukewarm water from a stone pitcher, went out on to the balcony, and emptied the basin over his head.
He toweled himself briskly, pulled on his pants and shirt, then examined his face in the cracked mirror, running a hand gingerly over the stubble of beard. He opened one of his suitcases, took out razor and soap, and got to work.
There was a knock at the door, and as Dillinger turned, wiping soap from his face, Rivera entered. He carried Dillinger’s shoulder holster and the Colt.32. He dropped them on the bed.
“Well, the world is full of surprises,” Dillinger said.
“There are eight rounds in there, my friend, as you know. If we have trouble with Ortiz, do you think eight rounds are enough?”
Dillinger twirled the Colt around once by the finger guard. “One round is enough. Eight can be too few. Depends on the circumstances.”
“Am I wrong to trust you?”
“You are wrong to trust anybody.”
Rivera laughed. “Here are some pesos in case you want to indulge yourself in the saloon downstairs. It is not a gift, but an advance against your pay. Don’t lose it at poker.”
“I don’t lose at poker,” Dillinger said, “or anything else. What about gas for my car?”
“I trust you with a gun because I have two, and I have Rojas. But I do not trust you yet with gas, which would give you ideas of leaving Hermosa. Perhaps you will learn to ride a horse, Americano,” Rivera said, laughing again as he closed the door behind him.
Somewhere, someone was playing a guitar, and a woman started to sing softly. Dillinger put on the shoulder holster, finished dressing, brushed back his hair, and went outside.
Rose de Rivera leaned against the balcony rail at the far end of the building, her face toward the sunset as she played. In Chicago, he had once heard a woman singing in Spanish in a night spot, but nothing like this. Rose’s voice was as pure as crystal.
His step caused her to turn quickly, the sound of the last plucked string echoing on the evening air in a dying fall. She wore a black mantilla and a scarlet shawl was draped across her shoulders. Her dress of black silk was cut square across the neck. A band of Indian embroidery in blue and white edged the bodice.
She smiled. “You feel better for your bath?”
“You saw me?”
“Naturally I turned my back.”
“My compliments on the dress. Not what I’d looked for.”
“What did you expect, a cheong sam? Something exotically Chinese? I wear those, too, if I’m in the mood, but tonight the Spanish half of me is what I feel.”
“Are you more proud of your Chinese half or your Spanish half?”
“When I am feeling Chinese, I am proud to belong to an ancient and wise civilization except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“They invented gunpowder,” she said, and she came close. He didn’t know what to expect, but all she did was touch his side where the shoulder holster showed. “Who are you?” she said.
“What about your Spanish half?” he said, avoiding the question.
“My father used to tell me a Rivera sailed with the Spanish Armada.”
“Didn’t they lose against the English?”
“Is winning always everything?”
“The Americans beat the English.”
“You are all terrible-vain, proud, impossible. What do you do for a living when you are not being strong man for my uncle? You know he is only playing you off against Rojas?”