Free Candy Kid by Dorothy B. Hughes Page B

buried in a yellow-brown beard. His features were hers but the supercilious sneer descending the slender nose, burying itself in the beard, was his own.
    Ragsdale was a big brute and he didn’t need to get to his feet to prove it. No fat, brawn and muscles; Tim was a matchstick stacked beside him. A Tim would need a Rags. Ragsdale’s window dressing was okay, the right clothes and the right crop to his curly hair, dark as Jose’s own, but he was out of his class. He belonged in the ring or in the oil fields or on the docks, not with the Farrars. Nor the Aragons.
    Beach, the order given, demanded cheerfully, “Where did you disappear to, Jo? All of a sudden, you’re gone. Without a trace. Adam went on home.”
    “I ran into some old friends,” Jose explained easily. “I left a message, didn’t you get it?”
    “No messages.”
    “You probably didn’t miss me until that senorita ran you off. Or was it she had a husband who objected?” He told Dulcinda, “My cousin was very busy with a young lady when I left him.”
    Beach managed to glare. “Don’t you believe anything he says, Dulcy. He has a pretty, lying tongue, beware of it.”
    The three of them might have been doing a scene on a stage with Tim’s sneer and Ragsdale’s square blank face for audience. Dulcinda’s companions were that interested and that disinterested. Rags was drinking tequila straight, out of a tumbler. Unless it was pulque. His tastes would have developed before he latched onto the Farrars.
    Dulcinda tilted her eyes at Jose. “Why has your cousin insisted that I am your blonde? I’ve told him we never met, can you convince him?” There was no hidden message in those clear eyes; she was clever.
    “Convince me,” Beach grinned. “If she’s not your blonde, she’s mine.”
    “Perhaps then I do not wish to convince him,” Jose said softly to her. He didn’t like it that he could have meant what he was saying.
    “But he has a blonde stached out somewhere,” Beach warned. “That’s why we’re not in Santa Fe tonight.”
    “You are from Santa Fe?”
    Jose said, “I am. Beach is the California branch.”
    “We’re headed for Santa Fe,” Dulcinda said casually. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other up there.”
    “We will.” He looked deep into her golden eyes, as if he were just another guy bowled over by her fascinations. Not one who didn’t intend to be. As if he didn’t know that she’d known where he was from and that somehow it was important to her. It was after the Fernandez brothers had yelled their nickname that she’d returned to hire him.
    “I’m warning you to pay no heed to him,” Beach insisted. “You can’t trust this burlero. Women have learned that to their sorrow from Cape to lonely Cape. Isthmus to Isthmus. Peninsula to Peninsula.” He was enjoying his tongue trouble with the words.
    Jose lighted her cigarette. It was natural to bend his head to hers. “Perhaps we will run into each other before then?”
    She smiled. “Quien sabe?” It must have been her special smile. Despite decision, Jose’s heart or whatever it was in the mid-hollow gave a special bump. Dulcinda could be dangerous.
    Beach was paying off the waiter. Neither Farrar nor Ragsdale had made a pass at their wallets or said thanks for the drinks. Jose told him, “Drink up, chum. We’ve got to get back to the hotel.”
    Beach opened his eyes boy-wide. “What’s your hurry? The night hasn’t begun.” He ogled Dulcinda pleasantly.
    “It’s ended for me. I’m out on my feet.” He didn’t have to strive for a convincing sigh.
    The beard murmured, “Don’t let us detain you.”
    Beach hadn’t noticed or he was used to Tim’s distaste: “Run along,” he told Jose. “I’ve got work to do.”
    “No.” He was firm. “Your sainted mother told me to watch over you. Besides we’re taking off early for Socorro and I don’t intend to drive it alone.”
    “Socorro?” Dulcinda’s eyebrows were curious, too curious.