by Gil Meynier
“Mac, the dealer at the crap table.”
“Oh, yes, Mac.”
The Italian took another sip of orange juice.
“Go get him,” he said.
“What d’ you mean?” said Joe.
“Take my car. Bring him here. I want to meet him.”
“But, about this house...”
“I’ll think about it. Go get your friend.”
And the Italian put his glass down, got up and dove into the pool again. Joe felt it was insulting, the way he was being treated.
You sonofabitch...thought Joe. And he sat for a few moments in a dark mood. He saw no way out of obeying Stringer’s orders. He couldn’t stand the idea of having the Italian watch him as he got up and crossed the lawn, as he would have to do. He didn’t like the idea of carrying out orders.
Slowly, Joe got up. He couldn’t make himself cross the lawn on his way to the parking lot. He saw an opening in the hedge and the brick path that led from the thatched porch to the hotel. He went that way. This slight victory made him feel better and by the time he got into the car he was figuring ways of dealing with Mac.
“If that’s the way they want it ..he kept saying to himself. Then as he drove toward town he imagined himself as a landlord. What a deal that would be! Why couldn’t he, himself, buy the house! It was just a matter of a little money.
He wondered how much money Mayhew had in his money-belt. He had watched the old man through the knothole. It was a yellow chamois moneybelt. He never took it off. It would be worth finding out.
This made him wonder if Stringer kept anything in the car. He reached over and opened the glove compartment. Nothing in it but a rag and a driver’s license, a recent Arizona one issued to Joe Porotti.
He closed the glove compartment. Holding the yellow slip of paper between two fingers, he dropped his arm as if to signal for a stop and gave the driver’s license to the wind. It fluttered and landed in the bushes alongside the golf course.
It was not much of a vengeance, but it would do for a while.
It was dark and smelly in the hall of the fourth-class hotel where Mac lived. Joe listened at the door of Mac’s room before he knocked. Mac was there. Joe could hear him gargling. He remembered from rooming with Mac when he had first come to town that Mac gargled for five minutes every night and again when he got up. Plain salt water. Said it kept his throat in shape.
The gargling stopped when he knocked. Mac opened the door and held it against the chain.
“What d’ you want?” he said.
“I want to talk to you,” said Joe.
Mac closed the door, slid the chain loose and let Joe in.
“I told you I don’t want you around here.”
It was hot and smelly in Mac’s room. The green-and-white lump of cheese in a saucer on the table did not help any.
“This is something special,” Joe said.
“Why weren’t you over to the place last night?”
“I ran into this other thing. I’ll be over tonight.”
“Don’t bother,” said Mac. “I’m all through with you.”
“Now, wait a minute, Mac—wait till I tell you.”
“Look,” said Mac, “you’re all washed up. I’m through messing around with you. I don’t even know you. Now, go away and stay away.”
“Look, Mac, this fellow wants to meet you. He’s a big shot.”
“I know all the big shots I want to know. And all the punks, too. Now, go on, blow.”
Mac went to the door and motioned to Joe with his thumb.
Joe tried to hurry the words out.
“This fellow is from Detroit, an Italian...”
“Do I have to slug you?” said Mac, and grabbing Joe by the front of his shirt he swung him around into the hall. “And I don’t need to meet any Italians from Detroit.” And with a shove he released his grip on Joe’s shirt and closed the door.
And there was Joe without a racket. He realized now that while he had been trying to tell Mac about Stringer, Mac was telling him not to come around any more. And this was more important to him than the Stringer deal. He had to talk his way back in again. This was his only good source of income. He knocked at the door.
Mac was gargling again. The gargling stopped and Mac said:
“Blow.”
“But, listen, Mac...”
“I got somebody else. Somebody more reliable. You’re through.”
Joe heard him lock the door loudly. He tried a couple of times more to speak to Mac but Mac wouldn’t answer. Then somebody opened a door, looked down the hall and said: “What’s going on?”
Sitting in the car Joe felt as if a big hole had opened all round him.
“Everybody’s against me.”
The feeling that a big hole had suddenly opened up all around him slowly shifted into a feeling that there was a big hole inside of him.
Sitting in the bright sunlight, he had a chill. He felt empty and his head was swimming. Then he slowly began to fill up with resentment and bitterness. For a moment, remembering the way Mac had manhandled him, swinging him around and shoving him loose, he felt sick and thought he was going to vomit.
He whimpered and started the car. He couldn’t stay here, in front of Mac’s hotel.
He must have driven a mile before he realized that he was still in second gear. He was on a dirt road between town and the airport. He didn’t even remember going through the long tunnel under the railroad tracks on Broadway. He shifted into high and let the car barely crawl along. He had no place to go, except back to Stringer, and he wasn’t ready for that yet.
“Why is it they’re against me? Because I’m young?” he wondered. And the faces of all who had ever bullied him welled up from his memory. Among them Stringer and Mac and Mayhew. All older than he was. All because they had had a chance to get set, and he hadn’t.
If he had a chance to be a big shot, he would be a bigger shot than any of them ever would be.
I’ve never had a chance, he thought and he mulled over it. A dollar here, maybe five bucks there, nothing really big. Down there things had been getting better—an occasional ten from Mayhew, twenty-five from the girl. And the deal with Mac. That had been pretty good; twenty, thirty bucks several times a week.
He sat up straight behind the wheel. His stomach was beginning to feel better. It always made him sick when people hit him. In school, and in alleys, he was always throwing up. He wondered how Mac would take it if it happened to him. Wondering, he slouched back behind the wheel and speeded up.
He parked the car near the swimming pool and hurriedly crossed the lawn. Stringer and Dorry were sunning themselves on the grass. Dorry was lying on her stomach with her head on her folded arms. Stringer was on his side facing in the direction of the parking lot.
Instead of joining them, Joe motioned to the Italian and walked over to the bar. He sat at the end of the counter near the blaring juke box. The Italian got up and came over.
“Well?”
“He won’t come,” said Joe.
“Aw! That’s too bad.” The Italian tried to look sad. “And what did he say?”
Joe pretended to hesitate.
“What did he say?” repeated the Italian, coaxingly. “Tell me what he said.”
“You really want to know?”
“I asked you, didn’t I?”
They were both silent for a moment. When the bartender moved over to the other end of the bar, Joe let him have it.
“He said he knew all the punks he wanted to know.”
Joe was watching the Italian’s profile. He saw no immediate reaction. Then he saw the bright white teeth. A dimple formed on the tan cheek and changed into a deep groove as the Italian laughed silently. Joe enjoyed seeing that there was a hard look in Stringer’s eyes in spite of the laughter.
“He thinks he’s tough,” Joe said.
Joe was beginning to grin, too, when the Italian got up and said:
“Okay.”
He was no long
er laughing.
“Now you run along,” he said.
“But, what about the house...String?” said Joe.
“Later.”
“What about Mac?”
The Italian nodded his head.
“We’ll take care of him. Right now, you run along. I’m taking Dorry to the ranch for lunch.”
And Joe was left with nothing to do but to go home.
8
THE deputy sheriff who had checked the car lots the night before placed his hat on the hat tree and sat down at his desk.
He was not too satisfied with the answers several people had given him concerning their whereabouts on the night the unlucky drunk had been hit near the golf course. All he hoped was that the fellow wouldn’t die out there, in the county hospital, and boost the case from hit-and-run to manslaughter. Murder is what they usually tried to hang on a hit-and-run driver when the victim died, and of course, there was leaving the scene and failure to report. There had been too many of them lately.
Of course, it’s easier when they leave a busted headlight or a calling-card on the scene. Or when they take their car in the next day to have a smashed fender straightened out. Or when someone who couldn’t sleep happened to see the accident and calls up and tells you about it.
As a matter of routine he had checked the car lots and the body-repair shops.
Of the rental cars a couple of them had gone to Nogales and the speedometer readings were about right. Another had driven only six miles. He had parked the car in front of his girl’s house, west of town, and it had stayed there all evening. It was exactly three miles from the car lot to the girl’s house. Obviously he hadn’t been around the golf course.
It would be a great help, thought the deputy sheriff, if those rental shacks were made to stay open all night so that they could tell at what time the cars were returned. This putting the cars back on the lot whenever you were through with them was no good.
Then, to come back to his investigation, there were a couple of fellows who weren’t any too clear about where they’d been.
There was the fellow with the black Packard. He had lied about driving on River road with his girl when the dust on the seat showed that he had been alone. But that was the wrong night.
He, the deputy, had seen that car the night before in front of the gambling house. But that did not place it at the golf course.
This case wasn’t anywhere near solved.
“Guess I’ll have to solve it some more,” the deputy decided. And, elbows on his desk, right fist nestled in his left hand, chewing his lip, he did some thinking.
And, all in all, he was considered a pretty shrewd thinker.
Mayhew was doing some thinking. He was a careful and interested reader of the newspapers. Before going into the book section at the library, he usually spent an hour or so in the reading room with the local papers.
Funny how names turned up. So-and-so, released from the armed forces one day, in the police record, drunk, the next. Or maybe in the marriage licenses.
New arrivals, buying property a week later. Young matrons at parties. Reading the names of those present at showers for brides-to-be was like picking up a hand at bridge, the same old cards in never-ending combinations.
The hand that shuffled the names around occasionally dealt them a baby in the births column. Or a guest from out of town, or a lawsuit. One way or another there was plenty of activity in the desert town.
A murder trial used the same names for several days; so did a spectacular accidental death or a squabble over the granting of a liquor license.
Mayhew followed the stories with interest.
Right now, walking home from the library, he was doing some thinking. Yesterday in the evening paper had appeared a short item about a man who had been found on the roadside in the early hours of the morning near the golf course. Today’s morning paper carried an editorial burning the hide off reckless drivers and a further story about the man’s condition. He had been hit by a car and it was not certain whether he would recover. A not-unusual story.
What Mayhew was thinking was that it was early morning when Joe had come home. Dawn, in fact. And he had been driving that night. Coming out of the downtown library at closing time, Mayhew had seen him in a sporty black roadster. Probably no connection but it was interesting to recall that the boy had not slept very much and had been nervous as a cat and strangely subdued when told that he was not going to receive any more rent money from his friend Mayhew. Certainly a coincidence.
Mayhew made an elaborate bow to the very young lady who always waved at him as he passed by and went on his way, whistling gaily.
When he arrived at the house he found Mrs. Jard in tears. She had just closed the door to Dorry’s room and she was standing in the hall with a broom in her hand. She gulped and looked away when she saw him.
“My dear Mrs. Jard!” said May hew, hurrying up to her. “Is there anything wrong?”
The plump old woman turned her head and wiped her tears on the back of the hand that was holding the broom. Then she shook her head.
“If you will tell me,” said Mayhew, “perhaps I can be of assistance.”
After a moment, the old woman made herself look at Mayhew. She had to sniff; she couldn’t help it.
“It’s Joe,” she said.
“Yes?” said Mayhew.
“He told me I was a useless old woman.”
She turned her head again as new tears rolled down her cheeks.
Clumsily, Mayhew patted her on the shoulder.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
Mayhew had always been fond of the old lady. Yes, he would say that he was genuinely fond of her. Living in a house with female boarders can be very unpleasant, but he had found Mrs. Jard very quiet, never in the way and never fussy. The thought flashed through his mind that this was the first time he had patted her. It was not an unpleasant feeling.
He wanted to know what Joe had done to upset her. By coaxing her gently he got her to tell him.
“He was so rude!” she said. “I wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t been so rude. No one has ever been nasty to me. He told me I was a useless old woman. I know there’s not much I can do but no one likes to think they’re useless.”
“He didn’t mean it,” said Mayhew.
She looked at him, doubtfully. Then, stopping frequently, she said:
“First he asked me what I had been doing in the girl’s room. I hadn’t been in the girl’s room, Mr. Mayhew, I swear to you. He said he had seen me come out of there. The only time I was in there was to bring her a cup of coffee, seeing it was her first morning. Then he swore at me and told me to get a broom and go in there and clean up her room and make her bed. Well, now, you know, Mr. Mayhew, I wouldn’t mind doing all the rooms and keeping this place nice. I always do the living room when nobody is around, and Mrs. Fred’s room. It’s the least I can do. But to have someone like him treat you lower than low...He told me that from now on he didn’t want to see me around unless I had a broom in my hand.” She bit her lip and cried silently. Then she said:
“If it weren’t for Mrs. Fred I would leave here. I could live in the shack on my little farm. They wouldn’t mind.” Mayhew thought it over for a few moments. Then he said: “Now, now...Where is Joe?”
“He went out. Right after he pushed me in there and threw the broom at me, he went out.”
Mayhew thought it over for a few moments. Then he said: “We must speak to Mrs. Fred about this. Let’s go and see her.”
Mrs. Jard wiped her eyes. Quietly she placed the broom back in the hall closet and followed Mayhew through the kitchen. There was some awkwardness at the kitchen door because she wanted him to go first.
They crossed the yard toward Mrs. Fred, who was standing by the chicken coop. She had on her leather jacket and her straw hat and her billowing print skirt and her high-laced shoes. She stood like a weather-beaten, wind-blown monument of flesh and cloth. As they came near her she moved aw
ay. She looked at the sky.
“Mrs. Fred...” said Mayhew.
She stopped by the stump of a long-gone tree. She ran her fingers over the rough, dry wood and patted a hanging sliver of dead bark into place. When they caught up with her, Mayhew calling, “Mrs. Fred...” she moved away again and stopped in front of the eroded mound of old adobe bricks.
They followed her and for a moment all three stood silently while Mayhew puckered and unpuckered his lips in preparation for the speech he was going to make.
“Mrs. Fred,” he said, “Mrs. Jard and I want to speak to you.”
She did not seem to hear him. They watched her stoop over and pick up an old rusty nail which she put in her pocket.
“Mrs. Jard...” Mayhew began.
“I wonder what we were going to use those for ..said Mrs. Fred, staring at the adobe.
“Mrs. Jard has a problem,” said Mayhew.
But Mrs. Fred did not seem to be listening. It was hot in the noonday sun. Mayhew mopped his forehead.
“That used to be a fig tree,” said Mrs. Fred, leading them back to the gnarled stump.
Judging by the size and shape of it and the texture of the dead bark, Mayhew was pretty sure that it had been anything but a fig tree. Probably an overgrown tamarisk that had died, dusty and brittle for lack of water in the barren yard.
“It was a nice tree,” Mrs. Fred said.
Then, for no apparent reason, she said:
“Joe is a nice boy. You are his friends.”
Mrs. Jard sobbed and hurriedly said:
“No, dear, I am your friend...not his friend; your friend.”
Looking toward the horizon, Mrs. Fred said:
“You are a good girl. I am glad.”
And she walked away, toward the chicken coop. Mayhew led Mrs. Jard back into the house. They sat down in the kitchen. Indoors, the perspiration on Mayhew’s forehead suddenly felt ice-cold. He dried it with his handkerchief. Then he looked out through the window and shook his head. Mrs. Jard looked at him and then she shook her head sadly.
“Tell me about your little farm,” said Mayhew.
She knew he was trying to get her mind off her troubles.
She told him. It was just a little three-room farmhouse, gray with a red roof, a windmill and a well, its back toward the mountain and its acres of good dirt along the river bed. Everything grows for those who like to plant.
