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

Spanish. Quick work, getting the stolen stuff back, and he wanted appreciation.
    She went into No. 16 and came out with the hatbox and the other stuff. He opened the door of the limousine.
    “Where you going with that guy?”
    I didn’t know I was going to say it. My play was to stand there and let her go, but this growl came out of my mouth without my even intending it. She turned around, and her eyes opened wide like she couldn’t believe what she heard. “But please, he is politico.”
    “I asked you where you’re going with him.”
    “But yes. You stay here. I come mañana , very early. Then we looked at house, yes.”
    She was talking in a phoney kind of way, but not to fool me. It was to fool him, so I wouldn’t get in trouble. She kept staring at me, trying to get me to shut up. I was standing by our car, and he came over and snapped something. She came over and spoke to him in Spanish, and he seemed satisfied. The idea seemed to be that I was an American, and was all mixed up on what it was about. I licked my lips, tried to make myself take it easy, play it safe till I got on that boat. I tried to tell myself she was nothing but an Indian girl, that she didn’t mean a thing with me, that if she was going off to spend the night with this cluck it was no more than she had done plenty of times before, that she didn’t know any different and it was none of my business anyway. No dice. Maybe if she hadn’t looked so pretty out there in the moonlight I might have shut up, but I don’t think so. Something had happened back in that church that made me feel she belonged to me. I heard my mouth growl again. “You’re not going.”
    “But he is politico—”
    “And because he’s politico , and he’s fixed you up with a lousy sailor’s whorehouse, he thinks he’s going to take part of his graft in trade. He made a mistake. You’re not going.”
    “But—”
    He stepped up, then, and shot a rattle at me in Spanish, so close I could feel the spit on my face. We hadn’t been talking loud. I was too sore to yell, and Mexicans say it soft. He finished, straightened up, and jerked his thumb at me again, toward the hotel. I let him have it. He went down. I stamped my foot on his hand, grabbed the pistol out of the holster. “Get up.”
    He didn’t move. He was out cold. I looked at the hotel. All you could hear was this mumbling and moaning. They hadn’t heard anything at all. I jerked open the car door and shoved her in, hatboxes and all. Then I ran around, threw the pistol on the seat, jumped in and started. I went out of the court in second, and by the time I hit the road I was in high.
    I snapped on the lights and gave her the gun. In a few seconds I was in the town, and then I knew what a mistake I had made when I came out of that court, and cut right instead of left. I had to get out of there, and get out of there quick before that guy came to, and I couldn’t turn around. I mean literally I couldn’t turn around. The street was so narrow, and so choked with burros, pigs, goats, mariachis , and people, that even when you met a car you had to saw by, and a turn was impossible. It was no through street. It went through the town, and then, at the hill, it led up to the big tourist hotel, and that was the end of it. I crawled along now, the sweat coming out on my brow, and got to the bottom of the hill. There was no traffic there, but it was still narrow. I turned right on a side road. I thought I might hit a way, after a block or two, that would lead back where I had come from. I didn’t. The street just tapered off into two tracks on an open field, that as far as I could see just wandered up in the hills. I pulled into the field, to turn around. I thought I still might have time to slip back through the town, though it didn’t look like even Jess Willardcould stay out that long. Then back of me I heard shots, yells, and the screech of a motorcycle siren. It was too late. I was cut off. I doused the