The sky was just turning gray when the screams finally penetrated the barrier of alcohol and registered dimly in Dean’s brain. He stirred and twisted about, then twisted in the other direction. He could not get comfortable again. His eyes came open and his jaws worked, but not his tongue. His tongue was dry and stuck to his mouth. He got it loose with a finger and swallowed and choked repeatedly until his salivary glands began working again and his mouth was moist. He saw the bottle of brandy on the seat, pulled the cork, and swallowed a stiff drink. His mouth and chest and stomach were immediately on fire. He looked about for the wine bottle, not at all aware that his companion was missing. He swore under his breath and kicked open the car door.
He had opened the trunk and was pulling the cork from a bottle of champagne when Ruth’s screams became something real and not something he thought he had been dreaming. He frowned and stepped over to the right rear fender of the car and looked down the slope. He saw the fire flickering in the dry brush and was faintly astonished. He pulled the cork from the bottle and started raising it to his lips and then he saw Ruth standing in a pile of rocks at the bottom of the slope and his mouth fell open.
He stared at her for a long time while taking a slow drink from the bottle. Then he shouted, “What the hell are you doing down there?”
She screamed hysterically, “Dean?”
“Who else?” He gave her an exasperated frown and yelled, “Come on. Get out of there. What kind of a game is this?”
“Dean, for God’s sake, I can’t get out.”
“Then why the hell’d you go down? That’s no place to be. Can’t you see that damned brush is on fire? You may get burnt. Now, come on.”
“De-e-e-e-e-an, damn you! Come down and get me. I can’t see.”
“Why not?”
“I lost my glasses. I can’t find them.”
“You expect to find them down there?”
“Damn you, Dean!”
“Ah, hell.” He took another swallow from the bottle, then placed it carefully on the dirt. “Wait a minute,” he yelled.
He went around to the other side of the car to answer nature’s call, then returned to the edge of the slope and drunkenly surveyed the terrain. Sixty feet down the road he saw a steep path dip from its edge and angle down to the brush below. He walked down the road and ambled down the path to join Ruth with no difficulty whatever. But she thought he had come down the slope and clung to him fearfully.
“We’ll never be able to make it back up,” she cried. “Now the two of us are trapped down here.”
“I came down a path. What are you doing down here anyway?”
“I fell. I stepped out of the car and right into nothing. That robe you had on your lap was on fire. I guess that’s what set fire to the trees.”
“Then why did you throw a burning robe in the trees?”
“I didn’t, damn it, I tell you, I fell.”
“You’re sure a mess. Where are your glasses? Up in the car?”
“No. I lost them when I fell.” Then she screamed, “Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, that fire is hot.”
“Yeah. It sure is.”
He turned and blinked at the fire. He rather enjoyed the heat. It had been cold in the car without the blanket. He stepped closer to the burning brush and held out the palms of his hands to warm them.
Ruth screeched, “Goddamn it, Dean!”
“O.K., O.K. Keep your pants on.”
He searched about for Ruth’s glasses, but failed to find them, and she started screaming again. He took her arm and started her up the steep trail, his hands on her hips, shoving her ahead and guiding her. At one point the trail turned and he almost shoved her off into space. Fortunately, he had stopped at that moment to look out over the breath-taking beauty of the ocean under the spreading gray of dawn. Then he saw the turn and shoved Ruth around it.
When he got her up to the car he stood back and surveyed the damage. Her stockings were ripped to shreds and hanging about her ankles, and blood was coagulating on her skinned shins. Her dress was ripped from hem to waist, exposing her thigh and black lace panties, ripped also. The mink coat was torn and covered with dirt and ash from the fire. Her face was dirty, her chin was badly scratched, and there was blood from a cut on the bridge of her nose.
He stood there with his hands on his hips, frowning at her. “Jees, what a sight! Of all the dumb things for a woman to do — ”
“Don’t just stand there,” she cried. “Do something before I bleed to death.”
“You aren’t bleeding any more.”
“Thanks.”
He recovered the new bottle of champagne from the road and drank deeply, then handed it to her as she stood there glowering at him. She took a long drink and gave it back to him. Then she started around the car, without thinking, to enter it from the right side. Again she stepped off into space. Dean stood there with his mouth open wide, watching her hit with a thump on the slope and wind up below in the ashes.
“Goddamn it,” he yelled, “I oughta leave you there. Of all the fool women — ”
But he went down the trail again and pulled her out of the ashes and dragged and shoved and half carried her back up to the road. Ruth was too exhausted to help herself any longer. Dean got her in the left side of the car and under the wheel and shoved her over to the right side of the seat. The right door was still open and he stared with horror as she started to sag through it. He made a flying leap across the seat, grabbed her just in time, and pulled the door shut. He got shakily out of the car and went after the champagne and brought it back. The two of them sat there quietly drinking from the bottle as blood dripped down Ruth’s nose and shins from the reopened scratches. Ruth was staring vacantly straight ahead, large tears oozing from her eyes and running in muddy streaks down her face.
“Oh, you lousy bastard,” she sobbed. “I almost kill myself for you and what do I get?”
Dean asked indignantly, “Me? Why bring me into this? I didn’t shove you off the cliff.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t fallen asleep smoking a cigarette.”
“Oh, sure, blame it all on me.”
She turned to face him and yelled, “Well, it is your fault, you louse! I was just trying to save your life. I should’ve left that robe on you and let you burn to death. But I try to save your life and I almost get killed. A fine one you are!”
Dean passed her the bottle and her sobbing came to an end. She asked, “Where are we?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere south of Big Sur.”
“Then we can’t be far from Slade’s, thank God. Let’s hurry and get down there.”
Dean stared at her as if she had lost her senses. “In that condition?”
“Huh?”
“You think I’ll go anywhere with you, the mess you’re in?”
She mumbled between clenched teeth, “Oh, Holy Mother of God and Saint Peter and Saint Paul. Listen, you drunk. I’m hurt. I need help.”
“Oh, no. I’m damned if I’ll walk in anywhere with you looking like that. Honestly, baby, you’re a horrible mess. We’re going home.”
“Listen to me, Dean — ”
He started the engine and repeated stubbornly, “We’re going home.”
There was nothing Ruth could do to dissuade him. His speech was no longer thick and his sight had cleared, but his brain was working in even lower gear than before he had fallen asleep. He had reached that stage of drunkenness where he had leveled off and nothing more, including Ruth, could affect him. He spun the car about and started north up the highway. Ruth leaned back in the seat and mumbled every curse she could think of under her breath.
They had passed the Lodge at Big Sur and were in the narrow part of the canyon when Dean again glanced at Ruth. He saw blood trickling over her lips and frowned with concern. “You are hurt.”
“Just skip it. I’ll probably bleed to death, but don’t let it bother you.”
“You should wash up, anyway.”
�
��Oh, sure. You got faucets under the dashboard?”
“We’d better get you cleaned up. You look something awful.”
“Don’t — keep — saying — that!”
Dean spotted a familiar dirt road on his left and left the highway to bump down the ruts under the redwoods toward the Big Sur River, a rushing mountain stream about fifty feet wide at that point and a few feet deep. He came to a stop by the side of a one-room mountain cabin with shaggy redwood bark on the outside. Large windows and a long plank porch overlooked the nearby river.
Ruth glanced at the cabin, then looked curiously at Dean. “You know the damnedest places.”
“Belongs to a friend of mine. Come on. Gotta clean you up.”
He helped her up to the porch, took a ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the door. They stepped into a room about thirty feet square. The floor was covered with good linoleum and all the furniture had been ordered from a catalogue. There was a smell of trees and dampness and river moss.
Dean left Ruth to her own devices and went outside to bring in some champagne and brandy and some wood that was stacked on the porch. He saw that Ruth had discovered the bathroom and was trying to get undressed. Her fingers were also bruised, however, and she was having a difficult time. Dean got a fire going in the stone fireplace and had a quick drink, then helped Ruth remove her clothes. When she was nude he stood back and blinked at her and whistled. There were dozens of bruises all over her body and her legs were scratched all the way to her hips.
He helped her into the bathroom and turned on the shower, connected directly with the ice-cold water of the river, and Ruth screamed as if she had again fallen down the cliff. But Dean made her stay under the shower, and he stood there until she was sufficiently recovered to start washing herself. He rummaged about in the kitchen and found some eggs and bacon and bread and other food he had left when he had been to the cabin with Jan Parker. The bread was stale, but the rest of the food looked all right. He yelled in at Ruth, “Whip up something for us to eat when you get out of there. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He had another quick drink and left the cabin.
He drove down to the Big Sur Lodge and telephoned Teddy Mitsui and Ruth’s maid. Then he called Hal Smith at the office and told him, “I got fouled up, Hal. I won’t be in at all today. So I want you to call Freeman Mitchell — ”
“He just phoned a few minutes ago.”
“Oh? Yeah, I guess he would. O.K. You call him back and ask him to meet me at my attorney’s office at nine tomorrow morning. Tell him we’ll close the deal then.”
“Jees, boss, are you — ”
“Look. It’s none of your damned business — yet. And keep your mouth shut. Just do as I say.”
“Sure thing. By the way, I got an order for three cars from that Schmidt and Lowenstein outfit in Detroit. I heard you say something about them once, but I don’t remember what. Are they good?”
“Hell, no. You know how those rats operate? Say they get the cars there at five bucks a crate. All right. So they make a door examination in the yards and claim there’s over ten per cent spoilage and refuse to accept. They got us on a spot, so then they offer three or four bucks. They pulled it on me once, but no more. You call them up and tell them we don’t do business with them without a wired confirmation on a bank in Salinas. Otherwise, absolutely no dice.”
“I’ll do that. Vince was in wanting to see you about cutting Gordon Shurcliff’s field.”
Dean shouted into the phone, “That field is not to be cut for three or four days. I told him that. You tell him again. See you in the morning.”
Dean bought some adhesive tape, bandages, cotton, and iodine, and picked up twenty-five pounds of ice at a place farther down the road before he drove back to the cabin. He sat in the car for a moment, wondering if he could get sober and still put in part of a day’s work. He doubted it. Besides, there was no pressing reason for him to be at the office that day. He hated losing even an hour on the job and despised such weakness in others, especially when it was caused by too much alcohol, but he did it so rarely that he excused himself with a clear conscience. He carried his purchases and his ice up to the cabin, looking forward to a pleasant day in Ruth’s company, if she recovered.
The cold shower and the wait for Dean had brought Ruth back to the edges of sobriety. She was sitting on the foot of the bed and gave him a look of abject misery as he came into the cabin. He hurried to chip the ice and mixed two powerful drinks and made Ruth drink hers down at once. She gagged, but the warm glow crept through her body and she felt a little better. Dean then unwrapped his purchases and proceeded to doctor her cuts and scratches. She yelled whenever he used the iodine, but he got through the job by feeding her more drinks. When he was finished she was drunk again. She got unsteadily into some men’s clothes he brought from a closet; an old pair of slacks and a gray sweat shirt.
They spent the day at the cabin drinking and making love, even though Ruth protested that every move of her aching body was torture. They passed out early and had a long night of rest, but when Dean awakened at dawn his head was splitting, he was sober, and he regretted every moment of the excursion. He was angry with himself and especially with Ruth, blaming her for losing a day at work. When her eyes opened she was in even worse condition than Dean. Ten thousand needles were probing the cuts and scratches and bruises, and her body was so stiff and sore that Dean had to help her from the bed. Neither was capable of saying anything. They simply glared at each other.
They drove all the way to Pebble Beach in absolute silence. If either one had said anything there would have been a fight. Dean helped Ruth into her home and she called immediately for a doctor. She expected Dean to wait until the man arrived, but he mumbled something under his breath, turned on his heel, and walked out. He could not face her battered appearance for even another moment.
He had a steaming shower at his own home and changed into clean clothes and managed to get down the breakfast Teddy prepared for him. But his improvement was only in degree. The houseboy took one look at his red face and ferocious scowl and made no comments on the weather or anything else. He was relieved when Dean left the house.
Dean arrived at his main plant in a black mood. He walked through the outer offices without greeting or nodding to anyone. When he reached his own office he saw that the door was open and when he stepped inside he saw the two women. One was Susan Mitchell. She was seated in a chair before his desk, her knees crossed, bouncing the raised foot nervously up and down. She gave him a half-smile as he entered. The other woman, standing at the window, was a stranger.
Dean glowered at the two of them, dropped into the chair behind his desk, and growled, “Yes?”
Susan said pleasantly, “G’ morning, Mr. Holt. I — ah — that is, Betty would like to talk to you, so I brought her over. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Dean frowned at the other woman and barked, “Who?”
Susan looked surprised. “Oh, you’ve never met? Then allow me. This is Betty Moore, Steve’s wife. Betty, Mr. Holt.”
Betty Moore smiled at him timidly and Dean leaned back in his chair to appraise her. She was a small woman, about five feet, two inches tall, with a waist he could span with his fingers and tiny feet and hands. Her body was beautifully proportioned, yet it seemed fragile and without substance, as if a breeze would blow her away. Her features were cameo-sharp, her eyes were enormous, and there was not a line about her smooth throat or face. She had black hair caught up in a bun at the nape of her neck with a streak of premature gray at the widow’s peak. Dean guessed her age to be somewhere in the late twenties. She was wearing a skirt that flared widely below her knees and rustled whenever she moved. So this, Dean thought, is the great social queen.
He made no move to get to his feet. He moved some papers about on his desk and grumbled, “Sorry, but this is the busy part of the day.”
Betty Moore stepped to the edge of the desk and smiled down at him. When she spoke her voice was
low and soft. “I won’t waste your time, Mr. Holt.”
“What’s on your mind?”
She laughed, a breathless little sound of nervousness. “Well, actually, I hardly know how to begin.”
Sue said bluntly, “It’s about Freeman.”
Dean glanced at her sharply, then swung his eyes to Betty Moore. “What about him?”
“Well, Mr. Holt, I know I don’t know much about this business you men are in, and perhaps I’m treading where angels fear — ” She paused and took a breath, then said, “I may as well come to the point. I understand that Mr. Mitchell is an extremely important man in my husband’s business. More so now than ever before. Steve is badly worried. He needs Mr. Mitchell to help him take over where his father left off. Without him — well, he’s going to have a terrible time of it.”
“You can say that again.”
“He doesn’t blame Mr. Mitchell for being angry, and neither do I. He has every reason for feeling betrayed. And naturally, too, it was only human of him to vent some of his anger on Steve. But we feel that within a few days he’ll calm down. That’s what I’ve come to see you about.”
Dean lifted his hands to his temples. “Steve sent you?”
“Oh, heavens, no! He’d simply die if he knew I’d come to see you. This is my own idea, really. I’ve heard all the rumors and I think I understand a little of this situation. Steve simply must get Mr. Mitchell back. They had another talk yesterday afternoon — ”
“Steve and Freeman?”
“Yes. Mr. Mitchell told my husband about his arrangement with you. Steve offered to meet the same conditions, and in addition he’ll give him twenty-five per cent of the business as soon as the estate is settled. Don’t you think Mr. Mitchell would be much happier under such an arrangement?”
Dean cocked an eyebrow at Susan. “What was Freeman’s reaction to that?”
Hunger and the Hate Page 10
