Beyond the Grave by Bill Pronzini & Muller Marcia

Author:Bill Pronzini & Muller, Marcia [Pronzini, Bill & Muller, Marcia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612321202
Publisher: Speaking Volumes
Published: 2011-06-21T06:00:00+00:00

TWO

THE NEIGHBORHOOD IN which Luis Cordova lived and worked was a poor one, as both Witherspoon and Ogilvy had indicated; but it was not without its pride or its zest for life. There was a good deal of activity along Cañon Perdido Street, a good deal of animated conversation flavored with laughter. Inside a cantina someone was playing a guitar with enthusiasm; Quincannon recognized the liquid rhythms of “Cielilo Lindo” as he passed. The spicy scent of frijoles and simmering taco meat floated on the balmy spring air, reminding him that he had not eaten since breakfast.

He dismounted in front of Luis Cordova's dry-goods store and looped the claybank's reins around the tie rail. The building, of wood and adobe, with an upstairs front gallery, was situated at the end of a mixed block of private dwellings and similar small businesses—a harness shop, a feed store, a shabby tonsorial parlor, a greengrocer's. An outside stairway led up along the east wall, giving access to Cordova's upstairs living quarters; a huge olive tree effectively concealed the upper half of the stairs from the street, an arrangement to tempt the black soul of any housebreaker. The westside wall faced on an intersecting street; it was open now and a buckboard had been drawn up near it. Two young men were busily unloading bolts of brightly colored cloth and carrying them into a rear storeroom. Neither man was Luis Cordova; Señor Cordova, Quincannon was told when he approached them, could be found at the front of the shop.

He entered through the front door and was greeted by the not-unpleasant odors of dust, cloth, lye soap, and oiled leather. The interior was well-stocked with a variety of goods, among them simple clothing for men, women, and children, boots and huaraches and high-top shoes, serapés, rebozos, textiles of different types. In the middle of all this, a thin gray-haired man of indeterminate age was having a spirited argument with a fat woman over an inexpensive black mantilla. The woman, as near as Quincannon could tell with his limited command of Spanish, was upset over the fact that the brand-new mantilla had torn the first time she put it on; she wanted it replaced. The man kept insisting that the mantilla had not been damaged at the time of its sale, that he always inspected each item for defects before allowing it to leave the premises.

The argument raged for another five minutes, with neither side gaining an advantage. Finally the fat woman threw up her hands, told the gray-haired man that she would never again buy so much as a button from him, told him further that he was an hijo de garañón—son of a jackass—and stormed out. Quincannon smiled at her as she passed, and tipped his hat; he received a milk-curdling glower in return.

The gray-haired man sighed elaborately, as if such altercations offended his sense of propriety. Then he dusted his hands together and moved to where Quincannon waited. If he was surprised to

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