by Ben Benson
The thinking about it made me feel a little feverish and the pain was clutching at my head and back. I took out a cigarette, lighted it, tasting it, flat and bitter. I mashed it out. My eyelids grew heavy.
I began to think of Monty, the brave, runty little counterman. Then fatigue cloaked me and I fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, TUESDAY, STIFF AND sore. I had sweated out a half-dozen weird nightmares.
It was eight o’clock and the sky was cloudy and the air moist and cool, the wind from the east. I shaved gingerly, showered myself more gingerly, dressed and went downstairs. I didn’t see Mrs. Kincaid.
There was a greasy spoon on the corner called the Railroad Spa. I had a stale cup of coffee, two oily fried eggs and two pieces of rancid-buttered toast. I smoked a hurried cigarette to take away the taste.
I drove over to Waldock’s used-car lot. He was inside the small office, writing on a sheet of paper. There was a big cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Can you use a good mech?” I asked.
“I’ve got a good mech,” he said, looking up.
“You look busy enough to use two.”
“And your grandmother has three legs,” he said. He took the cigar from his mouth and examined me carefully. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen, going on twenty.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ralph Lincoln. I’m from Boston.”
“What can you do?”
“General repairs. All makes.”
“Why’d you pick Carlton?”
“I like it. It reminds me of Shangri-La.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where’d you work in Boston?”
I said, “What’s with the questions? I’m asking for a mech job. I’m not signing up for an atomic-energy plant.”
He blew smoke in my face. “Don’t give me lip, kid. Your face is marked up. I don’t want a troublemaker working for me. Troublemakers and drifters are a dime a dozen.”
“Okay,” I said, turning away. “No hard feelings. I’m good enough to pick my own spot.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. He chewed on the cigar. “If good grease monkeys weren’t so hard to get I’d throw you out on your ear.” He relit the cigar deliberately. “What pay you asking?”
“Eighty-five a week.”
“Good-bye. The man with me is getting sixty-five and kisses my hand.”
“I thought you were the one who gave it away.”
“I give my dandruff away,” he said. “I put it in a little white box and tie a red ribbon around it. Then I give it away free. But I charge for the box and ribbon. Good-bye, Lincoln. Come around again when you float down to earth.”
“Don’t wait for me,” I said.
I went out of the little office, climbed back into my car and drove over to River Street.
*
Outside of Osanger’s Garage I saw the yellow Mercury convertible. There was another car parked near it. A shiny black Chrysler Imperial.
As I started across the concrete drive toward the garage I heard a hammering sound from the inside. I came to the open entrance. In the middle of the cement floor was a ’47 Buick with a repair plate hanging from a pair of straps in back. Someone was working underneath the Buick. I looked around. There was good equipment—a lubritorium, a hydraulic lift, a big work bench, power tools and two tire spreaders.
As I stood there a man in gray work pants and shirt came out of a washroom in back and walked up to me, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He was about thirty-five, of medium height, and wore thick-lensed glasses that made his eyes bulge unnaturally. His hair was thin and brown, and his big, oversized head sat almost neckless on a pair of narrow shoulders. The face was moist and almost hairless. Between his thick, sensuous lips, in the middle of his mouth, was a half-smoked cigarette, a long ash at the end of it. From his hairless wrists he rubbed shreds of sand soap.
“Are you Osanger?” I asked.
“That’s me,” he said. His voice was soft, husky, almost apologetic. His eyes fastened on me, so large and overwhelming through the lenses that they were almost hypnotic. The cigarette didn’t leave his mouth. He talked through it, blowing the smoke out in little swirls, the ash falling on his shirt. There was something unclean and unwholesome about him.
“My name is Ralph Lincoln,” I said. “I’m looking for a mech job.”
“How old are you?” he asked huskily.
“Nineteen.”
The smoke came out of his nose. “You look older.”
“I worry a lot.”
He looked at me with indifference. “What makes you think I need a mech?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been everywhere else in town, to that one-lunger on Main, to Waldock’s.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Boston. West Brookline Street. I’m staying at Mrs. Kincaid’s here. I thought I’d try a small town for a while.”
His cigarette had burned close to his lips. He took it out, brown and soggy, dropped it to the concrete and lit another one immediately. “Where have you worked?”
“All around.”
“Where?”
I scuffed my foot. “The hell with it. Maybe we’ll forget the whole thing.”
His eyes stared owlishly. “You on the lam?”
“Hell,” I said. “I’m not on the lam. What gives you that crazy idea?”
His eyes focused beyond me, outside. “This,” he said. “Carlton.”
“So it’s a small town. I like small towns.”
“Yeah,” he said. “What pay you asking?”
“Eighty-five.”
“That’s a lot for a town like Carlton.”
“I’m good.”
“What kind of tools do you have?”
“I’ve got a set of Snap-ons.”
“How about body work?”
“I can do it, but I don’t like it.”
“Maybe I can use you,” he said thoughtfully. “But you’ve got to handle the pumps outside, too.”
“Okay.”
“The gas company is fussy. When you go out to the pumps you’ve got to wear a cap.” He pointed. “That one there on the window ledge.”
“I’ll wear the damn cap,” I said. “Is that all that’s bothering you?”
“Let’s get this straight right now,” he said, softly and sincerely. “Don’t make no mistake. I’m the boss here. Don’t ever ask me what’s bothering me. You do what I tell you to do. Understand?”
“All right,” I said. “So you’re the boss. What else?”
“I’ll put you to work. But it’ll take a day or two.”
I heard a stirring under the Buick. A creeper rolled out. On it, flat on his back, rubbing a spot of grease from his face, was Scott Cluett. He was wearing brown coveralls. He looked up at me. His face seemed pale under the tan. But anyone’s face would be pale after taking three vicious jabs to the stomach.
I grinned down at him. “Hi,” I said.
“Punk,” he said hoarsely. He twisted around, got to one knee, then stood up. He grimaced with pain and I knew he was carrying black and blue marks on his belly. There was a big wrench in his hand and he didn’t let go of it.
“Forget it,” I said, still grinning. I stretched out my hand.
He looked past my hand, letting his breath out slowly. The wrench dropped and clanged to the floor. He moved closer to me, bunching his fists. “Let’s not forget it,” he said. “Let’s you and I finish what started last night.”
He was tough, as hard as steel. He was no blubber-boy who needed the backing of a host of ratfaced friends. He had courage. At least, I’d grant him that.
“It’s already finished and forgotten,” I said. “Let’s shake hands on it.”
“No, you yellow sonovabitch.”
“Why don’t you get smart?” I said. “You’re the kind of kid who has to have his nose rubbed in it all the time. Okay, where do you want to tango? Here, or outside?”
>
Osanger stepped between us. “Hold it,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“This punk,” Cluett said tonelessly. “He came into the Peppermint Stick last night and started a rumble. I’ve got to cut him down to size.”
“Never mind,” Osanger said. “He’s coming to work here.”
“Not here,” Cluett said.
“Here,” Osanger whispered. “I’m running this place. I’ll put him on and you’ll get along with him.”
“You’re making a bad mistake, Ken,” said Cluett. “You know what’ll happen someday. He’ll come near me and I’ll kill him.”
Osanger turned away without answering. He walked with me to the entrance. He said, “Don’t worry about Scotty. I can handle him.”
“I hope you can,” I said. “I’m having trouble with him.”
“You say you’re staying at Kincaid’s. I’ll look you up there.”
“All right,” I said.
A station wagon had driven up to the pumps. I looked at it idly. There was a seventeen-year-old boy at the wheel. I said to Osanger, “That Waldock might call me first.”
“You don’t want to work for Waldock,” Osanger said. “I can give you a better deal than he can.”
I nodded, then pointed to the station wagon. “You’ve got a customer for gas.”
“That’s no customer. It’s a kid who works on my farm. I’ve got a place about a mile out of town.” Osanger called out, “Hey, Vince!”
The boy climbed out of the station wagon and started toward us. He was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and a gaunt face. Covering his narrow frame was a striped basque shirt and faded blue jeans.
I felt my mouth go dry. “Vince,” Osanger had called him. I knew the boy. It was a bad break. You try to go along carefully, planning every step, checking and rechecking. Then something small and unforeseen comes along and breaks it wide open.
Because the boy’s name was Vincent Pomeroy and just six weeks ago I had arrested him on Route 128 for speeding and driving without a license. And I had brought him into the barracks and booked him there.
Pomeroy came up and stopped. He looked at me, then at Osanger. His eyes were puzzled and wary.
“Vince,” Osanger said, “this is Ralph Lincoln. He’s coming to work for me.”
Pomeroy put out a limp hand very slowly. He kept staring at me. “I know this guy,” he said to Osanger. “I’ve seen him before.”
CHAPTER SIX
THERE WAS A SILENCE. BEHIND ME I HEARD FOOTSTEPS as Cluett came up. I didn’t turn around, but the back of my neck was wet and the skin there seemed to writhe. I looked at the empty, deserted street.
“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” Osanger said softly.
“The kid’s got me,” I said. “Where did we meet?”
Pomeroy touched his tongue to his lips. His forehead wrinkled. “I’m waiting for it to come to me. Somewhere.” His eyes examined me. “It wasn’t good, either. It left a bad taste. You ever been to Shirley or Lyman?”
I laughed shortly. “Me? What do you take me for? An ex-con?” I poked a finger at his chest. “That’s where they send bad little boys. When did you get out?”
“No, it wasn’t there,” Pomeroy said, shaking his head. “You’re a little older. It’ll come to me. Where you from?”
“Boston.”
“Not there, either,” Pomeroy said.
Osanger was watching me, the cigarette motionless between his lips. I shrugged my shoulders, said, “I’ll see you,” and started for my Ford.
“Hey,” Osanger called.
I stopped, turned around slowly.
“I’ll call you in a day or two,” Osanger said. “Stick around town.”
“Sure,” I said, letting my breath out. I went to the car, got in and sat there for a moment. The three of them went into the garage. I wiped my neck with my handkerchief.
I drove back to the rooming house. It was 9:30. I expected to see Mrs. Kincaid with a bandanna around her head and a mop in her hands. But she was in the dank, dust-smelling living room, playing solitaire and listening to a soap opera on the radio.
I moved over and sat down near her. I said, “I think I’ve got a job in town.”
She turned a card over, frowned, hitched up her chair, and said, “Good. Where?”
“At Osanger’s.”
Her eyes came up. “You’re an auto mechanic?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m starting in a day or two. What kind of a guy is Osanger?”
“Kenneth Osanger?” Her eyes lifted. She listened to her soap opera. The commercial came on, some male with a throaty, wheedling voice. She turned to me and said, “Osanger came here after the war. In ’47, it was. Bought the old Simpson farm about a mile and a half out of town on Route 111. It’s past that new ice cream place called the Peppermint Stick.” She looked at me coyly and dabbed at her stringy hair. “Honey, what happened to your lip?”
“I bumped into a door last night in the dark,” I said. “Where does Osanger come from?”
“Who knows? He never said. He’s a bachelor and he lives on the farm with his mother, who’s the toughest old crow you ever saw. Then Ken bought the garage. You know, he keeps strictly away from the town folks. Never been to a church supper or anything. Keeps away from everybody except Leta Joyce Nofke. Won’t even stop and pass the time of day with you.”
“Who’s Leta Joyce Nofke?”
“A girl who works at the Empire Laundry,” Mrs. Kincaid said, warming up to the gossip with relish. “Everybody thought it was just scandalous the way Leta took up with Osanger. It started four years ago when she was only sixteen. She’s been going with him ever since. She’s a stunning girl and he’s much older than her and really ugly, and everybody just knows they’re sleeping with each other. But she’s a quiet one, too, like him. Never a peep out of her. For the life of me, I don’t know what she can see in him. Not that she has such a wonderful background, either, you know. She’s Hungarian, I guess. Her mother died when she was young, and her father was the town drunk for years. Worked as an odd-jobs man until he finally went soft in the head. Now Leta keeps him in the house all the time. Seems I haven’t seen her old man come out of the house for months. There was a time when he was always hanging around the—”
“I met Scotty Cluett,” I interrupted. “What kind of kid is he?”
“Oh, you don’t want to have anything to do with Scotty,” she said. “Scotty was always the town problem, the wild one. His folks were killed in the hurricane of ’38 and his father’s sister brought him up. The way Madelaine spoiled that child was a crying shame. Madelaine is such a good soul, too. She’s an old maid and she’s been the night operator at the telephone office for twenty-five years. That boy didn’t have a whit of discipline. He simply ran wild.”
“Got into trouble?”
“It was just natural,” she said. “Now I don’t like to talk about people. You ask anybody and they’ll tell you I’m the closest-mouth person they ever saw. But everybody knows about Scotty Cluett. Started with petty theft, then car stealing. Was sent to Shirley School three times. Never did him a bit of good. Always fighting and brawling and drinking, yes, drinking, at his age. Oh, the wild things that went on with that boy.”
“But he does all right now,” I said. “I saw the car he drives.”
“He went to work for Osanger a year ago. Since then he’s done so well he’s driving that new car and wearing different clothes every night. I swear, Osanger must pay him a fortune. What’s he paying you, dearie? After all, I did rent you the room so cheap it’s a crying shame. If you’re going to get good pay—”
“Not what Cluett’s getting,” I said hastily. “There was another kid at the garage. Vincent Pomeroy.”
Her eyes were blank for a moment. “Oh, that’s the boy who works on the Osanger farm. He doesn’t come from Carlton. His home is in Eatonville. I don’t know anything about him.” She shuffled the cards and began to lay them out again. “There’s a few awf
ully wild kids in this town. They hang around the Peppermint Stick. One night Mrs. Kennedy drove by there and she saw two girls running around the parking lot without skirts or panties on. She said she’d swear they were drunk and not one of them over seventeen.”
“Nice town. Don’t the cops bother them?”
“Old Clemmisson? Don’t make me laugh. But one of these days the State Police are going to find out about the place. Then they’ll come and there’ll be plenty of trouble. Mark my words. You’d best keep away from the Peppermint Stick. It draws the riffraff from other towns, too. They can’t make trouble in Stoughton or Walpole, so they come here. I’m surprised you didn’t meet Arkie Nodecker, too. He usually hangs around Scotty Cluett.”
I grinned. “I met him, too.”
Her mouth opened. “I’ll bet you went to the Peppermint Stick last night.”
I grinned again. “I’ll bet.”
“Arkie is a mean one, too. When he was five he was cutting off puppies’ tails and drowning kittens. At ten he locked a little girl in an ice chest and she almost suffocated to death. But nobody dares do anything to Arkie. His father, Lance Nodecker, is our chairman of selectmen.” She looked at me cunningly. “You were at the Peppermint Stick last night, weren’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s all over town what happened there last night. Arkie is strutting around telling everybody how he beat up a boy from Dedham. The way I heard it on the phone the Dedham boy was about ten feet tall and as big as a bull.” Her eyes focused on my bruised lip. “Not you, was it?”
I laughed. “Me? I’m not from Dedham and I’m not ten feet tall.” I stood up and stretched elaborately. “Well, thanks for the chat, Mrs. Kincaid. I think I’ll go out now.”
She sighed. “I guess I’ll have to get around to making the beds. I’ll swear, I don’t know where the time goes.”
*
I drove my Ford out Route 111. As I came by the Peppermint Stick, I saw two cars parked in front of the counter windows. Two little tots were standing there licking ice-cream cones solemnly, their plump mothers gobbling down rich sundaes. In the parking lot an aged colored man was sweeping up trash, beer cans and beer bottles and putting them into a large bin.
