“Can’t you come along?” Then he noticed the Merc. “Oh,” he said. “I just figured I’d give you a lift to Montpelier and we could chew the fat as we went. I was looking forward to company. Why don’t you leave this tank here? I’ll be in Montpelier a day or so and then I’ll be heading back here. You can pick it up again then.”
“And then what?” Bruce said.
“It depends on what we hatch up.” Suddenly Milt became serious; in a low, humble voice he said, “You know, I almost go nuts driving alone on the road. I can really stand company; I mean it. And I’m positive we can figure out something on the Jap machines.”
It occurred to Bruce, then, to wonder how ill the man was. If he required constant care. He quailed from the notion of being Milt Lumky’s nurse, as Cathy Hermes was. And as perhaps other persons throughout Milton Lumky territory were. But he had to settle the business about the typewriters. And if he said no to the idea of going to Montpelier, then Milt would simply wave good-bye and ride off; he had already started the motor and was behind the wheel. Obviously he was in a genuine hurry. It was a wonder he had come back to the apartment at all.
“You can’t stick around here long enough to discuss it?” he said.
“It isn’t a question of that, it’s a question of gettng some action started on the thing. Throw your stuff into the back and we’ll be in Montpelier in a couple of hours. Your car’ll be safe here; just get everything out of it and lock it up.”
Reluctantly, he did so. He added his suitcase to the heap of sample cases in the back of the Mercedes, and a moment later Lumky sped out into the mid-morning Pocatello traffic.
* * * * *
The trip between Pocatello and Montpelier was by no means as bad as the trip between Boise and Pocatello. They made good time, seeing mostly farms and orchards; the pavement itself was in fair shape and several portions had been recently laid down. Traffic was light. Lumky did not drive fast, but he kept up a good professional pace, passing slow vehicles and getting out of the path of new Buicks and Cads that wanted as much speed as they could flog out of their three hundred horse engines. He averaged something over fifty-five, which, on that road, was not bad.
That afternoon they reached Montpelier. The local streets were in terrible disrepair, almost a form of degeneracy. In some spots the pavement had entirely broken down, leaving nothing but rubble. All the houses had an archaic, woebegone appearance; they did not need paint or obvious work, but each was a somber neutral color, as nondescript as possible. The houses looked like farmhouses brought together, with weedy lawns and flower beds in between. Many of the cars they saw parked had winter tires, suggesting that during rains the mud made the roads into pigwallows. The first motel they saw had only a dirt pasture in which to park; the cabins were clapboard. shacks and the sign was hand-painted on the wood, not neon. They next passed a tumble-down garage and then two or three gas stations, an ice cream stand, and after that the main street of town with its bars, workman’s clothing stores, tiny theater, and abandoned warehouses that had once served the train during the decades of heavy freight. The air was filled with dust. All the cars they saw were gray with dust. The men on the sidewalks wore wide-brimmed western hats. The sight discouraged both him and Lumky.
“What a place,” Lumky said. “I stay here as little as possible. And right across the border from Utah …” He pointed. “As soon as you go down there you find yourself in a forest, and then you come out in Logan. That’s where I’d like to be. It’s clean. All Utah is clean.”
“I know,” he said. And he thought, This is the extreme edge of Milton Lumky territory. Its frontier.
“In Utah they’d never let this dust blow around,” Lumky said, searching for a parking slot. Mud-spattered pick-up trucks had most of them already, the work vehicles of a farm area. “They have water running down the gutters. Everything’s fertile. They make it that way; it’s due to L.S.D.”
“L.D.S.,” Bruce said.
“That’s right. I’m thinking of ‘LSMFT.’ Of course that’s the joker. If you live in Utah you have to join the Church. It’s a hell of a thing—they won’t let you alone. You can’t buy cigarettes or booze; they look at you funny if you drink coffee. You can’t rent a room or go to the toilet.” He found a parking slot and parked the Mercedes. “These people up here don’t give a damn about anything. The whole town’s collapsing in ruins.” He got out of the car and stepped up on the sidewalk, fastening his belt; while driving he had undone it.
On the drive both of them had felt under the weather. Bruce was not used to being a passenger while someone else took the wheel and he had quickly become a thorn in Lumky’s side. But now that they were out of the car they both began to feel better.
“How about something to eat?” Lumky said.
“When do you have to see these people?”
“As soon as possible. But I’m hungry. If I go without eating my gut will growl.” He started off. “And that kills sales.”
They found themselves in a long dark tunnel-like café, filled with the screech of electric guitar music from the jukebox in the back, gray with the smoke of burning grease. At the counter a row of men sat, all with hats on, eating from platters. The walls of the place had been painted black. Three tired middle-aged women washed dishes ceaselessly.
“This is limbo,” Milt said. “But the food’s good. Have some fried ham.” He located two vacant stools and climbed over one. Bruce took the one beside it.
The food, when it arrived, was not bad.
“There’re worse places than Montpelier,” Milt said, as they ate. “Don’t let it get you down.”
He said, “The worst I’ve ever seen is around Cheyenne, on the road up from Denver through Greeley.”
“Cathy’s husband owns some of those auto wrecking yards in Colorado,” Milt said. “A littering moron. It never occurred to me that anybody deliberately put that junk along side the highway. But she says he dumps it there very carefully. He probably thinks it’s pretty.”
They ate their meal, drank their coffee. “I wonder what I can get the Jap typewriters at,” Bruce said. “Per each.”
“The things have been in warehouses for a couple of years, now,” Milt said. “This whole Jap import business is a mess. They shouldn’t run you too much.”
“Less than a hundred dollars?”
“Much less.”
That raised his spirits radically. “Give me a general idea.”
“Seems to me it was around forty dollars a machine. In original cartons. There were about two hundred of them in this particular warehouse, when I saw them. That would make it—” He calculated. “About eight thousand dollars for the lot. Do you have that much on hand?”
“No,” he said. “More like twenty-five hundred.”
“It sounds as if you sold your car.” Milt chuckled. “That’s about one used Mercury. In fact it’s exactly what I paid for this Mercedes, and it was used when I got it. Of course, you don’t need two hundred. You could pick up sixty; that would be about right, for a shop the size of yours. But the problem is, will they sell sixty of them at that price?”
“Sixty would be a big help,” he said. A lot bigger help than twenty-five. So maybe is had been worth it after all, the long drive, all the difficulty tracking down Milt Lumky.
“I understand they’ve been retailed at around a hundred and eighty dollars,” Milt said. “To compete with the Smith-Corona. You’d have to figure on some kind of guarantee, I suppose. That’s something I know nothing about. You better investigate that pretty thoroughly.” He fooled with a crumb of food and then he said, “Maybe I could loan you some more money. Enough to take the warehouse as is. If they won’t break it up for any decent price.” He eyed Bruce. “I mean Susan. For Susan. Not for you as an individual.”
“It could be a wedding present,” Bruce said jokingly, and then he realized what he had said.
At once the man’s face tilted back and expressed, for him to see, his different reactions. “
You and Susan?”
“Yes,” he said.
Milt said, “When?”
“Just a few days ago.”
They sat in silence.
“No kidding,” Milt said, in a subdued voice. “I can’t get over it. Well, congratulations,” he said, sticking out his hand. They shook on it. His hand was damp and trembling. “You know, I had a hunch about it that night when I dropped by and you were there. But I dismissed it. Were—you married men?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“It’s amazing. I didn’t think she’d get married again so soon. Well, you live and learn. That’s certainly no lie. I’ll pay for your meal.” He picked up the two checks and slid back from his stool. Without another word he walked to the front of the café and got out his wallet to pay the cashier.
Bruce, joining him on the sidewalk, said, “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you right off the bat.”
“You told me right off,” Milt said brusquely. “It seems right off,” he said, as he got into his car. His face had a gray, pushed-in quality. “Maybe I’ll phone her up and congratulate her,” he murmured, sitting at the wheel without starting the motor. “No, I have to see these people.” He examined the dashboard clock. “It’s about paper cups or something. Can you imagine driving thousands of miles to sell some guy in a small town on buying paper cups? Selling’s a hell of a strange business.”
“That’s true,” Bruce said, feeling uncomfortable.
“Reach around back in the back,” Milt said. “There’s a long thin carton. Full of cups.”
After Bruce had found it, Milt opened it and made sure that the cups were intact.
“You stay here,” he said, climbing out with the cups. “I’ll go drop them off and then come back. It’s that hotel down a couple of doors. I’ll tell them to call us if they want the cups. They ought to be able to decide.” He went on, leaving Bruce and the car and his satchel.
Time passed and at last he returned, without the cups.
“That’s that,” he said, sliding in. He started up the motor and began backing out into traffic. “Let’s head for home. The hell with Montpelier, Idaho.”
A Greyhound bus honked at him. With a savage swipe at the horn ring he honked back.
* * * * *
As they drove back, through farmland they had seen only an hour or so earlier in the day, Milt sat hunched over, his chin out, his eyes fixed on the road. The car radio, which he had turned on, blared out and destroyed the possibility of conversation. Milt gave every indication of having gone into a glowering lethargy; his control of the car became dim and he did not respond quickly to changes in the traffic. But finally he roused himself, shut off the radio, and took hold of the wheel with both hands.
“I’ll drive back to the Coast with you,” he declared.
“To Seattle?”
“Yes,” Milt said. “We’ll get you your typewriters.”
“Terrific,” he said.
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
He said, “It depends on whether we take both cars. It’d be faster if we took one and alternated the driving.”
“I have to get back out here again,” Milt said.
“I’ll drive back out here with you.”
They discussed me choice of cars. The Merc, being larger, might be more comfortable. And in it they could make better time. On the other hand, the Mercedes would use less gas.
“How do you feel about somebody else driving your car?” he asked Milt. “I don’t care who drives the Merc.”
Milt said, “Parts would be easier to get for your car. Tires and fuses and shit like that.” He gave no direct answer to the question.
In the end they decided on the Merc; he who was not at the wheel could stretch out and sleep more easily in the larger car.
An hour or so later they re-entered Pocatello. A funeral in progress blocked their movement; car after car with headlights on passed haughtily in front of them, protected by special police wearing brilliantly shiny uniforms and helmets. Milt, at the wheel, stared at it silently at first, and then he began to curse out the cars. “Look at them,” he said, interrupting himself. “It must be the mayor.” The cars, most of them new and expensive, passed into what seemed to be a public park but which was probably the town’s finest mortuary. “The goddamn dead bad-smelling dirty nasty-minded mayor of Pocatello.” His voice rose. “Look at the lacquered helmets on those cops. It’s like living in Nazi Germany.” With the window down he said loudly out into the street, “Bunch of goddamn Nazi S.S. men strutting around.”
The police paid no attention to him. Eventually the last car of the funeral procession passed before them; the police blew their whistles, and traffic once more began to move.
“Fuck,” Milt said, starting the car up and gunning the motor in low.
“Actually we didn’t lose much time,” he said, but Milt did not respond.
When they reached the house they parked the Mercedes in the doorless garage and started transferring their luggage from the back seat and trunk to the Merc.
While they were doing that a car drove up to the curb. Its door opened and Cathy Hermes hopped out, slammed the door; and waved good-bye. The car, a 1949 Chrysler, started off and made a left-turn at the corner.
“Her husband,” Milt said, lifting an armload of samples from the back of the Mercedes. “He drives her home from work and leaves her off. This is home.”
Her brown cloth coat flapping behind her, Cathy hurried toward them. “Are you back so soon?” she called, clutching her purse and beginning to run. “What are you doing? Are you going to go somewhere in his car?”
Milt said, “We’re taking off again.”
“Where?” She reached him and placed herself in front of him, keeping him from carrying any more to the Merc.
“Seattle,” he said.
“Now? Right away?” She breathed rapidly, frowning at him in the late-afternoon glare. “What’s the rush? I thought you weren’t starting back for three more days. You were going to rest around here until Tuesday at least.”
“I’ll be back,” he said.
At that, she fluffed up and said in her tiny insistent voice, “You’re not supposed to take such a long trip at one time. You know it’s too hard on you. Why do you have to go with him anyhow? Are you leaving the Mercedes here?”
“You can use it,” Milt said, setting her to one side so that he could load the samples into the Merc. “Here’s the key.”
“I have a key,” she said. “Will you explain to me what this is all about? I think I have some right to know, since it’ll be me who’ll have to take care of you.”
Milt said, “He and a friend of mine got married and I want to get this business settled for them as a wedding present.”
Both of them retired off to one side to argue. Bruce did not want to mix into their argument, so he continued loading up his car with whatever he could find in the Mercedes.
Beckoning him over, Milt said, “I have to get some junk that’s upstairs, I’ll be back down in a couple of minutes.” He entered the building, dragging his feet, sullen and taciturn.
In the driveway Cathy remained behind, holding her purse, shut off by his going into the house.
“I guess it’s my fault,” Bruce said, as he loaded.
“He knows he shouldn’t go,” Cathy said.
“I’ll do most of the driving.”
Her cheeks flushed, she said, “He isn’t supposed to sit for so long, and when he’s on the road between towns he doesn’t stop to go to the bathroom often enough. That and the bouncing around. Couldn’t he just call on the telephone about his business for you?”
“He would know that,” he said uncomfortably. “Not me.”
When Milt returned, Cathy said to him, “Why don’t you just phone?”
“No,” Milt said. He put the things he had brought down into the Merc. “I’ll be okay,” he told her. “I’ll lie down and stretch out in back and let Bruce drive.”
“This woman must be an awfully good friend of yours,” Cathy said. “Maybe she can take care of you. If you get sick because of this, I’m not going to take care of you.” She started into the house.
“Suit yourself,” Milt said, getting into the Merc. “Let’s go,” he said to Bruce.
Standing on the porch Cathy called down, “Don’t come back here.”
“Okay,” Milt said.
She threw down the key to the Mercedes; it landed in the dirt of the driveway. “Let your Boise friends take care of you,” she said. She opened the front door of the house, entered, and slammed it after her.
“Let’s go,” Milt repeated.
Behind the wheel, Bruce started up the Merc. They drove away, both of them silent.
“Well see what she says when I get back,” Milt said, sometime later. By now he had taken the wheel himself.
“She really takes an interest in your welfare,” he said, with a deep sense of having been responsible, that if they wanted to get the typewriters this was probably the only way.
Milt said merely. “Susan probably feels the same about you. She probably thinks I’m a bad influence on you.”
“She doesn’t know where I am,” he said.
“If she knew she’d warn you away from me. Women always feel like that about their husbands’ friends. It’s instinctive. Fear that their husband is really a queer.”
“I don’t think that’s why she’s sore,” Bruce said. “Do you?”
“No,” Milt admitted.
“I don’t see that there’s any inference in this that either or both of us is queer.” That did not set well with him, even the idea of it.
Milt, smiling a trifle, said, “It’s just a manner of speech.”
After a time Bruce said, “How does it feel to drive an American car, after your Mercedes?”
“Like driving a tub of blubber.”
“Why do you say that?” he said with resentment.
“It slides around like a loose goose,” Milt said, waggling the power-assisted wheel so that the car steered from side to side, across the white line and then onto the shoulder. “Are you sure this wheel is attached to anything down underneath? It has no road-sense. Like driving a bag of chicken feathers. Lots of nice window, though.” He poked Bruce in the ribs. “Like that vista-dome train.”
In Milton Lumky Territory Page 16
