Читать книгу Judas Journey - Lee Roberts - Страница 9

THE NEXT EVENING, on a sudden impulse he could not explain, Ramsey took Sara Colvin to the Gulf Hotel for dinner with Pete and Nevil Simpson. Being previously warned by Ramsey, neither man made any mention of the planned expedition into Mexico. They both were very polite to Sara, and Ramsey saw that her quiet friendly manner pleased them. He had an odd new feeling of pride in her.

Afterward, at the rear entrance to the Jungle Tavern, she said, “I enjoyed meeting your friends, Rack.”

“I could see they liked you.”

“I am glad,” she said soberly. “I want your friends to like me.”

“What about me?”

“I want you to like me, too.” She lowered her gaze. “But I know you do—otherwise you would not have wanted me to dine with your friends.”

“I’ll wait for you tonight,” he said.

“It will be late, and you must get your sleep. . . .”

It sounded strange to him. Nobody had ever cared if he got enough sleep, not since his mother died. He gazed at Sara Colvin and remembered his pride in her as she had talked to Pete and Simpson. “I’ll get some sleep now, and meet you at one,” he said.

She reached up and kissed him lightly, and then slipped through the door and was gone.

Pete was waiting for him in the room at the hotel. They wrote letters to the bank in Pittsburgh withdrawing their savings accounts. Nevil Simpson came in, and when they showed him the letters he shook hands with them gravely.

“Partners,” he said in his quiet voice. “Share and share alike. I propose that Rackwell be treasurer of the operation. He is to hold all the money and pay the bills.”

Ramsey protested, but Pete and Simpson were firm. “We will leave next week if possible,” Simpson said. “You both had better give your foreman notice.”

“I never quit a job yet without notice,” Ramsey said, “but will it be that soon? Next week?”

Pete laughed. “I know what’s worrying him.”

Simpson smiled. “I do not blame you, Rackwell, for not wanting to leave a lovely girl like Miss Colvin. I meant to tell you that I was very favorably impressed with her—a gentle and charming personality.”

“Too charming for him,” Pete said. He grinned at Ramsey. “Maybe I ought to tip her off about old Rackwell, the lady’s man, the great lover who meets ’em and loves ’em, and leaves ’em where he loves ’em.”

“To hell with you,” Ramsey said, trying not to show the odd feeling of anger he felt at Pete’s friendly jibe.

“Cheer up, Rockwell,” Simpson said. “Perhaps she will still be here when we return.”

“And all of us loaded with dough,” Pete said. “You can buy her Caddies and mink coats.”

“Sure, sure,” Ramsey said carelessly.

Pete and Simpson began a game of double solitaire. Ramsey took off his coat and stretched out on the bed. After a while he slept, and when he awoke the room was dark. Someone—probably Pete—had thrown a blanket over him. He went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked at his wrist watch. Almost one o’clock. He would have to hurry, he thought, as he washed his face, brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his short yellow hair. As he left, he heard Pete snoring softly.

She was waiting for him in the little court behind the Jungle Tavern. “Sara,” he said breathlessly, “I slept longer than—”

She placed a small finger on his lips. “I knew you would be here.”

“You did?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course.” She smiled up at him. “Did not anyone ever believe in you, or care what happened to you?”

He took her arm and they left the court and walked along the sidewalk toward her apartment. “I guess nobody ever had a chance,” he said. “I’ve moved around too much.”

“Do you not become weary of always going from one place to another?” she asked in her faint soft accent. “Do you ever wish you could stay in one place and know your neighbors and become part of a—a community?”

“I never thought about it,” he said truthfully.

“I think about it very much,” she said. “I keep remembering the friendliness and the security of my aunt’s home in Mazatlan.” She looked up at him. “Are you going to be here long? In this city?”

“It depends upon my job,” he said carefully. “The foreman said today that the company is opening some wells in Oklahoma. They may send me there.”

“Will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

She sighed. “It is your work. My work is dancing. But I do not like to be always living in hotels and rooms and apartments. Perhaps, if I could find steady work in California, I could have a little house and a garden. I think it would be nice.”

“I worked in San Diego a few years back,” he said.

“Did you, Rack?” She hugged his arm. “Tell me about it.”

As they walked along he told her what he knew about the state of California, and as he talked he felt a kind of tenderness for her, a new feeling for him.

When they reached her apartment they had coffee instead of whisky, and she made thin sandwiches of ham and cheese and sharp mustard. She played more records and they talked and laughed softly together. When he left at two-thirty, they made a date for the next night. At the door he kissed her, and her lips were warm and clinging. He pulled her against him roughly. She murmured, “Please,” and gently pushed him away. He let her go and stood gazing down at her.

She lowered her eyes and whispered, “That is the way I am.”

“Sure,” he said in an unsteady voice. “It’s all right.” And he left, quickly.

The next night, the fourth night, he said to her, “Don’t the men bother you? I mean, the ones who watch you dance? Don’t they ask to take you out?”

“Yes, but Blake—Mr. Bowen—he does not permit them to talk to me. He is very strict.”

“He doesn’t own you.” There was an edge to Ramsey’s voice. “He hasn’t tried to stop you from seeing me.”

“No,” she said with a slow smile. “He does not know about you.”

He had a tiny ugly thought. “You said Bowen is your, boss. What else is he?”

“Nothing, Rack.” She stopped smiling. “It is just that he has been—kind to me. And he does not like me to—to mix with the patrons.”

“What do you mean—he’s been ‘kind’ to you?”

“Someday, perhaps, I will tell you.” She came slowly against him and pressed a cheek against his chest. “Please do not ask me now.”

He was about to speak angrily, but he checked himself. What did he care? If she was sleeping with Blake Bowen, what of it? He hadn’t made much progress with her, and he wondered why he bothered. All he’d had were some drinks, some food, and a lot of Mexican music, a couple of kisses and some conversation about her childhood in Mexico. And he was pulling out with Pete and Simpson in a few days . . .

“Listen,” he said, “can’t you wear more clothes? When you dance?”

She looked up at him quickly. “You do not care, do you?”

“I don’t like it. All those dumb yokels staring at you, drooling—”

“But it does not mean anything,” she broke in. “It is part of the profession, like a—a uniform. At first, I was embarrassed, but now I do not think about it.” She smiled shyly. “But I think I am pleased that you do not approve.”

He kissed her then, and the odd tender feeling came over him again and he couldn’t understand it. He left her abruptly. At the corner of the hall he glanced back. She was still standing by the door, watching him. He gave her a stiff smile and hurried to the elevator.

All of the next day in the oil field, under the towering derricks, he thought of her as he worked in the mud and the drizzling rain. Once Pete Davos said, “Hey, Rack, I got us a couple of babes lined up for Saturday night, real nice. You wanna cut loose with me, or are you all dated up with your true love?”

“Count me out,” Ramsey said shortly. As he moved away, he added, “Maybe Simpson would be interested.”

“Simpson’s carrying a torch for his ex-wife, you know that. Listen, Rack—”

But Ramsey was too far away to hear, and he didn’t look back to see Pete’s puzzled frown.

The next night it was still raining. They took a taxi from the Jungle Tavern to her apartment. Ramsey was restless and irritable, a feeling which had grown during the day. He kept thinking that the next day was Saturday, and he was sorry now that he’d turned down Pete’s invitation. Pete’s judgment was usually good, and he knew that the girls would be friendly and agreeable.

She shut off the Mexican music. “What is the matter, Rack?”

“Nothing.”

She came and sat on the arm of his chair, and her fingers touched his cheek. “I am not an infant, Rack. I know what is troubling you. But I cannot help it.”

He stirred in the chair, acutely aware of her nearness, of her faint scent. “It’s all right,” he said impatiently.

“No, it is not right—for you.” She lowered her gaze. “Please understand. You see, my aunt in Mazatlan, who raised me and taught me dancing, she was very strict. Kind and good, but with exact rules about a young girl’s behavior. Perhaps she was extra strict with me, because she feared that I might be like—like my mother. My aunt’s teachings will always be with me. Can you understand—a little?”

He didn’t answer, and pulled her down until she lay in his arms. Her eyes were soft and her lips trembled a little. He kissed her, gently at first, and her lips grew warm. Presently his hand went to the buttons of her blouse. She stirred, and he felt her warm tears on his face. He tried to kiss her again, but she twisted away with a little moan and he let her go. She stood up and moved away, buttoning her blouse. He watched her silently as she stopped by the record player and turned it on. There was a brief silence, and then the room was filled with the soft muted melody of a Mexican love song, all guitars and whispering drums.

He got to his feet and went to her. Gently he placed his hands on her shoulders, and he felt her stiffen a little. The music floated through the room, plaintive and haunting. He didn’t know what he thought or felt. Slowly she turned to face him. She brushed the back of a hand across her eyes and gave him a tremulous smile. “I am sorry, Rack, honest and truly.”

He tried to smile. “Don’t be. Everything’s fine.” He half turned and moved to the door. “I’d better go.”

“Rack . . .”

The music throbbed softly as he stepped into the hall and quietly closed the door.

Pete Davos was in bed, reading a newspaper. His short curly black hair glinted in the light and his broad naked torso was dark against the propped-up pillows. White teeth flashed as he greeted Ramsey. “Hi, pal.” He glanced at a watch strapped to a hairy wrist. “Only two o’clock. You’re early.”

“Yes,” Ramsey said shortly. “Simpson gone to bed?”

“Yep. He spent the whole day buying supplies and getting things lined up. I guess all we’re waiting for now is our dough from Pittsburgh.” Pete crossed his arms behind his head. “Think of that mahogany, Rack. I’m ready to pull out tonight.”

Ramsey grinned at him. “Real anxious, huh?”

“Sure. What about you?”

Ramsey didn’t answer and started to undress.

Pete said suspiciously, “You’re not gonna back out on us, are you? Because of that girl? Sara?”

“Hell, no.” Ramsey entered the closet and hung up his suit. “We’d better give notice to the boss tomorrow.”

“I already did,” Pete said, grinning. “Tomorrow’s our last day on the job. We can pick up our checks on Monday. The boss was a little sore at first—we didn’t even work long enough to join the union. But he said if we’re ever back this way, he’ll hire us again.”

Ramsey came out of the closet naked. He was built like a fullback or a heavyweight fighter. There was no fat on him and the muscles moved smoothly beneath the skin. As he went to his bed, he asked, “What about those women you lined up for tomorrow night?”

Pete sighed. “Simpson wasn’t interested, and I don’t know what I’m going to do with two of ’em. One is a cute little black-haired number. The other is too tall for me, but, boy, is she stacked. A redhead.”

“Still want me to go along?”

Pete gave Ramsey a puzzled look. “I thought you was all tied up with Sara?”

“Not tomorrow night.”

“You have a fight with her or what?”

“No.”

“I don’t get it,” Pete said. “You been with her every night this week, and all of a sudden—”

“Shut up,” Ramsey snapped, “and turn off that goddamned light.”

The light went out and Ramsey heard Pete chuckle in the darkness.