Free Heat of Night by Harry Whittington Page A

was hard, determined. She stood looking down at him.
    Al glanced helplessly at Juan and Rosa.
    “All right, Alberto,” Rosa said. “You papa and me talk with him. Later maybe you got to see him.”
    “Sure,” Bea said. “Later.”
    Al got up. His pale face was tense but his hands were trembling and he suspected that maybe Bea was right. He might say too much. He was charged with anger. He wanted to say the right things. It was important they be right. He glanced toward Dolores’ closed door, frowning. Still, something had to be said. This man had to be made to see before he did something he could not recall — and Big Juan retaliated in a violent way none of them could repair.
    He swallowed hard, following Bea from the room.
    They met Mal Hollister coming up the front steps. Bea closed her hand hard over Al’s. They stepped aside and Hollister bowed slightly, smiling.
    Bea said, “Good evening, Mr. Hollister.”
    She heard Al’s savage breathing. She tightened her grip on his hand. From the chair they heard Ric Suarez grunt something. But Ric was not Bea’s responsibility. She had all she could handle with Al.
    “Go right in,” Bea said to Hollister. “Dolores will be ready in a minute.”
    “Thank you,” Hollister said. And Bea thought, he has such a nice, gentle voice. She dragged Al after her, hurrying toward the bay, the stinking, smelly bay. She was going to ruin a perfectly good pair of shoes walking in that wet sand.

9
    J UAN STRODE AROUND the chair in which Mal Hollister sat, staring at the cut of his features, the texture of his suit, the gold of his watch — or so it seemed to Mal.
    What was the man looking for? Hollister thought he was an ordinary kind of character; maybe he’d dressed carefully tonight, hoping to impress Dolores, but certainly he looked no different than usual.
    Juan shrugged his denim shirt up on his shoulders. It was unbuttoned almost to his navel. He wore no shoes. The quality of Hollister’s clothing angered him because it did not belong in this room, any more than Hollister belonged here.
    “Hey,” Juan said at last. The word burst upon the room. Silence had borne down since they’d exhausted talk of the weather. He glanced up but the word meant Juan was speaking to himself, testing his own vocal chords like a violinist tuning his fiddle.
    Juan stopped in front of Mal’s chair, as abrupt and direct as the child Mal had met in the yard. “Out on the town tonight, Meester Hollister? Out for a good time, hey?”
    Mal frowned, not in the least deceived by the smile on Juan’s face. He’d known this man for a long time, casually, it was true, and from a distance. He’d never seen quite this belligerent manner on him before. He wondered mildly how drunk Juan was, or if he were drunk at all? Maybe Big Juan needed a dozen beers under his belt to slow him down to civilization’s pace?
    “Dolores and I are having supper together.” Mal decided this was noncommittal enough.
    “Have supper, huh? Have a big supper?”
    “If she likes.”
    Juan had held the smile so long now it looked painful. “What you mean — if she likes? What she likes? If she likes four, five cocktails before dinner, hey? Fine, huh? If she’s a-like a wine during meal, you think this is fine, huh? And after you eat, what, huh?”
    “I don’t know yet, Juan. I play by ear.”
    He was instantly sorry he’d said this; he’d intended it to sound honest; it was honest but he saw neither Juan nor Rosa saw it in this light at all. It was a sophisticated man’s sarcastic answer to people not worthy of his attention. This was in their faces and it was not his intent at all.
    “Yeah.” Big Juan shivered as though he were cold all over. He paced across the room and back. Mal looked around helplessly, wondering why Dolores was taking so long.
    Juan swung around on his bare feet, changing the subject abruptly, pointing at Mal, finger extended.
    “How many girls you
hire
at your office, huh? How