THE HUNGER
AND THE HATE
H. Vernor Dixon
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Also Available
Copyright
Chapter One
HE WAS A FARMER, yet he belonged to a group of men that indulged daily in a type of stratospheric gambling undreamed of in Reno, Las Vegas, or Monte Carlo. The odds were better in roulette, and dice, though quicker, lacked the competitive calculations of the human element. Only stud poker could be compared with his kind of gambling, with a million-dollar chip resting on the hole card.
He was a farmer, yet he never followed a plow or rode a tractor or walked in the fields. Like all farmers, he gambled on the weather and the condition of the soil, but he had field supervisors to keep him informed on the soil, and the weather was something he studied in his office.
He was a farmer, but he was also a salesman, broker, commission agent, engineer, and bank director. He knew more about the complex freight lines of the nation than did most railroad men, and he could tell at any moment where any one of dozens of refrigerator cars was located in the country. He operated teletypes with ease, he had a bookkeeping brain, and he used and understood well the various sciences pertaining to his operations. He had to understand — or go under.
He was a farmer, but he lived at Pebble Beach, on the tip of California’s famed Monterey Peninsula. His home lay among other estates and lavish mansions, and overlooked one of the fairways of the Pebble Beach Golf Course. Not far away was Del Monte Lodge, a fashionable mecca for the citizenry and tourists alike. There were three golf courses in the immediate area, private clubs, a beach club, riding stables, and a yacht anchorage. A great pine forest covered the land, as dense as shrubbery, but toward the Pacific Ocean were cypress trees, gnarled, tortured, and wind-blown. The shoreline itself was tortured and ragged, with granite bluffs, small beaches, and many coves and islands of rock covered with birds and sea lions. The always cold surf boiled over boulders and foamed whitely up the faces of the shallow cliffs. Herds of deer Stalked through the forest and grazed on the golf courses, and coveys of quail fed on his lawn. His work was in a flat, wind-swept, fog-dampened, and rather ugly valley eighteen miles away, but his home was in one of the most scenic regions America had to offer.
He was in the Salinas lettuce business, the green gold of the farming world.
When Dean Holt awakened in the morning, it was always slowly and in pain. His powerful body was rigid under the covers, his hands were balled into tight fists, and beads of perspiration were heavy on his forehead and upper lip. He heard again the trucks gunning their engines at dawn and saw himself among the Jap, Filipino, and Mexican field hands. He felt his spine breaking after cutting lettuce all day and heard the evening shouts and screams of the drunks in the Alisal district. He saw again the dirty shack on the highway, the empty bottle on the littered floor, the old man snoring in his chair, and the old lady, staggering about barefooted, cursing at him. He smelled the foul smells and he tasted the beans beginning to turn sour and he could feel the dirt of the fields and the ragged clothes on his body. All the corruption and filth and hopelessness and agony of those years came back to him and his mouth opened in a moan and his lips drew back to bare his teeth in a grimace of torture.
Then his eyes came open and he passed a shaking hand over his face and sat up in bed. When, he wondered, when will I ever lose it? Does poverty get so deep in a man’s cells that he can’t wash it away with a million bucks? Does it have to stay with you all your life, the smell of it and the taste of it and the feel of it? Do others smell it, too, when you walk by them, in spite of bath salts and shaving lotions and hair lotions and body powder and the fine clothes you wear? Was there no way to shed the clinging evil?
But don’t forget, he cautioned himself. Don’t ever forget what it’s like to be poor.
He yawned and stretched his arms and was fully awake and began to smile. He looked about the bedroom and his smile deepened with satisfaction. It was a large room with a copper-hooded fireplace, a pitted ceiling of soundproofing material, and three walls of combed plywood. The fourth wall, looking west over the golf course and the ocean, was of solid plate glass. But the chartreuse curtains were drawn at the moment and a soft amber light filtered through. The Hollywood bed was oversized and the built-in headboard contained magazine shelves, a radio, a house phone, and a reading light. There was a large desk in a corner, some corduroy-covered chairs, a gold carpet with a black border on the floor, and copper lighting fixtures on the walls tilted at varying angles. There were no pictures or photographs anywhere. It was an expensive room of good modern design, but there was something missing, a lack of warmth, as if no one had yet moved in.
Dean got out of bed, in the raw, and padded across the floor to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He yanked a cord to pull the drapes aside and looked down on the green fairway a few hundred yards away and the lead-dull ocean beyond. There was a bank of fog lying offshore, but it was far out and probably would not seep in until night. The sky was clear and promised a good day.
Dean inhaled deeply a number of times, then got down on his hands and toes and started doing pushups. After an effortless fifty he stood up and went through a whole series of gymnastic exercises. He believed in keeping fit, especially for his golf. There was actually, however, no need for him to worry about fitness for many years to come. He was still a young man in his thirties with wire-crisp red hair, beginning to darken, amber-green eyes that were shrewd and hard and yet pleasure-loving, and lips that could turn thin and white with anger or burst open and full with laughter. His skin was white and would never tan and there were a few freckles across the bridge of his full nose, which, combined with a rather full face and his red hair, gave him a boyish look. He was built like a young bull, with a broad chest and a long torso, but with short limbs. He was five feet, nine inches tall, but if his arms and legs had been in proportion with his powerful body he would have stood over six feet. His deepest and constant frustration was the hopelessness of doing anything to make himself taller. So he derived a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction from hiring tall men to work for him.
When he had finished his exercises he went into the bathroom and shaved carefully, then had a quick shower. He stepped into a dressing room that was stocked almost as well as an exclusive men’s apparel shop. There were dozens upon dozens of suits and jackets and slacks on the racks, the wardrobe drawers were jammed with shirts and socks and underwear, the tie rack looked like a South Seas sunset, and thirty pairs of shoes were caught neatly by their heels on long metal rods, each complete with shoe tree. It took him a good ten minutes to select what he was going to wear for the day.
When he was dressed, neatly and carefully, in a light tan gabardine sport suit, a shirt with button-down collar, a hand-knit tie, and two-tone sport shoes, he again returned to the bathroom and spent five minutes combing his hair into precisely the wave he wanted. He stepped back and examined himself in a full-length mirror and was content. Even some height was there, worked in by careful tailoring and elevator shoes with slightly exaggerated heels and thick soles. He never wore a hat. He liked the way women turned to look at his hair, especially if the sun were on it.
He walked down a short
hallway that passed a guest room and into the living room, also with a western wall of plate glass, but with panels that slid open to a sheltered terrace. The room was overly large for the house, with an enormous stone fireplace, an open-beamed ceiling, and a floor of square tiles covered with scatter rugs. The legs of the couches had been shortened a trifle so that Dean’s own legs would appear longer. In one corner was a small dining table already set for breakfast.
Dean stepped into the adjoining library, which also served as home office and barroom. A teletype machine was clattering loudly at one end of an eight-foot mahogany desk. The machine was connected by direct wire to another teletype in Dean’s Salinas office, which was on the main circuit.
He lifted the yellow sheet of paper and examined the transactions so far that morning. He nodded slowly, then returned to the other room and settled himself at the table. He had finished the glass of orange juice when Teddy Mitsui, his Japanese houseboy, came in from the kitchen with three-minute boiled eggs, his standard breakfast order.
Dean leaned back in his chair and smiled at Teddy. “You likee nicee morning?” he asked.
Teddy placed the eggs before him and some hot buttered toast, then stepped back to look down at his boss with a blank expression. Teddy was twenty-eight years old and an honor graduate of the University of California. Though a third-generation Japanese-American, he could not make a living at his chosen vocation, which had been law, in a white man’s world. Others did, but Teddy had failed. He was too sensitive. But he knew, and Dean knew that he knew, that he had ten times the educational background of his boss. That was why Dean had hired him, as he hired tall men in his office.
Teddy glanced toward the windows and said simply, “No fog, I guess. But we’ll probably get it tonight.”
“I likee fog.”
“I don’t mind it. By the way, have you seen the teletype?”
Dean turned to his eggs and grunted, “Yeah. Allee samee looks good to me.”
“The market is up again.”
“Uh-huh. Four dollars for fours. I didn’t notice any fives were selling.”
“One car at three-sixty.”
“Hmmmm. Not bad this early in the season. You likee, too?”
Teddy stood there looking down at him without expression and said quietly, “It gets firmer every day. And you had the foresight to plant early. You’ll probably clean up.”
Dean lifted his head and cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re beginning to learn this game, aren’t you?”
“A little. After all, sir, that’s why I’m here.” He paused, then said softly, “Any Jap can work in the fields. I prefer learning the business from the top.”
Dean burst out laughing. “You mean from the kitchen, don’t you?”
“All I mean is that you and Mr. Moore are the two biggest men in the business. I could learn a lot from either of you, simply by being around. But Mr. Moore doesn’t like Jap houseboys.”
“So I hired you and I guess we both got a bargain. But I’m damned if I know what you can learn around here.”
Teddy asked, but without hope, “You wouldn’t hire me in your office, would you?”
Dean looked away and mumbled, “No. I — ah — that is, I have no room for anyone right now.”
“I see.”
Teddy returned to the kitchen and Dean went back to his eggs. He was smiling as he ate. That fool Jap. He couldn’t make the grade at law and now he wanted to take a crack at the produce business. Japs belonged in the fields, not in the offices. But he was a damned good houseboy.
He went into the library and called his office in Salinas. He got Lois, his secretary, on the line, and after a moment Hal Smith, his sales manager. He told Smith, “I notice it’s jumped overnight from three-fifty to four on the fours. There’s a break somewhere.”
Hal chuckled over the wire and said, “Looks good, boss. Trucks are coming in already from the Meyers spread, and I have six cars on the line. I think four bucks a crate will hold through the morning.”
Dean snorted, “Hold, hell. Don’t sell any more at that price. Make it four on the fives and four and a quarter on the fours. We’ll kick the price upstairs ourselves.”
Hal was uncertain. “Well, if you say so….”
“You heard me. This is a rising market and we’re going to help it along. What’s doing at the Moore string?”
“I think they’re selling at four. Everts called a little while ago to see if we could fill out some fives for him. He’d just been talking with Moore’s Freeman and — ”
“Cut the chatter. You hit the ball and I’ll be along in about thirty minutes. Oh, wait. If that Silverstein calls from St. Louis again, tell him it’s no dice at any price. I learned last night his credit’s lousy and he don’t — I mean doesn’t care who he screws. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean hung up and stood there a moment thinking about the Moore string, selling at four dollars for four dozen heads of lettuce in the crate. Maybe the time wasn’t ripe to try for a boost. Old Tom Moore could always smell a rise coming before anyone else, but he wasn’t moving in that direction this morning. Dean was positive he could smell a rise in the market, but apparently Moore didn’t think so. Dean almost reached for the phone to cancel his instructions, but knew it would be a sign of weakness to his staff. What the hell, he thought. Why should I always play second fiddle to Moore? The old buzzard couldn’t be right all the time. But he was worried.
The telephone rang and he jumped. He picked up the receiver and growled, “Yeah?”
“Hello, darling.”
“Oh.” The scowl was gone and he started to grin. “Hiya, Ruth. How’s my sweetheart this morning?”
“Sleepy. But I wanted to catch you before you left. Drop by the house on your way out?”
The scowl returned. “Hal’s expecting me and the market’s rising.”
She purred, “It won’t take but a minute. I’m still in bed, so come right back to my room. I’ll be expecting you. Now hurry, before I fall asleep again. ’By.”
He walked into the living room, still frowning, and watched Teddy clearing the dishes from the table. His good spirits returned. Teddy looked so damned efficient and so — well, expensive in his neat black trousers and starched white jacket and the little bow tie and his smooth Oriental features. No one else in his crowd had a houseboy like Teddy. He would work only for one of the top men in the business. Having him was a sort of distinction. But there was vinegar in it. After all, he had gone to old Tom Moore first. Moore was top dog.
He told Teddy that he would probably be home early, then went out to the garage and backed a Cadillac convertible out to the curved driveway before his home. He glanced at the radio telephone in his car, thinking of calling his field supervisor, but he was too far away from the Salinas Mobile Telephone Service and reception would probably be bad. He swung out of the driveway and turned onto a road that cut down through the pines toward the Lodge. He swung off of that onto the Seventeen Mile Drive, then onto a road that cut west of the tennis courts just south of the Lodge. He stopped before Ruth Tinsley’s home, a modern structure somewhat similar to his own. It had been built just a few years before and overlooked one of the fairways at the edge of Stillwater Cove.
The maid let him in and he went directly back to Ruth’s bedroom, a course he could have taken blindfolded. Her bedroom also looked west over the ocean, but that was its only similarity to Dean’s. It was intensely feminine, with a pink chaise longue, a sea-green carpet, canary-yellow walls, banks of mirrors in gold frames (placed strategically in relation to the bed), and French prints on the walls. In the air was a heavy, cloying odor of mingled perfumes and powders and cologne and make-up. It was sickeningly sweet and heady, but Dean liked it. That, to him, was the way a woman’s room should be.
Ruth was in a large bed covered with a satin spread of intricate design, with frilly lace about the edges. She smiled and waved to Dean. He crossed the room and kissed her, then sat on the edge of
the bed. He held her hand, after carefully pulling up his trousers to preserve the crease.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Her lower lip protruded in what the two of them considered a becoming pout. “Just a little bitsy favor, darling.”
“Anything for you, baby.”
He grinned at her broadly, liking everything he saw. Her thick hair, which cascaded long and full about her shoulders, was a light brown with overtones of gold; her eyes, too, were brown with flecks of gold, and her lips were broad and generous. She was rather short, with a moonlike face, tiny ears, and a rounded chin that was just beginning to sag. Her large breasts, covered only by a sheer nightgown and lacy bed jacket, were more than a little prominent. Dean swallowed as his eyes caressed her breasts and swung away.
She continued smiling and pouting and said, “I ripped one of the pockets on my suede coat last night.” She waved a hand toward the coat thrown across the chaise longue. “Will you take it into Garcia’s saddle shop for me? They can fix it.”
“Suede?”
“Oh, yes. They’re wonderful at that sort of thing, and I’d hate to throw it away just for a little old rip.”
“Sure. I’ll drop it off for you. Is that all?”
“You’re sweet.”
She raised her arms to slide them about his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him hungrily, her lips crushed against his. After a moment he laughed and pulled away.
“Hey, wait a minute. I got work to do.”
“You naughty boy, you have naughty thoughts. I was just being nice.”
“That’s what you say.” He got up from the bed and threw the suede coat over his arm. “See you tonight?”
She smiled happily and nodded. “Be early, dear. The Parkers expect us at six sharp. You know how they are about the cocktail hour.”
“Nuts to them. They just like a running start. Sam isn’t happy unless he’s stealing a pat on your fanny, and Jan breaks her neck trying to drag me to the closest bedroom.”
She laughed and winked at him. “They’re harmless.”
Hunger and the Hate Page 1
