Hunger and the Hate

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  The picture of Steve Moore, the son, was very good. It showed a young man of thirty-two, tall and thin like his father, but there all resemblance ended. Steve had a laughing mouth and eyes in which twin lights of humor were always gleaming. Dean thought, You won’t be doing much laughing now, chum. There was also a picture of Steve’s wife, the former Betty Aldrich, a brunette beauty from one of San Francisco’s more socially prominent families. Dean had to admit, though reluctantly, that they made a handsome couple.

  He turned his attention to a large picture of Truly Moore and his brows came together in a thoughtful frown. He knew Steve and he knew his nature. Truly was the unknown quantity. She had blonde hair the color of hay in a hot sun and wide eyes that were somehow disconcertingly direct, even in a photograph. Her mouth was rather too large for beauty and she was a bit too slim, with fairly small breasts, but there was something about the total composition of Truly Moore that gave the effect of unusual beauty.

  Dean tapped a finger on the picture and told Sam, “Looks like quite a gal.”

  Sam glanced across at the picture and looked at Dean with surprise. “Don’t you know her?”

  “Never even seen her.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Come to think of it, though, she’s never around very much. Spends most of her time abroad, or somewhere.”

  “Do you know her very well?”

  “Oh, sure. Ever since she was a kid. Let’s see. I guess she’s about twenty-two now. Yeah. Must be. It doesn’t show much there, but she’s kind of tall and willowy. When you dance with her it’s like having feathers in your arms.” He grinned and said, “Probably not that way in bed, though. I’ve always thought she’d make a mighty fine tumble in the hay. But I don’t know anyone who’s ever made the grade. Not around here, anyway.”

  “Never been married?”

  “Oh, no.” He leaned back and thought of her for a moment, then said, “She’s out strictly to enjoy herself, but she’s a snob. Jees, what a snob! Always has to be seen with the right people at the right place at the right time. I’ve always rather liked her, frankly, but that damned snobbishness does get under my skin. Funny thing about it, though, it takes peculiar turns. She gets crazy notions and runs around with musicians and prize fighters and one whole summer she went with a wrestler who was strictly a gorilla.”

  “That don’t — doesn’t sound like a snob to me.”

  “Well, you’d have to know her to understand. People like that, she’s just using them for entertainment. It’s a form of slumming.”

  Dean did not understand, but he said, “Oh.”

  Without pausing to consider his words, Sam said, “But she’s no worry of yours. You two don’t travel in the same world.”

  Dean felt his face getting hot, and he thought, You’ll pay for that crack, my friend.

  They shoved the papers aside and got to their feet. Sam paused and shot a longing look toward the bar. He asked Dean, “How about the market? I hear it went to four and a quarter on fours.”

  “I did that.”

  “Oh? I was wondering. What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “Four-seventy-five.”

  Sam looked startled. “That much of a jump so fast?”

  “It’s a rising market, Sam. Better get aboard.”

  “Thanks. I will. Four-seventy-five. That’s O.K. with me. I’ll pass the word on to my staff.”

  Dean walked through the barroom with a light smile playing about his lips. Now he was even with Sam. He knew the market would not rise again that day; it was even weakening at four and a quarter. But if one of the big shippers, such as Sam, suddenly started asking four-seventy-five, then the Eastern buyers would take all Dean could load at four and a quarter. It would strengthen his own position and leave Sam stuck with at least a half-dozen cars. Maybe now he’d be more careful about making cracks about what sort of world a person lived in.

  Dean stepped out of Berdell’s and saw Susan Mitchell standing at the curb. She looked distressed and her pout was deeper than ever. He stood there watching her for a moment, taking in the beautiful lines of her figure, before approaching her.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  She pressed her lower lip far out and said, “Oh, damn. Freeman just got a sudden call to get over to the Moore house at once. And I have some shopping to do downtown. I guess I’d better go in and call a cab.”

  “Nothing doing,” said Dean, taking her arm. “I’ll drop you off.”

  “Oh, but I don’t want to bother you.”

  “No bother at all. It’s a pleasure.”

  She gave him a broad smile. “This is so-o-o sweet of you.”

  He took her to his car, a half block down the street, helped her in, then walked around to slide behind the wheel. She had a cigarette between her lips and was waiting for him. He punched the lighter, pulled it out, and held it toward her. She leaned far over to light the cigarette and Dean looked down at the V of her dress and quickly away. He could feel blood pounding at his temples.

  She leaned back in a corner of the seat, one arm over the back of the seat and her legs crossed, as he pulled away from the curb. She was not laughing, but she was amused. Getting men excited was a game with her. It was a pleasant way to pass time, and it got her a lot of attention. She could indulge in it as much as she liked, because, regardless of how disturbed the man became, she never had to worry about losing her own control. When there was no response, there was nothing to control, anyway.

  She studied Dean, wondering what made him tick. She had run into him a few times about town and at various parties and knew him well enough to call him by his first name, but the man himself was a mystery to her. He was such an odd-looking person, with his long body and short legs and red hair, yet he was so meticulously groomed that he seemed almost handsome. Besides, he was polite and not at all rough, like most of Freeman’s friends, and he always acted like a gentleman. That was odd, too, considering his background. But then, maybe that was the reason he went out of his way to be a gentleman. Perhaps he had to. Perhaps he was afraid. Yes, she decided, that was it.

  He twisted his head to smile at her briefly, then turned his attention back to the traffic. He was really nice, she thought. Why was it all the men called him a bastard and a double-crosser? They should talk. They were no different. They were always knifing each other in the back. As long as she had been married to Freeman she had never known a time when all of them were able to get together or agree together or pull together on any important matter. They were afraid of each other. But they all condemned Dean for practices they used themselves. They were just sore, that’s all, because he had come up so fast and gone so far. And they were afraid of him. That was true, too.

  He started talking about the big news of the day, Moore’s death, but she paid no attention. Her mind had wandered away from Dean and she was thinking of what it would be like when Freeman came into the Moore inheritance. The Oldsmobile would go, of course, or Freeman could keep it for himself if he wanted, and they would get a Cadillac like this one. Naturally, they would sell their house in Salinas and build a place at Pebble Beach, right in the midst of all the other rich snobs. Furniture from Sloan’s, of course, with a few antique pieces from Butterfield’s for the right effect. And clothes? Oh, God, she thought, clothes and clothes and clothes and more clothes. It made her almost delirious to think of the shopping she would be able to do.

  But Freeman would have to be happy to go along with all the spending. He would have to start being happy right away. Tonight, she thought, that new negligee and the pink diaphanous nightgown and the perfume Truly Moore had sent from Paris….

  Dean stopped on the main street of Salinas, double-parking the car, and looked questioningly at Sue. She came out of her reverie and looked about to see where they were. “Oh, this will be fine. You’ve been so kind.”

  He grinned at her. “It’s always a pleasure to take a beautiful woman anywhere.”

  “Oh, you flatterer. You men are
all alike.” And if he thinks that’s just a line, she thought, he’s nuts.

  “I mean it, Sue. Just call for the Dean Holt Taxi Company any time.”

  “Thanks again.”

  She opened the door and stepped out, but leaned back in to give him her hand. The front of her dress sagged and he looked down into the V. He could not take his eyes away until she stepped back and closed the door. That Freeman. That lucky dog. How did the guy get a gal like that? He was forty if he was a day.

  She waved and smiled at him as he pulled away. When she stepped up to the curb she gave a little sigh of content. Dean Holt was no problem, now or at any time. She knew exactly how to handle him, as she handled everyone else Freeman knew. It was so easy, and nature was so wonderful.

  Dean stopped at his office to talk with Hal and leave instructions, then made a tour of his other holdings. He had also leased packing sheds in the Salinas String on Gabilan and the Union String on South Market, each equipped with a full staff and a salesman. The salesmen operated independently most of the time, but they were under Hal Smith’s control. He left Ruth’s coat at Garcia’s, stopped at the bank, of which he was a director, and visited a paper-carton company he had recently acquired, which made most of the cartons for field packing.

  He was nervously busy most of the afternoon, but at four he was all through. He drove out highway 101 north of Salinas and to a tiny farm of three acres just beyond the fairgrounds. It was poor soil, but it grew potatoes and beans, and hanging over the dilapidated fences were straggly berry vines. There was a one-room shack at one edge of the plot made of old lumber and patched with tin from flattened five-gallon gasoline cans. There were but two windows and a door. A wisp of smoke came from a pipe in the roof that looked as if it would fall down at any moment. An old jalopy without tires or top was parked near the door. Slightly beyond was an odorous outhouse.

  Dean got out of his car, dusted his shoes with a handkerchief, and shoved open the door of the shack. His father sat in a corner of the room, huddled close to an iron coal stove. It was a warm spring day, but the old man needed more warmth. The floor of the shack was littered with empty cans. Two rickety chairs and a battered kitchen table sprawled in the middle of the room, and against one wall were two bunks covered with blankets that had never been cleaned. There was little else in the room. Anything that had the slightest value had been sold or pawned long ago.

  The old man looked around at his son and in his watery eyes were burning hate and contempt. He had once been a big man, but now there was no meat on his bones and the flesh on his face was like damp papier-mâché. His hair was a dirty iron gray and there were black moons under his long fingernails. There was a blanket over his shoulders and another draped clumsily over his bony knees.

  He made no move to get up or to welcome his son. He simply sat there staring at him, his eyes burning.

  Dean wrinkled his nose and stepped to the center of the room. He pulled a chair about and sat down at the table. He took a checkbook from his pocket, wrote out a check for sixty dollars, and shoved it across the table.

  “Here.”

  The old man sat there staring at him for a long while, then a bony claw stretched out, wrapped itself around the check, and withdrew under the blanket. His shoulders quivered and he sighed deep in his chest. He coughed and spat on the hot stove and watched the steam rise.

  Dean said, “I wouldn’t give you that much every month if the county welfare board didn’t force me. You know that, don’t you?”

  The old man opened his mouth to reveal four bad teeth and mumbled, “You say that ever’ month.”

  “And I mean it every time I say it. You take a long time dying, don’t you?”

  “We Holts is long-lived. I hope I cain’t say the same fer you.”

  Dean carefully drew up his trousers and crossed his legs. “You don’t do yourself or anyone else any good by hanging on. Since the old lady died you’re no good to anyone.”

  “I was a good man in my day. Better’n you, by a damn sight.”

  Dean laughed and said, “That’s a good one. You’ve never been anything but a shiftless bum.”

  “I worked the sheds — ”

  “Sure, for a day or two. Just to get enough to buy a bottle. Then you and the old lady would stay drunk until you had to work again. Don’t you think I remember?” His face got red and he shouted, “I was raised here, wasn’t I? Good God Almighty, it makes my flesh crawl when I think about it.”

  The old man gave him a sly glance from the corners of his eyes. “You talk mighty fine fer a bum’s get.”

  “Not because of any help from you. I took correspondence courses, I went to night school — Aw, hell.” He got to his feet and kicked the chair aside. He raised his voice again. “I’m not coming here any more. From now on you can get your checks at general delivery.”

  The old man shook his head and cackled, “No, ya don’t. I won’t pick ’em up and the authorities’ll be after ya agin. You don’t like that, do ya? Yeah. I know. You’ll bring my check ever’ month, like I say. After all, like I tell the people downtown, I like to see my on’y son now an’ agin. It helps a lonely ole man, y’know.”

  Dean asked him curiously, “Do you get lonely out here?”

  The old man glared at him and turned his head away. He spat on the stove again and listened to it hiss. Someday, he hoped, maybe the stove and the shack and everything else would go up in a burst of steam just like that. It would be a clean way to do it.

  Dean stood in the doorway and looked out over the fields, then turned to glance back at his father. “I may get married before the season is over, as soon as it slacks off a little. You know her. Ruth Tinsley.”

  Interest appeared in the tired old eyes, but he snorted, “A dead whore wouldn’t marry up with you.”

  Dean repeated, “Ruth Tinsley.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Useta carry drinks at Curry’s. Ralph Tinsley’s wife. Is he dead?”

  “About six years or so.”

  “Hmmm. Then she’s got lotsa land. How’s she in bed?”

  “None of your damned business.”

  The old man cackled. “Heh. I bet she’s somethin’, all right. You allus was a youngster fer gettin’ yer pants off quick-like. I mind the time we pulled ya offen ole Marner’s datter and he beat the livin’ hell outa ya. But didn’t seem to do no good. Yeah. I’ll bet she’s somethin’. Give her love an’ kisses fer me.”

  “I can hardly wait to tell her.” He started to leave, but turned back again. “I almost forgot. You probably haven’t heard. Old Tom Moore died this morning. How do you like that?”

  The old man’s mouth fell open and he stared at his son and started to rise, but dropped back into the chair with a thump. It was a moment before he could speak. Then he mumbled, “Ole Tom Moore. No!”

  “It’s true. He had a heart attack.”

  The old man shook his head slowly back and forth, his eyes fixed on Dean’s. “God help the lettuce business.”

  Dean frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Ain’t you the next man in line?”

  Dean slammed the door so hard the whole shack rattled. Even through the walls, he could hear the old man’s cackling ringing in his ears. He slid behind the wheel of the Cadillac and looked over the expensive leather and felt a little better. He drove away quickly, spinning the wheels in the gravel.

  Chapter Three

  DEAN DROVE BACK through Salinas and turned out to the Monterey highway. He still felt unclean, as if the years separating him from the old man’s shack had somehow reduced themselves to a few hours. For a moment he felt like running, selling out, putting as much distance between himself and the old man as possible. Only in distance was there safety and perhaps cleanliness. But then he had to laugh at himself. The idea was preposterous. He was already as far removed from the old man as he could get.

  He thought back, trying to remember a time when the old man could have backed up his statement that he had once been a g
ood man. It was a lying boast. Bart Holt, during Dean’s lifetime, had never been anything but a bum. He had worked only when absolutely necessary, simply to get enough funds to get drunk and whore around with the Mexicans. He had once been strong and a good fighter in a barroom brawl, but that was the limit of his attainments. He had started no good and had wound up the same way.

  Dean thought, I owe him nothing, and erased him from his mind.

  He went into Monterey to make a few purchases, then drove up the steep hill leading to Carmel. He turned off at the top of the hill, to the toil gate at the entrance to Del Monte Forest. A foreign car, coming down the Pacific Grove road, cut in sharply in front of him and came to a stop by the side of the toll booth. The guard stepped out and the woman driving the car started talking to him. Dean thought, Probably a tourist asking directions. He became interested in the car, a battleship gray, powerful-looking, rather small, low-slung, with wire wheels. Then he recognized it as a Mercedes 300SL, the world’s fastest production sport car. He knew that it was expensive and became more interested in the woman driver, but all he could see was the back of her head.

  He waited patiently while she and the guard talked, but the conversation went on and on and he became restless. He looked about, but there was no way around the Mercedes. He lost his patience and blasted the horn. The guard looked back at him and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. The woman kept on talking. Dean waited another minute or two, then blasted his horn again. The woman did not even bother to look back. Dean’s temper exploded.