Free Candy Kid by Dorothy B. Hughes

waste time. Their perfumes were Parisienne, he smelled a case full of amber bottles and they all smelled luxurious. For Miss Haughty Paris’s trouble, he bought the Chanel she recommended. If Lou was overstocked, she could give it as a door prize at her party. This bottle was lost in his pockets; his ideas and that of the lady tourists on the bargain price of perfume didn’t jibe. He’d have had to sell an acre of the ranch to buy Chanel of the size of Praxiteles’ bottle. It could be the lost bottle was important just in itself. It might be better to give up right now, to find the blonde and confess all. Only he wasn’t going to do it. Whatever it cost, he was going to keep her lulled until he could find the sorbita again.
    Having so decided, all he had to do was drop in at every perfume shop on the street. And to long for the cool, clean smell of beer. You couldn’t fool a dame on perfume. Why the blonde wanted such blatant-smelling stuff wasn’t his business. Her package was going to contain the right one if he had to sample every bottle in Juarez. The small matter of locating Beach would have to wait until this mission was completed. There was no sense in wasting his strength combining the two; the shops were laid like dominoes on this side of the street, the big saloons were on the opposite side.
    He tried two more shops without any luck. In the third, which was given over to guaraches and sombreros and glittering Chino Poblano skirts, his spirits soared. The girl who flirted over to assist him reeked of the right stuff. She was too plump for her flimsy blouse and teetering red heels, too old for the flower, artificial, stuck in her thick black hair. Her hair was oily, it smelled dirty. Her red lips breathed garlic. But the overall smell was the perfume.
    His manners were those of a gentleman, he tempered enthusiasm with courteous dignity. “Would you be so kind, Senorita, as to tell me the name of the perfume you wear?”
    The question surprised her. Certainly no turista had asked this before and no one of Juarez would inquire, they would know. Her mouth opened, emitting garlic more strongly. “It is La Rosa.” She tilted her head flirtatiously. “La Rosa del Amor.”
    “I wish a bottle.”
    She shook her head. “We do not sell it here. We do not sell the perfumes.”
    “Where can I find it?”
    “Any place,” she shrugged.
    “Not at the Paris.”
    “The Paris!” She sniffed. “You can buy it any place on the street, I think, not at the Paris.” The Paris was for los ricos.
    He thanked her and hurried out. He found what he wanted at one of the open booths. La Rosa del Amor. He bought the big bottle in its cheap cardboard box, a bright pink rose decorating the label, the name wiggling around in gold letters. Made in Mexico. Made for the Five and Ten. It cost five pesos, possibly because he was North American. About a dollar. He insisted on having it wrapped, brown paper for this one. And dirty white string. Dulcinda Farrar wouldn’t know about the wrapping; she’d know only she had the perfume she was expecting. Her nose would know.
    He carried it openly, there was nothing else he could do. Now he could take up the problem of Beach. It would be a problem to get his charming primo-hermano steered back to El Paso. Yet unless he wanted to leave Beach on the loose here, which would mean they wouldn’t get started home in the morning, he’d have to cozen him into calling it a day. You’d think Beach would want to call it a day. The six o’clock start from the ranch this morning was too long ago. With the strain of this night piled atop it, Jose was ready to flop.
    He cut across the street, making his way in and out of the noisy palaces and their reek of music, booze, and jabber. He didn’t stop for a drink at any of them, a drink would make him fall on his face the way that the weariness was eating through him. He wasn’t discouraged. The Cock and the Central were just ahead, the biggest and best.