All the Pretty Horses

superstitious. But who is the one? We know there are qualities to a thing. This car is green. Or it has a certain motor inside. But it cannot be tainted, you see. Or a man. Even a man. There can be in a man some evil. But we dont think it is his own evil. Where did he get it? How did he come to claim it? No. Evil is a true thing in Mexico. Itgoes about on its own legs. Maybe some day it will come to visit you. Maybe it already has.
    Maybe.
    Pérez smiled. You are free to go, he said. I can see you dont believe what I tell you. It is the same with money. Americans have this problem always I believe. They talk about tainted money. But money doesnt have this special quality. And the Mexican would never think to make things special or to put them in a special place where money is no use. Why do this? If money is good money is good. He doesnt have bad money. He doesnt have this problem. This abnormal thought.
    John Grady leaned and stubbed out the cigarette in the tin ashtray on the table. Cigarettes in that world were money themselves and the one he left broken and smoldering in front of his host had hardly been smoked at all. I’ll tell you what, he said.
    Tell me.
    I’ll see you around.
    He rose and looked at Pérez’s man standing against the door. Pérez’s man looked at Pérez.
    I thought you wanted to know what would happen out there? said Pérez.
    John Grady turned. Would that change it? he said.
    Pérez smiled. You do me too much credit. There are three hundred men in this institution. No one can know what is possible.
    Somebody runs the show.
    Pérez shrugged. Perhaps, he said. But this type of world, you see, this confinement. It gives a false impression. As if things are in control. If these men could be controlled they would not be here. You see the problem.
    Yes.
    You can go. I will be interested myself to see what becomes to you.
    He made a small gesture with his hand. His man stepped from before the door and held it open.
    Joven, said Pérez.
    John Grady turned. Yes, he said.
    Take care with whom you break bread.
    All right. I will.
    Then he turned and walked out into the yard.
    He still had forty-five pesos left from the money Blevins had given him and he tried to buy a knife with it but no one would sell him one. He couldnt be sure if there were none for sale or only none for sale to him. He moved across the courtyard at a studied saunter. He found the Bautistas under the shade of the south wall and he stood until they looked up and gestured to him to come forward.
    He squatted in front of them.
    Quiero comprar una trucha, he said.
    They nodded. The one named Faustino spoke.
    Cuanto dinero tienes?
    Cuarenta y cinco pesos.
    They sat for a long time. The dark indian face ruminating. Reflective. As if the complexities of this piece of business dragged after it every sort of consequence. Faustino shaped his mouth to speak. Bueno, he said. Dámelo.
    John Grady looked at them. The lights in their black eyes. If there was guile there it was of no sort he could reckon with and he sat in the dirt and pulled off his left boot and reached down into it and took out the small damp sheaf of bills. They watched him. He pulled the boot back on and sat for a moment with the money palmed between his index and middle finger and then with a deft cardflip shot the folded bills under Faustino’s knee. Faustino didnt move.
    Bueno, he said. La tendré esta tarde.
    He nodded and rose and walked back across the yard.
    The smell of diesel smoke drifted across the compound and he could hear the buses in the street outside the gate and he realized that it was Sunday. He sat alone with his back to the wall. He heard a child crying. He saw the indian from Sierra León coming across the yard and he spoke to him.
    The indian came over.
    Siéntate, he said.
    The indian sat. He took from inside his shirt a small paper bag limp with sweat and passed it to him. Inside was a handful of punche and a sheaf of cornhusk papers.
    Gracias, he said.
    He took a paper and folded it and dabbed the rough stringy tobacco in and rolled it shut and licked it. He handed the tobacco back and the indian rolled a cigarette and put the bag back inside his shirt and produced an esclarajo made from a half-inch waterpipe coupling and struck a light and cupped it in his hands and blew up the fire and held it for John Grady and then lit his own cigarette.
    John Grady thanked him. No tienes visitantes? he said.
    The indian shook his head. He didnt ask John