Judas Journey. Lee Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ in one place and know your neighbors and become part of a—a community?”

      “I never thought about it,” he said truthfully.

      “I think about it very much,” she said. “I keep remembering the friendliness and the security of my aunt’s home in Mazatlan.” She looked up at him. “Are you going to be here long? In this city?”

      “It depends upon my job,” he said carefully. “The foreman said today that the company is opening some wells in Oklahoma. They may send me there.”

      “Will you go?”

      “I don’t know.”

      She sighed. “It is your work. My work is dancing. But I do not like to be always living in hotels and rooms and apartments. Perhaps, if I could find steady work in California, I could have a little house and a garden. I think it would be nice.”

      “I worked in San Diego a few years back,” he said.

      “Did you, Rack?” She hugged his arm. “Tell me about it.”

      As they walked along he told her what he knew about the state of California, and as he talked he felt a kind of tenderness for her, a new feeling for him.

      When they reached her apartment they had coffee instead of whisky, and she made thin sandwiches of ham and cheese and sharp mustard. She played more records and they talked and laughed softly together. When he left at two-thirty, they made a date for the next night. At the door he kissed her, and her lips were warm and clinging. He pulled her against him roughly. She murmured, “Please,” and gently pushed him away. He let her go and stood gazing down at her.

      She lowered her eyes and whispered, “That is the way I am.”

      “Sure,” he said in an unsteady voice. “It’s all right.” And he left, quickly.

      The next night, the fourth night, he said to her, “Don’t the men bother you? I mean, the ones who watch you dance? Don’t they ask to take you out?”

      “Yes, but Blake—Mr. Bowen—he does not permit them to talk to me. He is very strict.”

      “He doesn’t own you.” There was an edge to Ramsey’s voice. “He hasn’t tried to stop you from seeing me.”

      “No,” she said with a slow smile. “He does not know about you.”

      He had a tiny ugly thought. “You said Bowen is your, boss. What else is he?”

      “Nothing, Rack.” She stopped smiling. “It is just that he has been—kind to me. And he does not like me to—to mix with the patrons.”

      “What do you mean—he’s been ‘kind’ to you?”

      “Someday, perhaps, I will tell you.” She came slowly against him and pressed a cheek against his chest. “Please do not ask me now.”

      He was about to speak angrily, but he checked himself. What did he care? If she was sleeping with Blake Bowen, what of it? He hadn’t made much progress with her, and he wondered why he bothered. All he’d had were some drinks, some food, and a lot of Mexican music, a couple of kisses and some conversation about her childhood in Mexico. And he was pulling out with Pete and Simpson in a few days . . .

      “Listen,” he said, “can’t you wear more clothes? When you dance?”

      She looked up at him quickly. “You do not care, do you?”

      “I don’t like it. All those dumb yokels staring at you, drooling—”

      “But it does not mean anything,” she broke in. “It is part of the profession, like a—a uniform. At first, I was embarrassed, but now I do not think about it.” She smiled shyly. “But I think I am pleased that you do not approve.”

      He kissed her then, and the odd tender feeling came over him again and he couldn’t understand it. He left her abruptly. At the corner of the hall he glanced back. She was still standing by the door, watching him. He gave her a stiff smile and hurried to the elevator.

      All of the next day in the oil field, under the towering derricks, he thought of her as he worked in the mud and the drizzling rain. Once Pete Davos said, “Hey, Rack, I got us a couple of babes lined up for Saturday night, real nice. You wanna cut loose with me, or are you all dated up with your true love?”

      “Count me out,” Ramsey said shortly. As he moved away, he added, “Maybe Simpson would be interested.”

      “Simpson’s carrying a torch for his ex-wife, you know that. Listen, Rack—”

      But Ramsey was too far away to hear, and he didn’t look back to see Pete’s puzzled frown.

      The next night it was still raining. They took a taxi from the Jungle Tavern to her apartment. Ramsey was restless and irritable, a feeling which had grown during the day. He kept thinking that the next day was Saturday, and he was sorry now that he’d turned down Pete’s invitation. Pete’s judgment was usually good, and he knew that the girls would be friendly and agreeable.

      She shut off the Mexican music. “What is the matter, Rack?”

      “Nothing.”

      She came and sat on the arm of his chair, and her fingers touched his cheek. “I am not an infant, Rack. I know what is troubling you. But I cannot help it.”

      He stirred in the chair, acutely aware of her nearness, of her faint scent. “It’s all right,” he said impatiently.

      “No, it is not right—for you.” She lowered her gaze. “Please understand. You see, my aunt in Mazatlan, who raised me and taught me dancing, she was very strict. Kind and good, but with exact rules about a young girl’s behavior. Perhaps she was extra strict with me, because she feared that I might be like—like my mother. My aunt’s teachings will always be with me. Can you understand—a little?”

      He didn’t answer, and pulled her down until she lay in his arms. Her eyes were soft and her lips trembled a little. He kissed her, gently at first, and her lips grew warm. Presently his hand went to the buttons of her blouse. She stirred, and he felt her warm tears on his face. He tried to kiss her again, but she twisted away with a little moan and he let her go. She stood up and moved away, buttoning her blouse. He watched her silently as she stopped by the record player and turned it on. There was a brief silence, and then the room was filled with the soft muted melody of a Mexican love song, all guitars and whispering drums.

      He got to his feet and went to her. Gently he placed his hands on her shoulders, and he felt her stiffen a little. The music floated through the room, plaintive and haunting. He didn’t know what he thought or felt. Slowly she turned to face him. She brushed the back of a hand across her eyes and gave him a tremulous smile. “I am sorry, Rack, honest and truly.”

      He tried to smile. “Don’t be. Everything’s fine.” He half turned and moved to the door. “I’d better go.”

      “Rack . . .”

      The music throbbed softly as he stepped into the hall and quietly closed the door.

      Pete Davos was in bed, reading a newspaper. His short curly black СКАЧАТЬ