Tell me this, he said.
All right.
Are you principal or agent?
Am I what?
Is it you who wishes to buy this girl?
Yes.
Do you come often to the White Lake?
I was here one time.
Where did you meet this girl?
At La Venada.
And now you wish to marry her.
Billy didnt answer.
The pimp pulled slowly on the cigar and blew the smoke slowly toward his boots. I think you are the agent, he said.
I aint no agent. I work for Mac McGovern at the Cross Fours out of Orogrande New Mexico and you can ask anybody.
I think you are not here on your own behalf.
I’m here to make you a offer.
Eduardo smoked.
Cash money, Billy said.
This girl has an illness. Does your friend know that?
I didnt say I had a friend.
She has not told him that, has she?
How do you know what girl it is.
Her name is Magdalena.
Billy studied him. You knew that because of what I said about La Venada.
This girl will not leave here. Perhaps your friend thinks that she will but she will not. Perhaps even she thinks it. She is very young. Let me ask you this.
Ask it.
What is wrong with your friend that he falls in love with whores?
I dont know.
Does he think she is not really a whore?
I couldnt tell you.
You cannot talk to him?
No.
Because she is whore to the bone. I know her.
I expect you do.
Your friend is very rich?
No.
What can he offer this girl? Why would she leave?
I dont know. I reckon he thinks she’s in love with him.
Heavens, said Eduardo. Do you believe such a thing?
I dont know.
Do you believe such a thing?
No.
What are you going to do?
I dont know. What do you want me to tell him?
There is nothing to tell him. He drinks a great deal, your friend?
No. Not especially.
I am trying to help you.
Billy tapped his hat against the side of his leg. He looked at Eduardo and he looked around the room that was his office. In the corner against the far wall there was a small bar. A sofa upholstered in white leather. A glasstopped coffeetable.
You dont believe me, said Eduardo.
I dont believe you dont have some money invested in this girl.
Did I say that?
I thought you did.
She owes me a certain amount. Money that was advanced to her for her costumes. Her jewelry.
How much money.
Would I ask you such a question?
I dont know. I guess I wouldnt be in a position to be asked.
You think I am a whiteslaver.
I didnt say that.
That is what you think.
What do you want me to tell him.
What difference does it make?
I guess it might make a difference to him.
Your friend is in the grip of an irrational passion. Nothing you say to him will matter. He has in his head a certain story. Of how things will be. In this story he will be happy. What is wrong with this story?
You tell me.
What is wrong with this story is that it is not a true story. Men have in their minds a picture of how the world will be. How they will be in that world. The world may be many different ways for them but there is one world that will never be and that is the world they dream of. Do you believe that?
Billy put his hat on. I thank you for your time, he said.
You are welcome.
He turned to go.
You didnt answer my question, said Eduardo.
He turned back. He looked at the pimp. His cigar in his gracefully cupped fingers, his expensive boots. The windowless room. The furniture in it that looked as if it had been brought in and set in place solely for the purpose of this scene. I dont know, he said. I guess probably I do. I just dont like to say it.
Why is that?
It seems like a betrayal of some kind.
Can the truth be a betrayal?
Maybe. Anyway, some men get what they want.
No man. Or perhaps only briefly so as to lose it. Or perhaps only to prove to the dreamer that the world of his longing made real is no longer that world at all.
Yeah.
Do you believe that?
I’ll tell you what.
Tell me.
Let me sleep on it.
The pimp nodded. Ándale pues, he said. The door opened by no visible means or signal. Tiburcio stood waiting. Billy turned again and looked back. You didnt answer mine, he said.
No?
No.
Ask it again.
Let me ask you this instead.
All right.
He’s in trouble, aint he?
Eduardo smiled. He blew cigar smoke across the glass top of his desk. That is not a question, he said.
IT WAS LATE when he got back but the light was still on in the kitchen. He sat in the truck for a minute, then he shut off the engine. He left the key in the ignition and got out and walked across the yard to the house. Socorro had gone to bed but there was cornbread in the warmer over the oven and a plate of beans and potatoes with two pieces of fried chicken. He carried the plates to the table and went back and got silver out of the dishdrainer and got down a cup and poured his coffee and set the pot back over the eye of the stove where there was still a dull red glow of coals and he took his coffee to the table and sat and ate. He ate slowly and methodically. When he’d finished he carried the dishes to the sink and opened the refrigerator and bent to scout the interior for anything in the way of dessert. He found a bowl of pudding and took it to the sideboard and got down a small dish and filled it and put the pudding back in the refrigerator and got more coffee and sat eating the pudding and reading Oren’s newspaper. The clock ticked in the hallway. The cooling stove creaked. When John Grady came in he went on to the stove and got a cup of coffee and came to the table and sat down and pushed back his hat.