by Gil Meynier
Joe became interested in the problem of procuring an ice pick. He often made up problems like that and tried to solve them. Problem: get yourself an ice pick so that nobody can trace it to you, also find a place to keep it.
That last part was easy. Just stick it in the kitchen drawer with the other utensils. No. Someone might remember that up to a certain time there was no ice pick in the house and that would lead up to questions about how this one got there. No good.
It couldn’t be an old, rusty ice pick. It had to be a smooth, new one.
Joe toyed with his problem and, by noon, had found no satisfactory solution, but it helped pass the time while he waited for Dorry to leave her room.
5
WEARING a cotton dress and sandals, Dorry left the house to investigate the neighborhood. Surely there must be a drugstore somewhere around where she could eat her meals. She might even find a job open. She didn’t want to be too cocky about it but she felt pretty sure that luck was now coming her way.
Joe had been watching her door from the rocker. When he thought that she was about to leave he had stationed himself in the dark, far corner of the living room. He had timed it rather well and felt pleased with himself for being such a slick operator. For a while he hadn’t liked the idea of Mrs. Jard spying on him from behind her curtain, but she had come out, gone into the kitchen and later had joined Mrs. Fred in the back yard, leaving him a clear field.
He went to Dorry’s room, sat on the bed and looked around. There were dresses hanging in the closet, a jar of cream on one of the dressers. The faint powdery smell of women’s things floated about the old room. Joe took a deep breath of it. Smelled pretty good!
A heavier smell came from the suitcase when he opened it. She must have spilled a bottle of perfume in it. There was a stack of underthings neatly folded and a few things, that had been worn, rolled into a ball. A small jewel box half filled with junk and bobby-pins. An empty nail-polish bottle. A stick of chewing gum. A dog-eared snapshot of Dorry, in a sun-suit, standing on a low wall.
Joe whistled softly.
At the bottom of the suitcase, beneath everything else, there was a handbag of white, shiny oilcloth. Joe pulled it out and opened it. Letters, a couple of postcards from Mary, who was having a wonderful time at Yellowstone, a coin purse with nothing in it, a wadded handkerchief, three old lipsticks and a couple of $25 war bonds.
Joe had never seen any actual war bonds. Wondering if there was any way he could cash them, he glanced at the printed matter. It said: Payable to John Warner Merk and/or Doris Jane Merk.
Joe read this over again, slowly.
The girl had said her name was Blassett.
Mechanically, he looked at the other bond. It was payable to Walter Rodink and/or Doris Jane Rodink.
When he figured out the dating system on the bonds he noted that they both bore identical dates.
He pulled the letters out of the bag. They were addressed to Miss Doris Blassett, Warren, Penn. The postmarks were all February and March of the same year. Some of the return addresses were from Rodink in the Navy, the others from Merk in the Air Corps. Rodink used a pen and wrote a pretty good hand; Merk, a clumsy pencil.
Although the handwritings were different, the letters sounded very much alike. They missed her. They were sitting in the PX, in the canteen. They had drawn KP. They had been to a movie. It was dull in the Navy. It was dull in the Army. But there was that furlough coming up soon and that was all they could think about. That and Doris.
Joe shook his head and put the letters back. In doing so he had to move the wadded handkerchief. It was not just wadded; it had been tied into a knot. Through the cotton Joe felt something he thought was worth looking at. He untied the knot and, in the wrinkled cloth, he found two rings. One was a plain gold band, the other was a silver thing with a few very small diamonds in a fancy trimming.
He flipped them in his hands a few times. Then handkerchief and rings quickly went into his pocket. They should be worth something.
He looked at the bonds once more before putting them back with the letters.
It was beginning to look as if little Dorry had too many husbands.
He went back to his room, whistling.
Later in the afternoon he asked her to go out with him that evening. She said she’d like to very much, and wondered if there was an iron in the house so she could press a dress.
“Gee, you sure know this town,” she said as they were driving around in the black Packard with the top down.
“I get around,” he said.
Privately he wished he had gotten around a little more. Anyway, enough to work up a routine for married women. For the time being, he was being cold and impersonal. The perfect gentleman. And she considered him well-informed.
“See that bar?” he said. “Same fellow that runs the big store I showed you owns it. Owns a brickyard, too. And a motel.”
“No kidding!” she said.
“Owns other stuff, too, that very few people know about.”
They drove in silence for a while. Joe sat sideways behind the wheel, his left elbow well out over the door. Dorry sat in the other corner, her hands in her lap. She looked pretty. Nice legs. Now and then the wind made the hem of her dress flutter above her knees.
Joe drove out on the Nogales highway and speeded up for a while. Dorry twisted herself around in her corner and placed both arms on the door and stuck her head in the windstream. She said it felt good. When they were going as fast as they could go he opened the side windshield and the air suddenly scooped into the car really blew her dress around.
When they passed the gambling house Joe decided he wasn’t going tonight. Let Mac stew around and wait.
He drove back to town and parked near a bar.
“Let’s you and I have a drink,” he said.
It was not one of the old established bars where the townspeople did their drinking. This was a new establishment with much chromium, red lacquer and fancy murals. Outside of a few fairly sleek-looking fellows at the bar there were no customers. They looked up when Joe and Dorry came in and most of them watched in the mirror as Joe escorted Dorry to a table.
Before sitting down Dorry said:
“Joe, I have to fix my hair. Where is it?”
While she was gone Joe ordered a couple of gin drinks. One of the men at the bar turned, glided off the stool and came over to where Joe was sitting. He was well-dressed and good-looking in a dark, Italian way. You could tell he used powder after shaving.
“Hi,” he said, sitting at Joe’s table. “Didn’t I see you taking a crap game for a ride the other night?”
“Could be,” said Joe.
He remembered seeing the Italian at the crap table, quiet, by himself, losing a while, winning a while. Now the man was smiling at him, in a friendly way.
“How’d you come out?” said Joe.
“Fair,” said the other fellow. “You live here?”
“Yeah,” said Joe.
“Just got here, myself. From Detroit. Kind of lonesome in this town. I’m glad I ran into you again.”
The barman came out from behind the bar and placed the drinks on the table.
“On my check,” said the Italian before Joe even thought of putting his hand in his pocket.
Joe was pleased at being treated as if he were somebody. Mayhew and Mac should see this. This fellow was a big shot. Only big shots wore perfume. He wished Dorry would come out of there; she’d be impressed, too.
When she came to the table the Italian stood up, smiling.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said.
“No,” said Joe. “This is Miss Blassett.”
“I’m Joe Porotti,” said the Italian. When they sat down Dorry said:
“So, I’m with a couple of Joes. It might be confusing!”
“Not if you call me Stringer,” said the Italian. “That’s what my friends call me.”
Joe felt like saying something like she was used to having guys in pai
rs but he thought better of it. Besides, the Italian was saying:
..and it’s nice to run into a fellow like Joe, here, who knows his way around. You see him in the best places, and he makes money at it, too.”
The Stringer winked at Joe and Joe tried to figure out whether the Italian was hinting that he knew how he and Mac made money at the crap table. He worried over this while Dorry said:
“I just got here, myself.”
“Not really!” said the Italian. “Well have to get Joe, here, to show us around. We’re just a couple of babes in the desert, hey, babe?”
Dorry laughed and she looked pretty as she held up her glass as if to toast.
“Where’s yours?” she asked the Italian.
“I don’t drink,” he said. “But, joking aside,” he continued, turning to Joe, “maybe you could put me on to something in this town. I’m looking for a nice, quiet little business I could buy.”
Joe nodded wisely, wondering what kind of answer would make the best impression. This was big-league stuff; entirely different from Mac.
“A business, hey?” said Joe. “What’s your line?”
Stringer laughed. Joe found his laughter disturbing because, although he went through all the motions of laughing, no sound came from his open mouth. Then the Italian chuckled.
“That’s all right, Joe; any quiet little business will do. Lots of us boys looking for quiet little businesses down here. Think it over.”
And he patted Joe on the shoulder. And Joe didn’t like it. He couldn’t stand to have people put their hands on him. He was beginning to dislike the Italian.
In the next hour he and Dorry had three more drinks. Then Joe had to get up and go to the cigarette machine. Not having the correct change, he had to go to the bar and break a bill. When he came back to the table Dorry was saying:
“No, I don’t think there is a telephone.”
And Joe did not like it.
“We’ve got to go now,” he said.
He was afraid it would be difficult to get rid of the Stringer, but all the Italian said was:
“Well, I’m sorry to see you go.”
And when Dorry started toward the door he held Joe back for an instant and said:
“By the way, chum, I’d like a friendly introduction to that dealer. Bring him around some night, any night. In fact, make it tomorrow night.”
And before Joe answered, he went back to the bar.
Joe got into the car in a bad humor. To hell with that wop, he thought. Then he noticed that instead of sitting in the far corner Dorry was over on his side, leaving him just enough room to get behind the wheel. She was powdering her nose. He forgot about the Italian.
“Ever been up on ‘A’ Mountain?” he asked as he started the car.
“Silly!” she said. “I just got here, remember? What’s ‘A’ Mountain?”
“I’ll show you,” he said and, as he rounded the next corner, her shoulder swerved closer to him and he put his arm around her.
He needed his arm back to steer along the winding road that led to the pile of rocks in the shape of an A. The A was visible for miles but it did not look like anything when you got up close to it. The object of going up the mountain was not to look at the A anyway, but to park by the low wall at the wide spot on the road and look at the town.
When they came down from the mountain, quite a while later, Dorry was nestled in his arm and Joe was thoroughly confused. He had never met a girl like Dorry. She was not coy and kittenish or sullen and belligerent as so many other girls had been with him. She was gay and natural and tender. When he had held her hand she had responded by pressing his hand gently and she had not taken it away at the first chance like so many others did.
When he had tried to kiss her, suddenly, with hard, hurrying lips and a fear that her reaction would be unfavorable, she had let him kiss her. Then she had whispered:
“Kiss this way.”
And she had kissed him, with her lips soft, her hand warm and gentle behind his head. And he had kissed her that way and a lot of time had gone by. And during that time everything had been swept out of his mind. Nothing existed. For the first time he had closed his eyes and had been oblivious to everything except soft, tenderly kissing lips.
He was thoroughly confused because he thought he was falling for her and, at the same time, he hated her as he hated all people who did things to him.
This was not what he wanted. He had imagined himself being tough with her and she would have had to let him push her around because he knew about her being married to those two fellows. At least he was pretty sure she was, although if, at this moment, she gave him any cockeyed explanation of those two names and those two rings, he would believe her.
All in all, he had gone soft. And for why? Maybe because when he wanted to take something from her, she had turned around and given him something. A struggle and a battle would have been all right with him. He would have let her fight and then he would have said something about those two other guys and she would have had to be nice to him.
But, the way it was, she was running the show. And he didn’t like what it was doing to him. What troubled him most was that kissing her had been unlike kissing anyone else. What troubled him most was that this was the first time any woman had kissed him voluntarily. What troubled him most—aw, hell!
He took his arm away and Dorry straightened up in the seat. They were in town now. They drove past the movie houses. The lights were still on but the box offices were closed. They drove through the underpass and after a few more blocks of deserted streets Joe pulled up in front of the house and switched off his lights.
They sat in the car and Joe lit a cigarette.
“Did that fellow ask you where you live?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes,” said Dorry.
“I don’t think I like him,” said Joe.
Dorry frowned and was thoughtful for a while.
“I don’t think he belongs in a town like this,” she said.
“What d’you mean?” said Joe.
“I don’t know...He’s a lot different than you are.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I just think that if you run around with him you could get into a lot of trouble.”
The way she said it Joe knew that she did not mean that she could get into a lot of trouble but that he, himself, could and would. It annoyed him. But he had the same feeling.
“I can take care of myself,” he said.
“You’d have to...with him.”
“What’ve you got against him?” he asked.
She’ frowned but she couldn’t explain.
Suddenly Joe wanted to be alone. He did not like the way things were going.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
Dorry smiled, reached for the door handle, and as she slid over, she said:
“It’s been a nice evening, Joe.”
From where he sat he watched her go into the house. Then he drove off.
6
HE drove away from the lights of the city, toward the mountains on the north side of town. He seldom went that way because when you were out there pushing along on the River road, rolling up and down over the swells of the scraggly foothills, it felt lonely. And usually he liked to be where there were people.
Bright moonlight shone on the pavement as it wound through a landscape of silver and shadows. The mountains, a few miles away, a bulging wall now in brilliance, now in darkness, loomed heavily.
Joe felt that driving fast, out in the open, through the cactus and the mesquite, would blow the cobwebs out of his brain. He crossed the bridge over the dry river bed and turned to the right. Soon he was on the roller-coaster dirt road that wiggles its way along the foot of the mountain for miles toward the east.
He snapped off his headlights and with the moonlight to guide him he rolled along shadowy curves and lonely stretches. Dust was rising thick behind him as he skidded around the turns. At times he almost went off the road and ca
romed from one side to the other. A burst of speed would straighten him out again and without slowing down he would head for the next dip and the next rise in the road. At times he could feel the car hit bottom and he was halfway up the next hill before the car stopped groaning. Gravel clattered against the fenders and now and then heavier rocks clanged loudly against the underside of the car. Once, several bends away, he saw the lights of an approaching car. He kept on going through the shadows and the moonlight and at the last moment, coming around a curve, he flashed on his lights, right in the other fellow’s face. They barely managed to pass each other in a cloud of dust and Joe guessed the other fellow must have had a fit.
He kept his lights on and slowed down. He was beginning to feel like himself again.
When he reached a paved road he decided to head back to town.
He glanced at the mileage. It was all right. He was still under the forty miles he was allowed for his $6.75.
He stopped at a drive-in and had a couple of cups of coffee.
At the city limits he slowed down to twenty-five and drove back to the car lot.
Usually, when he came in this late, the shack at the back of the lot was closed. Tonight as he parked the car he saw the night man standing in the doorway. With him was a man Joe remembered having seen somewhere before. He had on a maroon cowboy shirt, a soft-brimmed hat, well-creased trousers and cowboy boots. Joe got out of the car and stopped, his hand still on the door. The man was coming toward him. Joe braced himself.
“Howdy,” said the man. “I’m from the sheriff’s office.”
“Yeah?” said Joe.
The man nodded toward the shack.
“Bill, here, tells me that you’re a regular customer.”
“So ..said Joe, and he just managed to grin, “did I knock over a lamp-post or something?”
The deputy grinned back.
“Not that we know of,” he said. “Just thought you might help us out.”
“Sure,” said Joe.
The deputy spoke slowly. He was middle-aged and seemed easygoing and not too tough. Joe figured he would not be too hard to handle, and waited as the man leaned over to spit out some of the tobacco he had been chewing.
