The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

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  There were loud snores coming through the open windows of the Mack truck. Cauldwell climbed the steps on the driver’s side of the cab and looked in. Scooter was curled up on the sleeping ledge next to the rear window behind a mosquito screen. He was under a light blanket. Cauldwell opened the door and slid in behind the steering wheel. Scooter was still snoring. Cauldwell took the Smith & Wesson from his waistband and prodded the barrel into Scooter’s back. ‘Wake up.’

  Scooter turned and looked at Cauldwell. ‘What you doing in here?’

  Cauldwell aimed the gun between Scooter’s eyes and he stared at the barrel with his mouth open. After a few seconds Scooter whispered, ‘Hey, hey, stay calm.’

  ‘I am calm.’

  ‘Hey, listen, you want my truck? You can have her.’

  ‘We’re gonna go for a ride.’

  ‘Sure thing. Where d’ya wanna go?’

  ‘Thanks for being so cooperative, Scooter. You’re doing just fine.’

  ‘Whatever you want, mister. You don’t need to pull that trigger. I’m your man.’

  Cauldwell suddenly felt a wave of suspicion. Scooter seemed too practised. ‘Has this ever happened to you before?’

  ‘Only once. Had a truckload of National Bohemian stolen. They just wanted the beer. Police found the truck and trailer two days later.’

  ‘Well, this time it’s going to be different because I need your help. Sit there.’

  Scooter climbed down into the seat next to the passenger door. He was wearing boxer shorts and a singlet.

  ‘Now, I want you to put these on. Just to make sure you behave yourself.’ Cauldwell passed over the handcuffs he had been wearing earlier. ‘You don’t need a key to lock them, just snap them shut.’

  Scooter looked nervous. This obviously hadn’t been part of his previous experience of having a truck hijacked.

  ‘Put one cuff on your left wrist and then snap the other one on the metal door handle by your right hip.’

  Scooter did as he was told. With his left arm locked across his body he felt helpless. He looked at Cauldwell with fear in his eyes for the first time. ‘Are you some kind of a sexual pervert?’

  ‘Yes, I am, Scooter. But not tonight and not with you. You’re just not pretty enough. So there ain’t gonna be any Carolina Chili Dog or Rusty Trombone or Dirty Sanchez – or whatever other games they play in your neck of the woods. I want you for another reason.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I want you to teach me how to drive this thing.’ Cauldwell touched a long black stick next to the driver’s seat and then a green one alongside it. ‘Which one of these is the gear shift?’

  ‘Both of them are. These trucks have got two gear boxes: one four speed and the other five speed.’

  ‘So you got twenty gears, five in each range.’

  ‘But only fourteen of ’em work.’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘The steering wheel goes around nine times from lock to lock.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘It sure the fuck is on a winding mountain road when you’re shifting gears – and one more thing, be gentle with the brakes. They’re airbrakes. You stomp on ’em hard, you go through the windshield. This truck can stop on a dime.’

  ‘Let’s roll then.’

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  It wasn’t raining, but Cauldwell still had to use the windshield wipers and the window washer to clear the bug splat. Summer night driving in lowland Maryland, and the rest of the tidewater South, means ploughing through hordes of insects attracted to the lights. Some of the bugs are the size of humming birds. Without the wipers and the wash, a windshield is soon covered in a custard-coloured layer of splattered moth, lightning bug, dragonfly and stink bug.

  Cauldwell liked the feeling of power as he drove the big Mack truck down Route 40. He imagined he was a comet smashing through the earth’s atmosphere as the winged creatures of the night hurled themselves in tribute into the light and engine roar. ‘How about some music, Scooter?’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  Cauldwell leaned forward and turned on the radio. He twisted the tuning knob through loud static. The first clear station was a radio preacher: ‘…living in the last days of the world. It won’t be long before we are in heaven. But we are going to sweat through days of fire and heat before then. The armies are gathering for Armageddon. And meanwhile you must prepare yourself for cleansing. Remember that everybody stinks but Jesus. Keep your mortal body fresh with roll-on underarm deodorant from Congregational Care Products…’ Cauldwell continued tuning until he got a music station. It was Johnny Cash singing ‘The Wreck of the Old 97’, an engine driver’s song about a legendary train wreck. The airbrakes failed at the beginning of a three-mile downhill grade, but the driver stuck with ‘Old 97’. In a way, it was a love song.

  Cauldwell noticed out of the corner of his eye that Scooter was nodding and tapping to the music. The hijacked driver was a cool customer. ‘Do you know this song?’ asked Cauldwell.

  ‘Yearp, it’s about a train down my way that went off a trestle bridge. The driver and crew were killed, but they repaired the locomotive to run again.’ Scooter sang the final verse about how the driver was found with his hand welded to the throttle by the scalding steam. There were tears in his eyes.

  Cauldwell smiled and stared at the night road ahead. A deer stared back at the oncoming truck, momentarily frozen by fear in the headlight glare. Cauldwell pressed the horn hard and it gave a doomsday blast like a runaway train. The deer leapt and sprang into the pine forest. ‘You know something, Scooter? There are worse ways to go.’

  ‘You mean the deer?’

  ‘No, I mean us and this truck. Are there any trestle bridges near here?’

  ‘No, there ain’t. And don’t talk like that.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest one?’

  ‘In Pennsylvania.’

  ‘Very far?’

  ‘Too far – and it’s been shut for repairs.’

  ‘I bet we can bang this rig right through the barriers.’

  ‘Listen, if you want to do that you don’t need to take me with you.’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t suppose I do, but I like you, Scooter, and I want to turn you into a legend.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a legend.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I want to stay alive.’

  ‘Are you afraid of dying?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You’re not an existentialist, are you?’

  ‘No, I was christened a Baptist, but I don’t go to church – it’s a load of nonsense.’

  ‘That’s good, you’re halfway there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To being free. Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because I’m handcuffed to my fucking truck with an insane fucker driving it who wants to kill us both.’

  ‘Good. That laughter is a sign of freedom. If you were really afraid of dying you would be crying and pleading with me.’

  ‘But since you’re crazy it wouldn’t make any difference.’

  ‘You got a point there. Your fear of death is normal, but it’s not out of proportion to the situation I’ve put you in.’

  ‘How can I get out of this situation?’

  ‘By not being afraid of what happens. Fear of death takes away your freedom to participate fully in life. Fear of death and fear of life are related. What do you think?’

  Scooter stared at the empty night highway deep in thought. ‘When I was in Korea, a lot of the other guys were scared shitless. The Red Chinee just kept coming and coming.’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘Not as much as some, but a lot more scared than the really brave guys. The ones who just didn’t seem to give a damn. And you know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some of those brave guys were really happy – enjoying every minute of it. So were they … what d’you call ’em?’

  ‘
Existentialists. Some of them could have been, but some of them were probably psychopaths – really crazy.’

  ‘Which one are you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Another Johnny Cash came on the radio. It was about the strange characters you meet in prison, particularly Cell Block 10.

  ‘You ever been in jail?’ asked Scooter.

  ‘I just got out. What about you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I hope, Scooter, you never have to do time. Have you a road map?’

  ‘Don’t need one. It’s all in my head.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest airport with big planes?’

  ‘Friendship.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Friendship, that’s the name of the airport.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘About twenty miles.’

  ‘How much money you got in the truck, Scooter?’

  ‘I got about ten bucks in my wallet, but there’s over a hundred dollars in the glove compartment. It’s not my money, it belongs to the trucking company and it’s for fuel and tolls and such.’

  ‘Good. You can keep your ten dollars.’

  ‘If you want to go to Friendship Airport you got to go through Baltimore and then get on Ritchie Highway towards Glen Burnie.’

  ‘Good, you direct me.’

  The next part of the route was a depressing traverse through black slum housing and white trailer parks with smouldering mattresses and feral dogs. But Cauldwell knew there were other Americas too, the churchy conformity of the white picket fence suburbs and the non-conformity of Greenwich Village. You paid your money, if you had any, and took your choice.

  The entrance to the airport was a two-lane road. As soon as they turned on to it, Cauldwell stopped the truck. ‘This is as far as you go, Scooter. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’ The airport terminal and control tower glittered a thousand yards away. ‘But first we’re going to do something naughty.’

  Scooter looked concerned and shrank into himself.

  ‘Don’t worry, Scooter; it’s not what you think. But your bosses aren’t going to like it. And that reminds me.’ Cauldwell opened the glove compartment and found the company money, crisp five- and ten-dollar bills. There was also a roll of receipts that Scooter had bound with a rubber band. ‘Maybe I should give you a receipt too.’ Cauldwell found a piece of scrap paper and scribbled a note: ‘Received with thanks, Commandante X. Hasta la victoria siempre!’ He wanted to leave as confusing a trail as possible.

  Scooter had begun to look relieved. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’ll find some empty bottles under your seat. Can you pass me one?’

  Cauldwell found an empty milk bottle and handed it over.

  ‘Thanks. I’m dying for a piss.’ Scooter peed into the bottle and tossed it out the window. ‘That’s how truck drivers go to the bathroom. Saves a lot of time.’

  ‘Now for the really naughty bit, Scooter. How do you operate the hydraulics?’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘The ones connected to the trailer. It’s a dumper, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure is. Got two arms that will almost push it vertical.’

  ‘How do you engage it?’

  ‘It’s that red knob to the left of the steering wheel. You got to push it right into the slot and then pull it straight out.’

  Cauldwell had already noticed that there were steep drainage culverts on either side of the road. It meant that any cop car summoned to the air terminal would not be able to get around the blocked roadway. He smiled as he pulled the knob and heard the wheeze as the hydraulic arms started to push upwards. First there was a ripping sound as the load tore through the canvas cover and then a prolonged hissing whoosh as eighty tons of aggregate poured out of the trailer.

  Scooter smiled and slapped his knee, ‘Sheee…it!’

  ‘You like that?’

  ‘Always wanted to do it myself – preferably on the car of someone who was hitting on one of my poontang.’

  ‘Maybe next time.’ Cauldwell tucked the Smith & Wesson into his waistband. He was still wearing the grey suit that had been abandoned by Anderson the guard when he began his LSD frolic. It was loose around the waist, but otherwise not a bad fit. He also had Trickster’s black Samsonite briefcase as a prop. He looked into the rearview mirror to adjust the tie. Cauldwell wanted to look respectable. It wasn’t perfect, but he would pass. He opened the door and began to climb out of the cab.

  ‘Been nice knowing you, Scooter. Look after yourself.’

  Cauldwell walked quickly towards the terminal lights. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He wasn’t even sure that he would be alive in a few hours’ time. He felt lightheaded, but the important thing was he was free. He approached the terminal through a crescent-shaped parking lot that was almost empty. Cauldwell suspected most of the cars belonged to airport employees because it was two o’clock in the morning. There didn’t seem to be a lot of flight activity, but he needed to make a move quickly for they would be after him soon.

  As Cauldwell walked into the terminal lobby his footsteps echoed on the shining linoleum floor. There were large glass cabinets displaying models of aircraft, a virtual history of aviation exhibition. It was obviously a place to bring your children for a weekend treat. But the only people in the lobby now were an elderly threesome sitting on a bench behind a pillar. Cauldwell felt a shiver; he was in death’s waiting room. The impression was reinforced by a huge clock on the main ceiling beam that was held aloft by two winged angels, one of whom was hooded. Cauldwell smiled. The architect who chose that image for an airport departure lounge full of nervous flyers was either very stupid or had a great sense of humour.

  The only check-in counter with a member of staff was Eastern Air Lines. The departure board announced a five a.m. flight to Miami. A woman in her twenties was seated at the counter flicking through paperwork and ticking lists. She looked thoroughly bored and made no effort to hide it. Cauldwell approached. She didn’t look up.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’d like a ticket for the Miami flight.’

  The woman frowned, but didn’t make eye contact. She finally said something, but Cauldwell couldn’t make out the words. She had a Baltimore accent that played havoc with vowels and wiped out consonants. He finally realised she was asking his name and how he was going to pay. Cauldwell began to sign in under the name of D. Hammett; an homage to the crime writer Dashiell Hammett, a Baltimore man who was blacklisted and sent to prison for his left-wing politics. Cauldwell then remembered that Hammett was still living and didn’t want his homage to get the writer in even more trouble. He grabbed the form and crumpled it up.

  ‘I got that wrong,’ he said.

  The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t you even know your own name?’ She was suddenly alert and suspicious. ‘Have you got any ID?’

  Cauldwell took out Anderson’s wallet, hoping there was something without a photo. There was. ‘Driver’s licence okay?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she gave it a cursory glance.

  Cauldwell signed in under Anderson’s name and paid in the truck company’s cash. He glanced at the clock. There was still two and a half hours till boarding. Far too much time to wait around. There were stairs leading to the ‘Friendship Observation Deck’. The airport was definitely a good place for a kids’ day out. Cauldwell decided to have a look.

  When he got to the observation deck, Cauldwell momentarily froze. He wasn’t alone. But he quickly realised that the upright figures were telescopes that cost you a nickel per view. The deck was completely deserted – as was most of the airfield. Friendship wasn’t a busy place. And the flat countryside around the airport was sparsely populated too. To the east he could see moving green lights heading south and moving red lights heading north. It was the Chesapeake Bay. Maybe, thought Cauldwell, he should have plotted his escape by ship; maybe he would have been luckier than last time.

  Cauldwell heard
noises and commotion from the airfield below. He looked over the railing. A four-engine Douglas DC-7 was illuminated in a glare of lights as a tanker filled her fuel tanks. Presumably it was the plane for the Miami flight. The oily tang of avgas tainted the night air. A man dressed in a pilot’s uniform was talking to one of the workmen. Cauldwell touched the revolver in his waistband. Maybe buying the ticket had been a waste of the truck company’s money. It was a long drop to the tarmac, at least fifty feet. Cauldwell began to look around for a drainpipe. There weren’t any he could reach. Meanwhile, something else caught his eye – the flashing lights of a police convoy from the main highway. Someone must have discovered the blocked approach road and talked to Scooter. It had been a stupid stunt. He looked back towards the plane. The fuelling was finished and the empty hose was curling on to a reel at the back of the tanker. The police were closing in. Cauldwell calculated that, even with the blocked road, they would be at the terminal in twenty minutes. He looked again at the pilot. He was still chatting to the tanker driver and seemed blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama.

  Cauldwell started running. If necessary, he would shoot his way through the airport lobby to the plane. He wondered if locked doors would be a problem. As he hurled himself down the stairs he noticed a reeled fire hose on the wall. It was his best chance. He grabbed the fire hose and ran back up to the observation deck. The reel squeaked as it spun; there was plenty of length. When Cauldwell got back to the deck he dropped the nozzle over the side opposite the plane. It was a dark unlit area. He kept feeding the hose over the side until it reached the end of the reel and stopped, then he climbed over the deck railing and slid down the hose.

  Cauldwell tried to compose himself and think clearly as he ran through the dark spaces in the shadow of the observation deck. When he came into the light on the opposite side, the tanker driver was waving to the pilot and climbing back into the truck. Cauldwell continued running straight at the astonished pilot, and waved Anderson’s Security Service ID over his head. The sound of police sirens began to echo in the still air.

  The pilot was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a tie with the Eastern Air Lines logo. ‘What’s going on?’