Free The Dogs of Mexico by John J. Asher Page B

him to make something of that as well.
    “He always drink like this?”
    She sighed. A faint line worried itself across her forehead. “This is his third car wreck in four weeks.”
    “Whoa.” Robert recalled her limp, wondering if she had been hurt in an earlier wreck.
    The waiter returned with their drinks and a glass for Ana’s beer. When she had poured a little, Robert lifted his in a toast: “To Paco’s friendly neighborhood bar.”
    She took a sip, observing him closely. “The Hotel Victoria, it’s up the hill, isn’t it?”
    “Too far to walk. The shape he’s in anyway. We’ll get a cab. I’ll give you a hand.”
    “No,” she said quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”
    “Suit yourself.” He added his money to the pesos she had placed on the table, then settled himself, one arm over the back of the chair, slouching comfortably. “I mean, if you want to get this fellow on his feet and haul him out of here with two pieces of luggage, then get all that same baggage in a taxi all by yourself, that’s fine by me. On the other hand, I’m leaving anyway.”
    “Thank you,” she said coolly. “But I can manage.” She drew both bags in close, then placed her hand on Helmut’s arm. “Helmut?”
    Helmut muttered and pulled away.
    “You’re not going to let him sleep it off a bit?”
    She ignored Robert, leaned over Helmut, called his name again. “Helmut—”
    Helmut’s elbow shot back and popped her on the nose.
    “Hey!” Robert half stood out of his chair.
    “No, no! Please! He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Ana blotted her eyes with tissues, dabbed at a drop of blood leaking into the little indention above her upper lip. Again people had turned to look.
    Robert eased back down. “Here,” he said, holding out a clean handkerchief.  
    She shook her head. “Thank you, though.”
    “You’ll excuse me for offering an opinion but I’d leave the son of a bitch here to rot.”
    Her eyes went glossy. She bent forward, face pressed into the tissues.  
    Helmut snorted and began to slip sideways. Robert caught him and held him in place. “This won’t do,” he said. He knelt, hooked Helmut’s arm around his neck and hauled him out of the chair. Helmut made a surprised whistling noise in his throat.
    “Come on,” Robert said. “You’ll have to carry both bags.”  
    The entire bar turned to stare, and for a moment only the impassioned lament of the mariachis filled the lull as Robert dragged Helmut sagging and stumbling across the floor. He glanced back, then proceeded, seeing that Ana looked to neither side, but pulled the extended handles out of one bag and carried the other by its side grip. She wrestled the bags clattering down the steps after him.  
    On the street a Volkswagen bug whipped in at the curb, TAXI lettered on the door.  
    “How much to the Hotel Victoria?” Robert asked.
    “Twenty pesos.” The driver’s gaze rested on Helmut. “Thirty pesos,” he corrected.
    Ana climbed in and helped wedge Helmut in after. Robert set their luggage in the front footwell, then sat on the floor where the front passenger seat would normally have been and leaned back against the bags.  
    The VW groaned up the hillside. Moonlight flattened the narrow cobblestone street and the stone walls on either side into simple patterns of silvery light and blue shadow. Helmut grunted and drooled down his shirtfront. The driver maneuvered the VW into the driveway near the hotel’s office.  
    Robert gave the driver forty pesos and stood both bags upright on the tarmac. He caught Helmut by one arm, but Helmut flung him off and folded over on the seat against Ana. Robert took hold of Helmut’s belt and one wrist and dragged him out onto the asphalt.
    “Don’t hurt him!” Ana said sharply. “Be easy.”
    The driver looked on, smiling. “Buenas noches, señor. Gracias.” He lifted the money in salute and drove away.
    Robert hooked Helmut’s arm around his neck and hauled him up again.