The Aluminum Man

by G. C. Edmondson

  He couldn’t outrun the Plymouth. Crashing into it would bring cops and complications. He ground along at a steady sixty and the Plymouth kept a decorous distance. He took an exit ramp and wandered through traffic, then back into the thru-way. He was damn near into Pennsylvania.

  Near the next toll stop lounged three longhairs wearing castoffs Rudolf remembered from reservation days. He stopped. Two had flowing Buffalo Bill mustaches. “Heading for the coast,” one said. “How far you going?”

  “Depends. I have an interesting proposition.”

  The tall one put a protective arm around the girl.

  “That’s not my bag,” Rudolf said. “You carrying anything heavy?”

  “Just a little grass, man.”

  “Can you stand a bust if you toss it out?”

  “We’re clean.”

  “I’m going to give you this car.”

  “Yeah? What’s the catch?”

  “In return for your jacket and big hat and leading that guy as far as you can away from here, I’ll sign it over.”

  “What guy?”

  Rudolf pointed back at the Plymouth.

  “Fuzz?”

  “Husband.”

  “We take a bust they’ll say we twisted your arm.”

  “No case unless I prosecute. You might even pick up some bread for false arrest.”

  The three reached some silent agreement.

  “Do something to block the rear window,” Rudolf said. As he traded seats with the man in front Rudolf grabbed the floppy hat and put it on. After a couple of wobbles the new driver settled down and Rudolf helped him out of his fringed jacket. He shed his own mud-caked mohair. He glanced back and saw the pair in the rear were no longer blocking the window. They had dropped their dirty Levis and were doing what comes naturally. The Plymouth was temporarily boxed in a snarl of cars. “Speed up,” Rudolf said. Moments later he crouched beside an exit ramp, waving a thumb as the beige Plymouth rocketed by.

  Rudolf walked up the exit ramp and hailed several taxis before one stopped. “Take me to a clothing store,” he said. The driver gave him an odd look.

  He got more odd looks as he deposited the floppy hat and fringed jacket in a trash can. Coming out of the Penney’s in a new twill jacket and trousers, he was less conspicuous. A cop directed him to the bus depot.

  The bus routes had been designed after the circulatory system of an amoeba. There was no way from here to home. Finally he caught a local to the next town east and spent most of the night transferring from local to local, catnapping into recurrent nightmares of being chased by some traitorous totem animal.

  Near dawn, he was deposited in the bedlam of the 42nd St. Terminal in New York. He looked for an unoccupied phone. By now Flaherty would be chewing up the furniture. Just as he was reaching the head of the line at a phone booth the PA system blatted “AARDVARK, HIPPOGRIFF, UNICORN, LECITHIN, DRY MILK SOLIDS, RNA & DNA.” Rudolf sprinted and was first aboard. He studied other passengers, looking for a remembered face.

  The bus meandered up the Hudson, stopping and waiting for reasons known only to the Maker of Schedules. It was 5 p.m. before he finally arrived, gritty eyed and grungy, at the white clapboard house. Flaherty, he supposed, would still be out at the gravel pit.

  Rudolf sighed and stuck his key in the door. He’d made it — home free. All he had now was to decide whether to shower or eat first. Maybe he should have a drink.

  Before he could finish unlocking the door, it burst open. Pamela St. Audrey stood there with an expression of improbable delight on her lovely face. “Darling!” she shrieked, “I thought you’d never get here!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Pamela St. Audrey here! Rudolf decided he was hallucinating. Perhaps those hippies in the back seat had prodded his subconscious into remembering his own celibate status. Icy cool, ever with-it Pamela seemed just a tiny bit drunk.

  Rudolf blinked gritty eyes. Pamela was here. Pamela was drunk.

  She wasn’t nearly as drunk as Flaherty.

  “Me bhoy!” the Irishman said with an expansive wave. “This lovely lady’s been waiting all day for you.”

  Rudolf sat in the nearest chair. The room was littered with new twenty-dollar bills. “This isn’t happening!” Rudolf mumbled. But he knew it was. So far he guessed only one envelope had been delivered. If he could just get his hands on the others before this berserk bogtrotter papered the town…

  “What brings you here?” he asked Pamela. Goddamn, what was wrong with him? He’d lived and dreamed for the day he’d see Pamela St. Audrey again. Now that she was here he wished she’d go away or turn herself off long enough for him to get a bath, a shave, a few hours sleep — long enough for him to sponge up Flaherty and wring him out into his bed.

  “Darling, you’ve been hiding,” Pamela pouted. “And you never told me you knew Dr. Flaherty!”

  The wild Irishman was pouring his glass full of the active ingredient without fillers or diluents. He prepared highballs for Rudolf and Pamela. “Well now,” he said expansively, “it’s been a long time.”

  “You never told me you knew Pamela,” Rudolf said.

  “Ah well, things can slip your mind.” Flaherty raised his tumblerful of straight whiskey. “To science!” he said.

  Bemusedly, Rudolf raised his glass and sipped. “Have you been waiting long?” he asked Pamela. As she turned to answer Flaherty raised his glass again.

  Rudolf had seen enough drunken Indians not to be a boozer himself. Already he knew one sip was too much for an empty stomach. “I’ve got to have a shower and a change,” he said. “You stay down here and charm Flaherty for another ten minutes.”

  Even more than a bath Rudolf needed time to think. Was Pamela part of the plot? No, that was crazy! Where was that goddamn Mohawk who’d supplanted him in Pamela’s oriental red Lamborghini?

  At the stair landing he looked back. Pamela was wearing a maxi that somehow managed to be more provocative than all the microminis he’d seen on her. And that drunken lout of an Irishman leaned over her, staring down a decolletage that more than made up for the long skirt.

  While the tub was filling he shaved scant Indian whiskers from lip and chin, then slid in and began soaking bus rides from his bones. There were footsteps on the stairs. Thank god, he thought. Now I can have a private word with Flaherty. But when the door opened it was Pamela.

  “Oooooo!” she squealed. “That looks goooood!”

  Rudolf remembered the times he had almost undressed Pamela St. Audrey — all the times when a telephone, a knock on the door… He wondered if her ecstatic squeal was for the hot bath or for his undraped virility standing at ease. Before he could rise to the occasion she handed him a drink and disappeared. Moments later Rudolf was dressed and downstairs. “Where’s Flaherty?” he asked.

  “Said he’d be back in half an hour,” Pamela cooed.

  Out to paper the town with my money! “You still haven’t told me how you got here.”

  Pamela stretched and smothered a ladylike yawn. “I drove. The Lamborghini’s in back.”

  Before he could rephrase the question Flaherty came staggering through the door. “Well now,” he leered, “no doubt you children found ways to amuse yourselves.” He spilled twin sacks of groceries on the table. “Keep your seats,” he continued. “The Flaherty is about to alter some protein.”

  Finally steaks and assorted delicatessen were on the table. Flaherty produced another bottle. White wine, Rudolf noted.

  “What brings you here?” Rudolf tried again.

  “The Six Nations Benevolent Fund.”

  I might have known it! “That thing the Mohawk runs?”

  “Yes, Arch is in charge.”

  “Where is good old Arch these days?”

  “Darling, you and Dr. Flaherty simply must come out to Northumber for the weekend.”

  “The fabulous country seat of the St. Audreys! We’d be delighted.” Flaherty bowed.

  Rudolf looked up quickly but the Irishman’s guileless
eyes glistened with total sincerity. Rudolf wanted to beg off, plead urgent work — anything.

  “Been working too hard,” Flaherty continued. “Need a weekend in the country.”

  Was Flaherty too besotted to guess the hell Rudolf had had coming home? “Who’s going to watch the place?”

  “I suspect it’s being well watched,” Flaherty said.

  “And you—” Christ! Rudolf couldn’t leave this irresponsible lush alone here. And if the wild Irishman went off alone would he ever return?

  “Please, darling,” Pamela urged.

  Rudolf gave a noncommittal mumble. Goddamn booze on an empty stomach!

  Dinner progressed with Pamela and Flaherty becoming progressively more smashed. Rudolf shunned the white wine when the second glass Flaherty poured tasted of Tullamore Dew. “What’s this weekend at Northumber?” Rudolf asked.

  “Everybody’s coming. It’ll be fabulous.”

  “Drink up, lad. You’re only young once.”

  Rudolf’s pockets were bulging from loose bills he’d picked up every chance. Sooner or later Pamela was going to remember that goddamn Mohawk charity and he wanted his money beyond grabbing distance.

  Pamela was dissolving. Suddenly he realized she was drinking Tullamore Dew neat from the wine glass Flaherty kept filling. “Oh my!” she said, “really, I—” She stood and her chair fell backward.

  Rudolf guided her upstairs and put her on his bed. Goddamn Flaherty! Once he got the rest of that money picked up and put away… When he came downstairs again Flaherty slouched on the couch, drinking from the bottle.

  “What the hell goes on the instant I disappear?” Rudolf asked.

  “We’re going to a party. Ah, can’t you smell it?”

  “What?”

  Flaherty pointed at Rudolf’s bulging pockets. “The sweet smell of success!”

  “I thought you didn’t care about money. Anyhow, you wouldn’t call it that if you’d been through what I have.”

  “Sure and you can’t hold your liquor.”

  “You’re the one that’s drunk.”

  “So I am, lad.”

  “How do you happen to know Pamela?”

  “Did some work for her father once.”

  “What’ve you been doing all day?”

  “Your young lady friend gallantly accompanied me on a tour of the gravel pit. She ruined shoes and pantyhose slogging about in the muck. She stumbled and managed to muddy herself from head to foot.”

  This didn’t sound like supercool, ever with-it Pamela. As usual when he had a drink, Rudolf felt an older mentality reassert itself over his ivy league veneer — a sullen memory of old swindles and broken promises. He caught a glimpse of his glowering face in the mirror. Is this the face that launched five thousand copies and got reviews in Time and Life? “What’s she doing spying out here?”

  “Now dear boy,” Flaherty soothed, “Let’s be charitable and say she’s being used by someone who knows of her connection with you.”

  “That goddamn Mohawk?”

  Flaherty grinned drunkenly. “Is he the one who loses if the price of aluminum drops and he’s already signed contracts at the old rates for his wonderful new building?”

  “Mr. St. Audrey? You’re just making this up!”

  “Of course. You think I’m a mind reader?”

  It was easier to believe than Rudolf cared to admit. “But Pamela wouldn’t—”

  “She’s not a dutiful daughter?”

  Dutiful daughter. Hadn’t heard that one since school days on the reservation. Somehow it didn’t seem to fit Pamela.

  Flaherty showed signs of running down. Rudolf got him to bed and instantly the Irishman was snoring. Rudolf was tempted to toss bed and all out the upstairs window but this was the man who’d peddled his life’s blood to get them started. Rudolf sighed and went downstairs again. He picked up the worst of the mess and checked the room for loose money. He found Pamela’s overturned purse behind a couch — cigarettes, keys, combs, perfume, change, odd metal gadgets he sensed had something to do with hair. He picked up a lipstick and the cap fell off. Slimy muck dribbled.

  He inspected the lipstick. The innards had been removed, converting it into a tiny flask. Suddenly Rudolf realized his booze elicited suspicions, that sullen reservation mentality was taking better care of him than all his ivy league sophistication.

  His eye fell on the half filled bottle of Tullamore Dew. Not bad stuff, really. He poured a glassful and trimmed it with 7-Up. Sipping, he tried to remember the Sioux chant for bringing disaster upon an enemy. He had it almost right by the time he finished the whiskey.

  Sweaty and sticky. Take another shower. Shucking clothes on the way, he realized it was too much work to stand up so he filled the tub again. He was still chanting when the door opened. Good god, I’ve woken Flaherty!

  But it was Pamela. Belatedly Rudolf remembered how she could turn on watching Indians ethnicking their way through these chants. He wanted to say, “Now that you’re up, bugger off!” But some corner of his mind kept saying “Look, she’s taking her clothes off!”

  “How’d you get here?” he asked.

  Pamela St. Audrey was the kind of redhead who commonly inhabits gatefolds in expensive men’s magazines. Studying her matched set of pink-tipped mammaries Rudolf knew he ought to toss this conniving bitch out head-first. But an older glandular wisdom suggested something else first.

  “Darling, I’ve told you. The Lamborghini’s parked in back.” Pamela was climbing astraddle him in the tub. Rudolf felt himself rising to the occasion. “How’d you find us?”

  “Rudy, you just disappeared. I was frantic. I got Daddy to hire a detective.” She leaned forward. Rudolf raised his head to buss her brisket. Then he remembered the muck in the lipstick.

  Back in the good old days an occasional kiss had been the size of it. Even Pamela’s kisses had been decorous affairs planned with an eye toward preservation of hairdo. What would happen to her elaborate coiffure in all this steam?

  So she’d been looking for him.

  “Took you a while,” Rudolf said.

  There was a velvety rub of skin where she sat astraddle him. He found himself nuzzling wet udders. Jesus, why had he taken that last drink? He blinked and realized Pamela was a natural redhead. Freckles in the oddest places. “Carpe diem” he muttered, and released the water with his foot.

  “What?”

  “Ciceronian Sioux for ‘Get it while you can.’”

  Pamela wriggled mermaidishly and Rudolf grew a handle by which she lifted him out of the tub. They were involved in a tent-sized towel before he thought to ask, “Was his name by any chance Riordan?”

  “What? Oh, the detective? I don’t know.”

  Rudolf’s legs were tangled in the towel. He stumbled backward into his room and Pamela came down atop him more solidly than one might expect from such a fragile creature. Finally he kicked the towel free. “What’s so interesting about a worked-out gravel pit?” he asked.

  “Sweetheart!” Pamela explained.

  Rudolf thought the matter needed clarification but things were coming to a head. They cantered briskly for several minutes without moving more than a foot or two. Rudolf was back on the cocktail circuit.

  When he awoke next morning Rudolf knew he had planted his seed in Pamela’s shapely garden. Now why wasn’t he happy? Slowly, he remembered the badgering and cross examination he’d subjected Pamela to in between. He’d been drunk! Had Pamela? Would she remember? Was she even here? Had he really told her that no matter how interestingly placed her freckles, her ass was going out that door come morning?

  Rudolf felt the precursor of a headache that promised to be murderous. He opened his eyes very cautiously, half hoping Pamela would be gone.

  She sat naked beside him, smoking. Pamela really didn’t need clothes. Once again she wore the armor of her permanent supercool. Rudolf opened his eyes wider and the pain was so intense that he groaned.

  “Yes?”

  Ru
dolf could feel the icicles. “Look,” he began, “I’m sorry. I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing.” Through alternating waves of remorse and nausea Rudolf suddenly perceived a family resemblance between Pamela and her father. Funny how he’d never noticed that ramrod erectness before. “I know! I took advantage of you. I’ll—” Rudolf clambered from the bed and battled another fit of remorse. He staggered into the bathroom and faced his reflection in the bottom of the john.

  When he had showered and brushed his teeth Pamela still sat insulated from the world in her supercool, making no effort to hide twin skijump shaped protuberances.

  “Sorry,” Rudolf said. “I thought you’d be—”

  “You might go down to the Lamborghini and get my overnight case.”

  Clambering back upstairs he heard the shower. He left the overnight case on his bed and went mournfully downstairs to see if anything could purge him of a headache and repentance. After the way he’d worshipped Pamela from afar how could he have treated her this way?

  There was an “oops, sorry” as Flaherty leisurely backed out of the bathroom. “Sorry I’m not thirty years younger,” the Irishman amended as he bumbled downstairs. “Well lad, I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

  Rudolf groaned.

  Flaherty seemed no worse than usual for this time of day. Filling the air with cheerful blasphemies, he began making coffee and peeling potatoes. “With a bit of luck we’ll find an egg. Where’s the whiskey?”

  Rudolf groaned again.

  “Now lad, it’s never as bad as that.” Flaherty flipped on the TV and killed the sound of a soap opera.

  “How would you know?” Ruined was such an old-fashioned word. Yet it was the only one Rudolf could think of. Not Pamela, he concluded. But he’d certainly ruined his own hopes of ever planting his seed in that lovely garden again.

  Flaherty found a fresh bottle.

  “No!” Rudolf groaned. Was he going to have to ride herd on a drunken Flaherty too? He started to get up but his head throbbed with such psychophractic fury that he had to sit again. When he looked up Flaherty was putting a glass before him. The soap opera ended and the news came on. Flaherty turned up the sound.