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CHAPTER 8

      MAIN STREET was winding down for the day. Some of the stores were already closed, and there were fewer people on the street.

      Rand parked his car and was attracted by the sound of music. A half block away from the Palms Bar, five members of the Salvation Army were making brave but terrible music with a slide trombone, a bass drum, a cornet, a clarinet, and a tambourine. A dozen people stood before them listening, but most people passed by scarcely noticing. The woman with the tambourine sang "What a Friend I Have in Jesus," in a trembling soprano that was almost drowned out by the instruments. Her uniform, like the others' was ill-fitting and darned, and her shoes were worn, but her eyes burned with dedication.

      Rand approved of the Salvation Army. When things were tough for him once in San Antonio, he had been fed by them. In a world he thought had become increasingly cynical, the Salvation Army was still pure and honest.

      At the end of her hymn, she moved around the crowd holding the tambourine out for donations. Most of the people gave something, a nickel or a few pennies. One man had dumped a handful of change into it. Rand took the hundred dollars Brennan had given him, dropped it into the tambourine, and walked quickly away. Behind him he heard a gasp as she realized what it was. He glanced back and she was looking after him, her mouth open. She called after him with an emotion-cracked voice, "Oh my God! God bless you, sir! God bless you!"

      He walked faster, then ducked into the Palms, feeling good for the first time since he came to Las Cruces. He didn't want Brennan's money; it was unethical for him to take it. But in just a few seconds, he bought back his self-respect; the blood money had become good money. Hannah would have approved.

      He sat on a stool as far from the door as he could get and ordered a Canadian Club and soda, his favorite drink. The bar was doing a pretty good business for early evening. It was noisy, with a congenial mixture of Mexicans and Anglos. Some business types were sitting at tables. There was a pleasant, damp smell of cold beer and whiskey. On one end of the counter, close to where Rand sat, was a stuffed rattlesnake, coiled up, ready to strike, with its tail erect. The snake looked a little the worse for wear. One of its glass eyes had fallen out and a fang was broken off.

      He paid for the drink and enjoyed its cold, clean taste. The bartender eyed him for a while, then hummed and smiled his way toward the snake, reached down surreptitiously under the counter and pressed a button, and the snake's rattle vibrated with same sound as a live rattlesnake. Most of the people in the bar were regulars and had been waiting for it. There was laughter when Rand jumped, pointed a finger at it and said, "Bang! Gotcha!" Rand thought it was pretty funny, too.

      He had a couple more drinks, and was starting to feel relaxed. The bartender slid over a bowl of pretzels and chicherones - fried pork skins. He munched them and had another drink. There was a fake palm tree in one corner of the room. There were a few palm trees - real ones - in El Paso, although sometimes a cold winter would kill them. Rand reflected on how funny palm trees looked.

      Then Petrie opened the door and gave everyone the once over. When he saw Rand he headed directly for him. "I knew you'd be in here," he said, sitting down beside him. "You bums get a few bucks, you gotta drink it up."

      Rand sobered up fast. "What do you want?"

      "Want to talk to you."

      "What about?"

      "C'mon out and I'll tell you."

      Rand hesitated. He figured that the minute he got outside he'd find a gun in his ribs, then be invited into the car and driven away. They'd find his body in the desert someday, maybe.

      "Why can't we talk about it here?" Rand asked. "I'll buy you a drink."

      "It's too public. Other folks might hear us," Petrie whispered.

      "Okay, I'll go with you. But first I gotta take a piss," Rand said.

      "Me, too," Petrie said.

      The men's room was occupied by a man combing his hair. When he saw the expression on Petrie's face, he left.

      "I think you should put it out of your mind," Rand said.

      "What should I put out of my mind?"

      "The idea that you're gonna get me in your car, and then kill me. Just forget all about it."

      Petrie was thrown off balance. "I had no such thing on my mind! Mr. Brennan just wanted to make sure you go to California like you told Benedict. He told me to put you on a bus. That's all."

      "That's it?"

      "Sure. Look, I know we didn't hit it off, but I've come to think you were right. I was wrong to go after the kid, and I'm sorry. I'm actually glad you slugged me!"

      "Well I'm amazed," Rand said. "You're not as bad as I thought."

      Petrie nodded. "I've got a bad name is all. My heart is good. I hate trouble."

      "Of course," Rand said, going along with the lies.

      "Say, those are sure pretty clothes you got on. And them boots! Real lizard?" Petrie asked.

      "Yeah. Bought 'em today with the money Mr. Brennan gave me." Rand wondered what Petrie would say; he had to know that the boots were custom made and took weeks to get.

      "Wow! They're slick!"

      "Look what else I bought," Rand said. He and reached into his pocket and pulled out the little revolver and pointed it at Petrie.

      "You wouldn't use that here," Petrie said.

      "Sometimes I get crazy," Rand said. "Turn around. I could always say I was buying it from you and it went off. Now do what I say and we'll still be friends, okay?"

      "Sure," Petrie said. "Sure. That's what I wanna be, friends." Reluctantly, he turned with his back to Rand.

      Rand confiscated the .38 that was tucked into the back of Petrie's belt, under his shirt.

      "Now, take off your pants."

      "Huh?"

      "Hurry up, we haven't got much time," Rand said. "Somebody's going to come in here in a minute and get the wrong idea. Take 'em off." Rand gestured with the gun.

      Petrie fumbled with his belt and dropped his pants and slid off his boots so he could step out of them. "I'll scream, and they'll think you're attackin' me," he said.

      "No, you won't. Now your shorts."

      "Aw, this is no fair," Petrie said. But he did it.

      "Take off your shirt."

      "I'll be buck naked!"

      Rand laughed. "You're getting the idea. I'm doing this because I like you. If I didn't like you, I'd bust your head open with this little chunk of iron in my hand and stuff your face down a toilet until you quit kickin'."

      Petrie removed his shirt and was naked except for his socks and wristwatch. Rand noted with some satisfaction that for all his size and meaness, Petrie was soft-looking and already running toward fat.

      "Now go into the toilet stall and sit down and wait a couple of minutes before you come out. Rand said. "Sing a song or something. Take your leak."

      When Petrie was inside and the wooden door was closed, Rand threw Petrie's wallet, some change and keys under the door. Then he flipped out the cylinder and shook the bullets into his hand. He replaced the cylinder and put the bullets in his pocket. He slid the gun under the door.

      "Thanks," Petrie said.

      "I'm taking your bullets. And your clothes."

      "Aw, shit," Petrie said bitterly.

      Rand bundled up the clothes and walked through the bar and out the front door. Once in the street, he ran a half block to the corner and dumped the clothes in garbage can, and replaced the lid. Then he crossed the street, stepped up to the window of the Rio Grande theater and bought a ticket. He went up on the balcony and saw Warner Oland and Mary Brian in "Charlie Chan in Paris," and Sally O'Neil and Creighton Chaney in "16 Fathoms Deep." He didn't think they were great movies, but he enjoyed the show anyway.

      Afterwards, back at the courts, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

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