"Pica.s.so is the exception that proves the rule. I drink to Pablo Pica.s.so." He raised his gla.s.s and drank from it. "What do you do for a living, Mr. Archer?"

"I'm a detective."

He set down his gla.s.s with a rap. His bloodshot eyes watched me distrustfully, like a wounded bull from his querencia querencia. "Did Gladys send you to ferret me out? She isn't supposed to know where I am."

"I don't know any Gladys."

"Honestly?"

"And I never heard of you until now. Who's Gladys?"

"My ex-wife. I divorced her in Juarez but the New York courts don't recognize it. Which is why, my friend, I am here. Forever." He made it sound like a long time.

"The one I'm interested in," I said, "is a young man named Burke Damis."

"What's he wanted for?"

"He isn't wanted."

"Kid me not. I read a great deal of mystery fiction in the long night watches, and I recognize that look you have on your face. You have the look of a shamus who is about to put the arm on a grifter."

"How well you express yourself. I take it you know Damis."

"In a casual way. He used to pa.s.s the time here, mainly before I took over the leash-the lease." He leaned forward over the table, and his long hair flopped like broken wings. "Why do you suppose they all stopped coming? Tell me-you're a trained objective observer-do I have an offensive personality?"

"Jose tells me business is slow all over," I said noncommittally. "It's like the migrations of the birds."

He looked around for Jose, who was leaning against the wall, and called for another drink. Jose replenished his gla.s.s from a bottle of tequila.

"Did you ever talk to Damis?"

"Not what you'd call intimately. He's an attractive chap but I never got to know him. He was usually with other people. Do you know if he's still in Ajijic?"

"No. Can you name some of the other people?"

"The one I saw him with most often was Bill Wilkinson."

"How can I get in touch with Wilkinson?"

"You might find him at The Place. I hear he's taking most of his business there since we had our little run-in."

"Run-in?"

"Actually, it was Mrs. Wilkinson I had the run-in with. She's one of those Southern California types who fancies herself as an art collector simply because she has money. I told her what she could do with her money, and Bill would be better off if he did the same. I'm not a woman hater-"

"Neither is Damis, I understand. Did you ever see him with women?"

"Almost invariably. He spent a lot of time with Annie Castle. That was before he took up with the blonde girl, what was her name?" He sat locked in combat with his memory.

"It doesn't matter. Who is Annie Castle?"

"She runs an artsy-craftsy shop on the other side of the plaza. As a matter of fact, Damis has or had his studio on the same premises. No doubt propinquity did its deadly work. Annie's a cute enough kid if you like them dark and serious. But he dropped her when the big little blonde showed up."

"What do you mean, 'big little'?"

"Quien sabe? Big girl, little ego, maybe. She hasn't made the breakthrough, into womanhood, you know." He refreshed his alcoholic insight from his gla.s.s. "Whenas she ever does, she could be quite a thing. Beauty isn't in the features so much as in the spirit, in the eyes. That's why it's so hard to paint." Big girl, little ego, maybe. She hasn't made the breakthrough, into womanhood, you know." He refreshed his alcoholic insight from his gla.s.s. "Whenas she ever does, she could be quite a thing. Beauty isn't in the features so much as in the spirit, in the eyes. That's why it's so hard to paint."

"You're quite an observer," I encouraged him.

"I'm a people watcher, my friend. If you're a detective, as you say, you must be something of a people watcher yourself."

"I'm a walking field guide," I said. "You seem to have paid pretty close attention to the blonde girl."

"Oh, I did. What was her name? Miss Blackstone, I believe. Her mother introduced us some time ago. I haven't seen her lately. I tend to take special notice of the tall ones, being rather outsize myself. Gladys is nearly six feet, mirabile dictu mirabile dictu. She was once a burlesque queen on the Bowery, whence I rescued her and made a model of her, foolish man. With the consequence that I am here on my personal Bowery." His eyes strayed around the empty rooms.

I got up. "Thanks for all the information. Can you tell me how to get to The Place?"

"I can, but look here, man, I'm enjoying this. Drink up your beer, and I'll have Jose make you a proper drink. Where is Jose? Jose!"

"Don't bother. I have to see Bill Wilkinson."

He rose c.u.mbrously. "Whatever you say. Do you feel like telling me what this is all about?"

"I could make up a story for you. But that would be a waste of time." I got out my wallet. "How much do I owe you for the beer?"

"Nothing." He fanned his arm in a lordly gesture which threatened to overbalance him. "You're a stranger within my gates, I couldn't possibly accept your money. Besides, I have a feeling you're going to bring me luck."

"I never have yet, Mr. Reynolds."

He told me how to get to The Place and I set out through the midnight streets. The children had been swallowed up by the doorways. Some men and a very few women were still out. Wrapped in blankets, with faces shadowed by volcano-shaped hats, the men had a conspiratorial look. But when I said "Buenas noches" to one small group, a chorus of "Buenas noches" "Buenas noches" followed me. followed me.

chapter 11

THE P PLACE was closed for the night. Steering a course by dead reckoning and the sound of the town clock chiming the quarter, I made my way back to the central square. It was abandoned except for one lone man locked behind the grille of the unicellular jail. was closed for the night. Steering a course by dead reckoning and the sound of the town clock chiming the quarter, I made my way back to the central square. It was abandoned except for one lone man locked behind the grille of the unicellular jail.

Followed by his Indian gaze, I took myself for a walk around the perimeter of the square. Seven eighths of the way around, I was stopped by a sign in English hand-lettered on wood: "Anne's Native Crafts." The shutters were up but there was light behind them, and the thump and clack of some rhythmic movement.

The noise stopped when I knocked on the door beside the shutters. Heels clicked on stone, and the heavy door creaked open. A smallish woman peered out at me.

"What do you want? It's very late."

"I realize that, Miss Castle. But I'm hoping to fly out of here in the morning, and I thought since you were up-"

"I know who you are," she said accusingly.

"News travels fast in Ajijic."

"Does it not? I can also tell you that you're here to no purpose. Burke Damis left Ajijic some time ago. It's true I sublet a studio to him for a brief period. But I can tell you nothing whatever about him."

"That's funny. You know all about me, and you never even saw me before."

"There's nothing funny about it The waiter at the Cantina Cantina is a friend of mine. I taught his sister to weave." is a friend of mine. I taught his sister to weave."

"That was nice of you."

"It was part of the normal course of my life and work. You are distinctly not. Now if you'll take your big foot out of my doorway, I can get back to my weaving."

I didn't move. "You work very late."

"I work all the time."

"So do I when I'm on a case. That gives us something in common. I think we have something else in common."

"I can't imagine what it would be."

"You're concerned about Burke Damis, and so am I."

"Concerned?" Her voice went tinny on the word. "I don't know what you mean."

"I don't either, Miss Castle. You would have to tell me."

"I'll tell you nothing."

"Are you in love with Burke Damis?"

"I certainly am not!" she said pa.s.sionately, telling me a great deal. "That's the most absurd statement-question, that anyone ever asked me."

"I'm full of absurd questions. Will you let me come in and ask you some of them?"

"Why should I?"

"Because you're a serious woman, and serious things are happening. I didn't fly down from Los Angeles for fun."

"What is is happening then?" happening then?"

"Among other things," I said, "Burke has eloped with a young woman who doesn't know which end is up."

She was silent for a long moment. "I know Harriet Blackwell, and I quite agree with your description of her. She's an emotionally ignorant girl who threw-well, she practically threw herself at his head. There's nothing I can do about it, or want to."

"Even if she's in danger?"

"Danger from Burke? That's impossible."

"It's more than possible, in my opinion, and I've been giving it a good deal of thought."

She moved closer to me. I caught the glint of her eyes, and her odor, light and clean, devoid of perfume. "Did you really come all the way from the States to ask me about Burke?"

"Yes."

"Has he-done something to Harriet Blackwell?"

"I don't know. They've dropped out of sight."

"What makes you suspect he's done something?"

"I'll tell you if you'll tell me. We both seem to have the same idea."

"No. You're putting words into my mouth."

"I wouldn't have to, if you'd talk to me."

"Perhaps I had better," she said to me and her conscience. "Come in, Mr. Archer." She even knew my name.

I followed her into the room behind her shop. A wooden hand loom stood in one corner, with a piece of colored fabric growing intricately on it. The walls and furniture were covered with similar materials in brilliant designs.

Anne Castle was quite brilliant in her own way. She wore a multicolored Mexican skirt, an embroidered blouse, in her ears gold hoops that were big enough to swing on. Black hair cut short emphasized her pet.i.teness and the individuality of her looks. Her eyes were brown and intelligent, and warmer than her voice had let me hope.

She said when we were seated on the divan: "You were going to tell me what Burke has done."

"I'd rather have your account of him first, for psychological reasons."

"You mean," she said carefully, "that I may not want to talk after you've done your talking?"

"Something like that."

"Is it so terrible?"

"It may be quite terrible. I don't know."

"As terrible as murder?" She sounded like a child who names the thing he fears, the dead man walking in the attic, the skeleton just behind the closet door, in order to be a.s.sured that it doesn't exist.

"Possibly. I'm interested in your reasons for suggesting it."

"Well," she hedged, "you said Harriet Blackwell was in danger."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Of course." The skeleton had frightened her away from the verge of candor. She covered her retreat with protestations: "I'm sure you must be mistaken. They seem fond of each other. And you couldn't describe Burke as a violent man."

"How well did you know him, Miss Castle?"

She hesitated. "You asked me, before, if I was in love with him."