Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly by James M. Cain Page A

Panama, I picked up the Beethoven Seventh, with Beecham conducting it, in London—”
    “Listen, never mind Beethoven—”
    “Oh, it’s never mind Beethoven, is it? You would say that, you soap-agent. He was the greatest composer that ever lived!”
    “The hell he was.”
    “And who was? Walter Donaldson, I suppose.”
    “Well, we’ll see.”
    There were two or three mariachis around, but the place wasn’t full yet, so there was a lull in the screeching. I called a man over, and took his guitar. It was tuned right, for a change. My fingers still had calluses on them, from the job in Mexico City, so I could slide up to the high positions without cutting them. I went into the introduction to the serenade from Don Giovanni, and then I sang it. I didn’t do any number, didn’t try to get any hand, and the rest of them in there hardly noticed me. I just sang it, half-voice, rattled off the finish on the guitar, and put my hand over the strings.
    He was to his tamales by now, and he kept putting them down. Then he called the guitar player over, had a long powwow in Spanish, and laid down some paper money. The guitar player touched his hat and went off. The waiter took his plate and he stared hard at the table.“… It’s a delicate point. I’ve been a Beethoven enthusiast ever since I was a young man, but I’ve often wondered to myself if Mozart wasn’t the greatest musical genius that ever lived. You might be right, you mightbe right. I bought his guitar, and I’ll take it aboard with me. I’m in with a cargo of blasting powder, and I can’t clear till I’ve signed a million of their damned papers. Be at the dock at midnight sharp. I’ll lift my hook shortly after.”
    I left him, my heels lifting like they had grown wings. Everything said lay low until midnight, and never go back to the hotel. But I hadn’t eaten yet, and I couldn’t make myself go in a café and sit down alone. Along about nine o’clock I walked on up there.
    I no sooner turned in the patio before I could see there was something going on. Two or three oil lamps were stuck around, on stools, and some candles. Our car was still where I had left it, but a big limousine was parked across from it, and the place was full of people. By the limousine was a stocky guy, dark taffy-colored, in an officer’s uniform with a star on his shoulder and an automatic on his hip, smoking a cigarette. She was sitting on the running board of our car. In between, maybe a couple of dozen Mexicans were lined up. Some of them seemed to be guests of the hotel, some of them the hired help, and the last one was the hostelero . Two soldiers with rifles were searching them. When they got through with the hostelero they saw me, came over, they grabbed me, stood me up beside him, and searched me too. I never did like a bum’s rush, especially by a couple of gorillas that didn’t even have shoes.
    When the searching was over, the guy with the star started up the line, jabbering at each one in Spanish. That took quite a while. When he got to me he gave me the same mouthful, but she said something and he stopped. He looked at me sharp, and jerked his thumb for me to stand aside. I don’t like a thumb any better than I like a bum’s rush.
    He fired an order at the soldiers then, and they began going in and out of the rooms. In a minute one of them gave a yell and came running out. The guy with the star went in with them, and they came out with our beans, our eggs, our ground corn, our pots, bowls, charcoal, machetes, everything that had been packed on the car. A woman began to wail and the hostelero began to beg. Nothing doing. The guy with the star and the soldiers grabbed them and hustled them out of the court and up the street. Then he barked something else and waved his hand. The whole mob slunk to their rooms, and you could hear them in there mumbling and some of them moaning. He walked over to her, put his arm around her, and she laughed and they talked in