Little Tramp (Prologue Crime)

by Gil Brewer

  “I remember now,” Gary said. “Back there—Look, if you’re an officer of some kind, and it’s about that speeding back there—”

  “That’s not it,” the man said. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  A large raw hand reached out and grabbed his arm. Fingers tightened down like a clamp. The fingers were crimped on a nerve in his arm and for a moment he was unable to act.

  He wrenched free. “What the hell?”

  The man flung his hand up, palm out, frowning.

  “Wait,” he said. “Steady. It’s that kid. You know what I mean.” He dropped the hand, moved it in a quick gesutre. He leaned forward slightly, his red face sheened with sweat. “Just lay off her, will you? She’s just a kid, that’s all—just a kid. Won’t get you anyplace, screwing around with her. So she puts out, all right, lots do. Now find another. I don’t know what you got up your sleeve, but it won’t work. Understand? She’s just a kid. Remember that.”

  “You her boy friend?”

  “Never mind who I am.”

  “You are talking about Miss Harper?”

  “Miss—Look—” the man said soberly. “We both know who I’m talking about. You just came from there, and maybe you got what you went for. Let it hold you. Stay away from her. She’s just a kid. I don’t want to keep telling you.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “I’m just telling you.”

  “You got your hooks into her and now you don’t want anybody else to touch. That it? Though I can’t see how in hell she’d ever …”

  The man grabbed at him, fumbling, angry, hot. Gary turned savagely, cutting at the man’s arm.

  “Keep your hands off and get out of here.” There was a fine nervousness inside him now.

  “I’ve got to make you understand,” the man said.

  “I understand if you don’t dust off we’re going to have a picnic. You try and understand that.”

  The man bunched big fists, started to move, then abruptly relaxed. “I told you,” he said. He turned and walked to the car, moving heavily through the sandy yard, small gouts of dust spurting at his heels. He slid under the wheel and slammed the door. “Just remember,” he said, turning. “I told you.”

  Then Gary had to know who this was, and there was fear behind the way he moved toward the car. “Wait! Who the hell are you?”

  “Don’t matter.”

  The car began to pull away.

  “Listen,” Gary said. “Wait—”

  The green Dodge rolled across the shoulder and moved slowly north on the humpbacked macadam road.

  Gary watched until it vanished in an explosive glare of sunlight off the rear window.

  Back at the lumber yard, there was an order for him on the board, from Gowe’s Marine Ways. They wanted ten oak planks. The truck would pick them up at the lower ramp.

  He saw nothing of Bollins. He hoped it would remain that way, because he didn’t want to explain to the man about the Harper affair.

  He tried not to think about it. He cut the planks, put them on a cart, and wheeled them over to the ramp. The truck wasn’t there yet. It was a quiet afternoon, and like every afternoon along about now, he started thinking of Doll and her act at the Jungle Club. She had to quit that job. There were times when it nearly drove him out of his mind, thinking of her stripping in front of a bunch of hot-eyed drunks, their concentrated stares on her body.

  He lit a cigarette, wiped the match out against his palm. He hadn’t, since the first time he’d seen her, been able to go out there and watch her act. Sometimes he’d stand sweating at his place, thinking, seeing her in his mind’s eye. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d asked her to quit. She said they needed the money, and she did nothing wrong. He knew that part was all right. Only you couldn’t change what went on in the minds of the patrons who watched her; that was what got him.

  The minute she finished with her last act, she got out of there and met him. And every damned time when he saw her, there was the jealousy inside him, and it would take maybe an hour before he was able to talk with her calmly.

  The truck came along then, and he signaled the driver. A Negro in blue jeans leaped off the tail gate and came over to the ramp to load the lumber.

  He filled two more small orders, still saw nothing of Bollins, and cut some plywood for a talkative woman who wanted to build a bookcase for her husband’s birthday. It had to be just right. She was going to put it together with nails and he explained that it would be better if she used screws. She giggled at him. There was nobody else around, and she was a friend of somebody in the front office or she’d never have got down here. They were at the table-saw, down between towering stacks of lumber. She was dumpy, and she had a pretty heavy mustache. He cut her plywood and didn’t mention screws again.

  Along about five, the other workers began filing out, and he went over where the cypress was and sorted some select pieces. It was top grade. Sanded and polished, the way he had in mind, it would be beautiful. He could see Doll’s face when he showed her the table and chairs and glass-shelved buffet—after it was finished. In a month, working every night, he should have it done.

  He kept pushing all the rest of the thinking out of his head, concentrating on the dining furniture. He had worked for an upholsterer in Albuquerque for six months once, so he could handle that part too.

  He hunted around and found a box, and loaded it with the tools he’d need. There were three power saws on one of the workbenches, so he took one of them, and an electric hand drill. This close to working on the furniture, he became excited. He chose a good selection of sandpaper, found some nuts and bolts and screws, and put them all into the box with the tools. Then he measured off the cypress and rough-cut it, stacking it in small piles for easy toting to the Ford.

  He made five trips with the wood. When he finished, he had wood for the table, four chairs, and the three-quarter ply backboard for the buffet.

  In the car, sweating hard, he lit a cigarette, started up and turned out of the parking area. There was this cold void inside him, and a sense of deep anxiety over what had happened this afternoon. Thoughts of the guy who’d stopped at his place kept running through his mind.

  The hell, he thought. Sweat it out. You’ve sweated out worse than this. And forget about seeing that Harper babe. Just quit thinking.

  Only he knew damned well he had to see her.

  He turned past the tall steel-mesh gates and out across the short stretch of sawdust drive into the side road that led to the street. In the street, he turned out of town through the long low yellow slant of late sunlight, toward home. Supper-bound traffic was heavy, the occasional souped-up hot rod jockeying for position then blossoming in wild ricochet with savage bursts of speed against the tepid air. He’d gone about three blocks, and was beginning to feel a lessening of tension, when a pickup truck rattled alongside, too close for comfort. He turned and read the white letters on the blue door. We Serve U. Lonnigan Lumber Company.

  Bollins shouted across at him: “Pull over, Dunn.”

  A warning fear touched him. For a moment he did not slow the car, driving steadily along with the pickup rattling beside him, Bollins’s face craned redly.

  Then it was something like waiting for a movie to begin; sitting there in the cool dark, maybe a bit excited because it was one you really wanted to see, and then the screen lights up and it begins and you realize with outraged astonishment that you’ve seen this one before.

  He slowed, pulled over to the curb and turned off the ignition. Bollins stopped the truck behind the Ford, climbed out and walked heavily up to the sprung trunk lid and opened it wide and nodded.

  “Just as I figured,” he said. “Planning to open a carpenter’s shop of your own, Dunn?”

  FOUR

  HE STEPPED slowly out of the car and closed the door, then walked around and faced Bollins across the rear fender. His face felt stiff. He wanted to grin and say something that
would take the curse off this, but he knew something was up.

  “What are you getting at?” he said. “You gave me permission to use what tools I wanted.”

  “Don’t make me laugh, Dunn.”

  He swallowed and said, “The first week I was here. Don’t you remember? I asked you if it’d be all right to take out some tools and stuff, so I could work at home.”

  “Is it all in the trunk? Or do you have some more stashed in the front seat?”

  “There’re a few things on the front seat. But …”

  “Who you selling the tools to?”

  “Don’t be a fool. You know better than that.”

  “Do I? How? How long you been playing pack-rat?”

  He had to do something with his hands or he’d hit the man in the mouth. He fished out a cigarette, offered the pack to Bollins. Bollins ignored it, watching him. He lit the cigarette.

  “Where’s your warehouse, Dunn?”

  “You’re making this a big thing.”

  “Stealing is a big thing.”

  “I wasn’t stealing.”

  “You left me a note with the money pinned to it?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you call it?”

  “Now, look.” He told Bollins the truth about what he planned to do with the tools and the wood. It wasn’t easy keeping his voice down. Traffic poured past them, dust eddying about their feet, and in the distance a newsboy singsonged. “I was borrowing the tools. You told me that was all right. You can’t have forgotten that. I’d have them back in a few days.” He thought about the wood. He should have itemized the wood, and left notice on Bollins’s desk. “I was going to itemize the wood and pay for it.”

  “You’re a fast thinker, too,” Bollins said. “Let’s go back to the yard.”

  “Relax, will you?”

  “Back to the yard,” Bollins said. “You go first. I’ll follow you.”

  There was fresh worry in him now. Suddenly he wanted to get back to the yard. There was the feeling that if he could hurry up and get the wood and the tools out of the car, everything would be all right again.

  “All right,” he said.

  “You son of a bitch,” Bollins said.

  He said nothing. This was just wonderful.

  “Lonnigan wants to see you.”

  He dropped the cigarette, squashed it with his toe, turned and got into the Ford and drove off. He drove straight to the yard again, and he didn’t check to see if Bollins was following.

  “No,” Bollins said. “Don’t bother to unload it.”

  “You want it back, don’t you?”

  Bollins grinned, then winced as the sunburned lips cracked.

  “Come along,” he said.

  If he was going to make any kind of play, he had to make it right now. He sensed the meaning of pride, and discarded it harshly. Bollins had to listen.

  They walked in the shadows of the sheds.

  “It’s all finished, Dunn. Can’t say I’m sorry.”

  He sought for words. There weren’t any. They were all the wrong kind of words—the raw ones, the bitter ones, the curses and angry insults. He knew now was no time to fly apart, even if Bollins was deliberately nailing him; he had to use diplomacy. He kept trying to find the words, searching himself. Hate hung between them.

  “Wait.”

  He stepped in front of Bollins, crowded him against the side of Number 3 shed.

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m going to get you canned,” Bollins said.

  He came close to shouting. “You can’t do that! God damn it—you’ve got to listen.”

  “Sure,” Bollins said.

  Dunn watched the man’s eyes, small and mean and satisfied.

  “It’s damned convenient, the way you forget about giving me permission to borrow tools. Mind telling me why?”

  “You know why. You’re too damned wise. You rub me wrong. Always cracking wise.”

  There had to be more to it than that.

  “Harper called this afternoon,” Bollins said.

  Great—just great.

  “I want to see Lonnigan,” Gary said. “Right now.”

  “You will. Right now….”

  He listened to the words from behind the smoothly polished mahogany desk, and they set up a kind of angry echo in his mind. He didn’t want to believe them. But there was a matter-of-fact tone to Arthur Lonnigan’s voice. The manager of the lumber company was weathered looking, with calm, steady eyes, wearing a short-sleeved blue sport shirt. His eyebrows raised as he spoke.

  “No point arguing, Dunn. I don’t care to repeat myself. You’re through here, and that’s all there is to it. The cashier’s gone home, but if you don’t wish to come back tomorrow for back pay that’s due you, my secretary will take care of the matter right now. She’s in the outer office. Go see her.”

  “You don’t understand,” Gary said. “You can’t fire me. You’ve got to understand …”

  Bollins cleared his throat from his position by the door.

  “Can’t fire you?” Lonnigan said. “But we have done just that, Dunn. There’s nothing to understand. I’ve even discussed it with Mr. Harper, which ordinarily wouldn’t happen. We can’t have any second tries.” Lonnigan folded his hands on the desk and looked bored. “We can’t possibly take your word that you haven’t done this before. It seems to me to be a lucky thing Mr. Bollins happened to notice you taking the tools and lumber this time.”

  It was the first time in his life that he’d ever felt trapped in such a position. Normally he would have laughed it off. Now it was a serious matter, and he knew it was too late. It was always too late. It wasn’t the tools, or the wood, he knew that now. It was Harper, and what that crazy bitch of a daughter had done. Harper had phoned in, and things had worked out just right—only none of them would ever admit that.

  “I explained about the tools,” he said. “I wasn’t stealing anything. Bollins gave me permission—”

  Lonnigan moved his head from side to side. His tone was almost apologetic. “You heard Mr. Bollins say he never gave you permission to take anything from the yard. No employee is ever granted that permission, so stop talking about that. You’re simply taking up time to absolutely no purpose, Dunn. It’s late. I was due home over an hour ago.” He looked up and Gary saw that it was all settled in the man’s mind. Nothing he could say would change any of it.

  Inside he was falling apart. Before his dismissal had become fact, Lonnigan told him they’d been considering promoting him to an office job, with a pay raise, since he ran a typewriter and understood procedure. They were sorry.

  “There’s no alternative,” Lonnigan said.

  “Why did you talk with Harper?” Gary asked.

  “Mr. Harper? As a matter of fact, he happened to call about something, just after Bollins, here, told me about this matter. I asked Mr. Harper what he thought I should do—in view of the fact that you were such a good man, and had even been called out to his home today.” Lonnigan’s lips tightened whitely. “This is only one of many businesses owned by Mr. Harper. He was adamant, Dunn. Said one employee is expendable. He asked that you be dismissed immediately.” Lonnigan looked down at the desk top. “He’s a stickler for honesty.”

  Gary spoke hoarsely. “I’ve got to have this job. Don’t you see? I’m getting married. What in hell have I done?”

  Lonnigan stood up. “You should have thought about a lot of things,” he said. “Go collect your pay.”

  “Next thing he’d be tapping cash registers,” Bollins said.

  Gary whirled, took a step toward the super.

  “I wouldn’t,” Lonnigan said gently. “It seems to me we’re letting you off easy, Dunn. We could call in the police, you know.”

  Gary stared at Bollins’s smug features.

  “Will you please leave the office, Dunn?” Lonnigan said.

  Gary walked rapidly from the room. There was no use arguing. He knew he would have piled into Boll
ins if he remained. He knew Bollins was waiting for just that.

  He moved in a daze. He was stunned. Sharp anger and confused hate began to develop inside him, and he kept thinking of Doll. Something inside him collapsed.

  How could he tell her? She knew about some of his past—he’d related stories of his being fired at different jobs, told her he’d never been able to hold one—but not why. He had seen the look in her eyes. He had promised nothing like that would happen here.

  Now everything they were building toward would go down the drain. Harper was surely behind this, and nobody could change the man’s mind. On top of that, how could he get another job? Recommendations would be asked for if he planned to land anything with any decent amount of money.

  Dunn was done in this neck of the woods.

  It was almost as if he hadn’t taken anything from the yard—as though it wouldn’t have mattered. But they had needed an excuse, and he’d had one ready for them. Harper had found out who he was from Arlene, and this was the inevitable reaction from an irate father. And there was nothing he could do.

  “Dunn?”

  It was Bollins.

  “Take the stuff out of your heap—put it back where you got it.”

  He did that, working in a monotonous dream, figuring angles—only there were no angles. Bollins went away and returned with an itemized bill, listing the cypress he had cut. The money had been taken out of his pay. The bill was stamped Paid.

  “You can have that wood, now,” Bollins said. “It’s just scrap to us.”

  Gary stared at the man. Bollins was complacent.

  “I’ll see you again,” Gary said.

  “Threats, yet?”

  “No, not threats.” His right fist straightened, landed hard against Bollins’s mouth. The sunburned flesh popped, bleeding, and Bollins reeled backwards, crashed against the side of the yard office.

  Gary watched the man, advanced as Bollins wiped a hand across his mouth, saw the blood, his eyes pained. Gary wrapped both hands in the front of Bollins’s bibbed overalls and smashed him back against the office three times, hard.