“I’m used to, well, a different kind of woman.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I don’t blush,” Dillinger said sharply.
“Perhaps it is the sun,” she smiled. “I think I’d better tell you something.”
He felt that jealous ping again. He was certain she was going to tell him that she and the Frenchman were involved.
“Harry-or Johnny-whatever your real name is…” She looked over at Fallon to make sure he was out of earshot. “I was in the telegraph office first thing this morning. There’s a police alarm out for a white Chevrolet.”
“From Santos or Hernandez?”
“To them, from the F.B.I.”
“Damn. Who knows about this?”
“The telegrapher. He hasn’t seen your car. But he is paid by Rivera to tell him everything that comes in over the wire.”
“Are there police in town?”
“Two. Both old. They won’t see the message if Rivera doesn’t want them to. Why are they looking for you?”
“Not me. My car. I must have lent it to a bootlegger.”
You are very charming when you lie.” She patted her whinnying horse’s neck. “Till later then. Perhaps I can put something on that poor face of yours.”
“What?”
“My hand,” she said, cantering away.
Half an hour later the white convertible came over a rise, and the track dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below them stood a brown, stone hacienda built in the old colonial style.
The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with well-kept fences around a large paddock. A worker in riding boots and faded Levis was saddling a gray mare. He turned and looked up at them, shading his eyes with one hand, then went toward the house.
Dillinger drove into the courtyard and pulled up at the bottom of the steps. As he got out, a little girl ran out of the front door, tripped, and lost her balance. As she started to fall, he moved forward quickly and caught her.
She was perhaps three years old and wore a blue riding suit with a velvet collar and brass buttons. She was frail, her brown eyes very large in a face that was too pale for a land of sun.
Dillinger set her on her feet gently, and a woman moved out on to the steps and gathered the child to her. “Juanita, how many times have I told you?” She looked up at Dillinger. “My thanks, senor.”
She was a slender woman with graying hair and a black dress buttoned high to the neck. She wore no jewelry, and her face was lined and careworn, the eyes moving ceaselessly from place to place as if she were continually anxious about something.
As Dillinger removed his hat, Rivera appeared on the porch. He stood there looking at his wife, saying nothing, and she took the child by the hand and hurried inside.
Rivera turned to Dillinger. “I’d intended coming with you to the mine, but there are matters I must attend to here first. Rojas is already there. He’ll show you over the place. I’ll be along later.”
He went back inside.
Too bad, Dillinger thought. If he’d known, Rose could have driven with them instead of taking the horse. She could have sat between him and Fallon up front, her left thigh against his right thigh.
Dillinger drove away, following Fallon’s directions up out of the valley. The heat was increasing. He could feel the sweat from his back soak through his shirt.
Finally, they came over the crest of a hill and saw a valley below. Dillinger had seldom seen a more dismal sight in his life. There were perhaps twenty or thirty crumbling adobe houses with a dungheap at one end and what appeared to be an open latrine running straight through.
There was a well in the center of the village, and a woman was lifting a pitcher of water to the ground as they approached. She was in an advanced state of pregnancy, her belly swollen. She paused, obviously tired, and Dillinger got out of the car.
He took the pitcher from her and said “Donde su casa?” surprising himself at the bits of Spanish he had picked up by just listening.
She pointed silently across the street. He walked before her and opened the door. There was only one room, and it had no windows. It took several moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the half-light. When they did, he saw an old woman stirring something in a pot over a smoldering fire. A few Indian blankets in the corner were obviously used for bedding, but there was no furniture. He put down the pitcher, his stomach heaving at the smell of the place, and went outside.