Bindlestiff nd-10

by Bill Pronzini

The blonde let out a hoot like a goosed owl and leaned against the counter, giggling. When she got her breath back she cracked him on the arm and said, “God, Bernie, you’re so funny!”

  “Yeah,” Bernie said. “Ain’t that a pisser?”

  “You make my sides hurt.”

  “Yeah,” Bernie said. “So did you hear about the two old ladies walking along the beach one day? They think it’s deserted, see, they’re just out for a little air; but they come around this rock, there’s a guy lying there on a blanket and he’s naked.”

  “Naked,” the waitress said, nodding. She had started to giggle again in anticipation.

  “Yeah. One of them nudists, you know? So the two old broads stop and one of them points. The guy’s lying on his back so you know what she’s pointing at, right?”

  “Right.” More giggles. “Oh, sure.”

  “Well, she points and she says to the other old lady, ‘You know,’ she says, ‘life sure is funny. When I was ten I didn’t know that thing existed. When I was twenty I was curious about it. When I was thirty I was enjoying it. When I was forty I was asking for it. When I was fifty I was begging for it. When I was sixty I was paying for it. And now that I’m seventy-’”

  “Right, now that she’s seventy…”

  “‘Now that I’m seventy,’ she says, ‘when my life is almost over, there it is growing wild.’”

  The waitress thought that was the funniest one yet; she let out two hoots this time and convulsed into gales of laughter. Tears rolled down her cheeks. As far as she was concerned, old Bernie was Johnny Carson and Bob Hope and Bob Newhart all rolled up into one.

  “Ain’t that a pisser?” Bernie said.

  I was leaning against the counter by this time, not ten feet away, but they still didn’t seem to know I was there. I waited until the blonde got herself under control again and then rapped on the formica to get her attention. She looked at me, hiccupped, said, “Just a second, okay?” and went right on giggling.

  Bernie had turned on his stool and was grinning at me. “You hear that one?” he said. “Wasn’t that a pisser?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “If it was any more of a pisser I’d have wet my pants.”

  He didn’t like that; his grin disappeared. Which was all right with me. I don’t like stupid jokes, especially stupid Italian jokes, and I don’t like the kind of people who tell them. Bernie was a jerk. And if he wanted me to, I was more than willing to tell him so.

  But it didn’t come to that. Whatever else Bernie was, he wasn’t the belligerent type. All he did was pick up the glass of cola in front of him and mutter, “Some guys got no sense of humor.”

  The waitress said, “Bernie, I swear to God, you ought to go on TV. I really mean it.” Then she wiped her face, let him have one more giggle, and came down to where I was. “What’ll it be, mister?”

  “Cup of coffee.”

  She turned to the hotplate on the back counter and poured the coffee. I had the newspaper photo out, and when she set the cup in front of me I laid the clipping beside it and tapped Charles Bradford’s image with my forefinger. “Did this man happen to come in here on Tuesday afternoon between five and six o’clock?”

  She bent close to squint at the photo. Then she frowned and said, “A tramp, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, a tramp did come in here on Tuesday afternoon,” she said. “I think it was this one. It sure looks like him.”

  “What did he want?”

  “A cup of coffee, same as you. I thought he was panhandling-they come in here and try to get a freebie sometimes-and I told him I had to see his money first. He had it in change, just barely. I made him pay me before I gave him the coffee.”

  “Did he want anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Information, maybe?”

  “Well, yeah, he did ask directions. How come you’re so interested in this tramp, anyway?”

  “I’m trying to find him for his daughter,” I said. “What did he want to know?”

  “Where Firth Road was.”

  “Firth Road.”

  She nodded. “So I told him, and he drank his coffee and left. That’s all.”

  “He didn’t say what he wanted on Firth Road?”

  “No. He didn’t say anything else.”

  “What sort of street is it? A side road, a main thoroughfare, what?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks long,” she said. “A dead-end street.”

  “What’s on it? Houses, businesses?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Hey, Bernie, what’s on Firth Road?”

  Bernie turned on his stool again. He still seemed a little hurt that I hadn’t properly appreciated his jokes. “Not much on it,” he said in a grudging way. “PG and E substation, couple of business places, and the railroad museum.”

  “Railroad museum?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Guy named Dallmeyer runs it. It’s a freaking tourist trap.”

  “How long has it been there?”

  “Who knows? Ten years, maybe.”

  “What’re the business places?”

  “Electrical outfit-Jorgensen’s,” he said. “And a fruit packing plant.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Ain’t that enough?”

  “How long have those two been operating?”

  “How should I know? Do I look like I work for the goddamn Chamber of Commerce?”

  The waitress giggled again. Even when he wasn’t telling dumb jokes, Bernie was so funny.

  I said, “How do I get to Firth Road?”

  “It’s a couple of miles north of here,” the blonde said, “out toward the dam. It branches off the main drag.”

  “Oro Dam Boulevard, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I drank some of my coffee; it wasn’t very good, but at least it was hot. I fished two quarters out of my pocket, set them on the counter, drank a little more coffee, and got up from my stool.

  “Hey, Lynn,” Bernie said abruptly. “I got another one for you.”

  The waitress said, “Oh God,” and winked at me, and went down to where he was. “Well?”

  “So Smokey the Bear gets married,” he said, “but he and his wife never have any sex. You know why?” But he was looking at me as he spoke, not her, and there was a determined expression on his face, as if his reputation as a comedian was on the line and he had to tell one that would make me laugh or lose points.

  “No,” the blonde said, “why do Smokey the Bear and his wife never have any sex?”

  “Because every time she gets hot, he throws dirt on her and beats her with a shovel.”

  That was a one-hooter for the blonde. She said, “Nobody better try’n throw dirt on me when I get hot,” and broke up again.

  I just looked at Bernie. Then I turned and started for the door.

  “You know how many Polacks it takes to pull off a kidnapping?” he said, a little desperately.

  “No,” the waitress said, “how many?”

  “Six. One to grab the victim and five to write the ransom note.”

  She hooted-and I walked out into the good, clean air and shut the door quietly behind me.

  Chapter 10

  The two-block length of Firth Road was flanked by shade trees and looked as deserted as most of the rest of Oroville. The electrical outfit, Jorgensen Electric, and the Orchard-Sweet fruit packing plant were situated across from each other in the first block; the strong, pungent smell of cooked apples and plums came out of the big warehouse there. On the second block the Pacific Gas amp; Electric substation and the railroad museum were also set opposite each other, with the museum on the north side. Beyond the dead-end of the street, and some dense shrubbery and scrub pine, I could see the raised right-of-way of a main line of rail tracks.

  I decided to start with the substation. But if there was anyone on duty inside, I couldn’t raise him. I gave it up after a time and crossed to the museum
.

  It was a good-sized complex set behind a wire-mesh fence: a big, high-domed roundhouse, a smaller outbuilding that looked to be some kind of storage shed, two old passenger coaches and a caboose arranged in front of and alongside the roundhouse for touring purposes, and the remains of a spur track at the rear that had probably once connected with the rail lines beyond. A sign on the front gate said the same thing as one I’d passed out on Oro Dam Boulevard: ROUNDHOUSE RAILROAD MUSEUM. Another sign below it read: RELICS OF THE FABULOUS AGE OF STEAM RAILROADING. ADMISSION $1.00. But the gate was closed and locked, and so was the ticket booth just inside, and there was a third sign on the booth that said: CLOSED.

  On the east side of the complex, outside the fence and shaded by live oaks, was a small cottage that probably belonged to the man who ran the museum-Dallmeyer, Bernie the comic said his name was. Parked near it on a diagonal was a van with the museum’s name painted on the side. I started back there, following a rutted gravel drive that skirted the edge of the fence. As I did I noticed that there were puffs of white vapor coming up from behind the roundhouse. At first I thought it was smoke; then I saw how quickly it evaporated and realized it was steam.

  When I got to within thirty yards of the cottage I could see that the rear engine doors of the roundhouse were open; the steam was billowing out from inside. Ahead, a side gate appeared in the fence. I stopped when I got to it, because its fork latch was in place but its padlock was hooked open through the wire to one side. I hesitated, glancing at the cottage. Nobody came out of it. After ten seconds or so I shrugged, lifted the fork latch, and went through the gate and across toward the open engine doors.

  As I neared them I could hear the sharp hiss of escaping steam and other sounds that meant a steam locomotive’s boiler had been fired: the stuttering clamor of valves, the staccato beat of the exhaust. The locomotive, I saw a moment later, was an old Baldwin that had to have been built during the twenties; it was sitting on a turntable a dozen yards inside the roundhouse. Overhead lights blazed, giving me a clear look at the rest of the cavernous interior: whitewashed walls, swept floors, trusses, gleaming engine pits; and along the walls, tool bins and racks and workbenches, plus a number of glass-fronted cases containing historical photographs, small equipment such as reflector lanterns and switch keys, and posters, timetables, uniform caps and badges, and other memorabilia.

  Through the locomotive’s narrow, oblong, front glass panel, I could see a man working inside the cab. He didn’t seem to see me, though; he was intent on what he was doing. I waited another ten seconds, then walked over to where I could look up through the gangway to the deck inside.

  The guy up there was stoking the firebox-using a fireman’s shovel to scoop coal out of the tender, then pivoting and driving one foot against a floor pedal to open the butterfly doors and feed the coal to the blaze within. He was fiftyish, thick through the shoulders and hips, with a mop of gray-flecked hair, shaggy brows, and a full beard; the rest of his face was heat-reddened and sweaty. He wore a long leather fireman’s apron to protect his clothing from coal dust and cinders.

  “Hello!” I called to him. “Hello in the cab!”

  He heard me above the thrumming of the boiler and the throb of the valves, and whirled toward the gangway with the shovel cocked in front of his body. He stared at me for a couple of seconds. Then his surprise gave way to anger and he said, “Christ! You scared hell out of me. How did you get in here?”

  “Through the side gate. It was unlocked. I’m sorry if I-”

  “You’re trespassing, you know that?”

  “Yes, and I apologize. Are you Mr. Dallmeyer?”

  “That’s right. What do you want?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’m trying to find a man named Bradford, Charles Bradford. A hobo who dropped off a freight in the WP yards two days ago.”

  He gawped at me again out of bright gray eyes. “Why’re you looking for a hobo? You a policeman?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. A couple of San Francisco reporters were up here doing a feature story on modern hoboes. Bradford got his picture taken, and his daughter saw it when it appeared in the paper. I’m trying to locate him for her.”

  “Well, what makes you think he’d have come out here?”

  “I’ve traced him as far as Firth Road,” I said. “At least, it seems this is where he came on Tuesday afternoon.”

  “What time on Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Sometime between five and six.”

  “I wasn’t here then,” Dallmeyer said. “I closed up at four-thirty; I had to drive down to Yuba City to pick up some Southern Pacific dining-car relics for the museum.”

  “What time did you get back, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “It was almost midnight.”

  I nodded. “Would you mind taking a look at Bradford’s photograph, just for the record?”

  “I suppose not. But I haven’t seen any tramps hanging around here, I can tell you that right now. I’d have run them off if I had. They’re bad for my business.”

  “Sure, I understand.”

  He propped the shovel against the side bulkhead, wiped his hands on a rag from the engineer’s seat, and then swung down off the running board. His face was still red and damp with perspiration. I gave him the Examiner photo, pointing out which of the men was Bradford. He looked at it, shook his head, and said, “No, I never saw him before. I never saw any of these men before.”

  I took the clipping back and put it into my shirt pocket.

  “Can’t imagine what a hobo would be doing way out here,” Dallmeyer said. “They all hop the freights over by the WP yards; hardly ever this far out. How’d you trace this Bradford to Firth Road, anyhow?”

  “It was a pretty complicated procedure, Mr. Dallmeyer,” I said. “And I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’d better be on my way.”

  “Well, I’ll walk out to the gate with you. I must have forgotten to lock it and I don’t like to leave it open like that.”

  We left the roundhouse and went across the yard to the gate, where I apologized again for the trespass. He said, “No problem. I hope you find that hobo you’re looking for.” Then he let me out and padlocked the gate latch. He was already back inside the roundhouse by the time I reached the end of the gravel drive.

  I walked up to the next block and entered Jorgensen Electric. The owner, Eric Jorgensen, was a fat jowly man in his late fifties who looked like a Boston bull terrier. “Nope,” he said when I asked him about Bradford. “Didn’t see any tramps while I was here on Tuesday. I’d have sure noticed one, too. But I left about half past four; he could have come after that.”

  “You closed up for the day at four-thirty, you mean?”

  “Nope. Tris did that at half past five, like always.”

  “Who would Tris be?”

  “Girl who answers the phone and waits on customers and does my books for me. Tris Wilson, my brother’s girl.”

  Jorgensen was the only person in evidence at the moment. I asked, “Is she here now?”

  “Yep. Using the can. Tris spends more time in the can than a bad burglar with a bladder problem.” He thought that was funny and laughed to prove it. I let him have a small smile, which was more than I’d done for Bernie; Jorgensen, at least, was not a jerk.

  It was not long before Tris, who turned out to be a plain-looking brunette in her middle twenties, came back from the can. She looked at the photo, looked at it again, gnawed on her lower lip, and said at length, “Well, I don’t know. It might have been the same fellow. I only saw him for a moment.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Through the window.” She nodded toward the plate-glass window that took up the left-hand wall flanking the entrance door. “I was just getting ready to close up and I happened to glance out and there he was.”

  “Which way was he heading?”

  “West, I think.”

  “On this side of the street?” />
  “No, on the other side.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “No,” she said. “I noticed him because he looked like a hobo and you don’t see many of them out here. But he wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, just walking along, and it was closing time and I was in a hurry because I had a date. I just didn’t pay that much attention to him.”

  “How long after you saw him did you leave the shop?”

  “About five minutes, I guess.”

  “And he wasn’t anywhere around then?”

  “Well, if he was I didn’t see him.”

  I thanked her and Jorgensen and went outside again. The Orchard-Sweet packing plant loomed across the street; I walked over there and inside the warehouse. It smelled almost overpoweringly of cooked fruit, like the pervasive odor of aging wine in a winery. None of the dozen or so employees seemed bothered by it, though. You probably wouldn’t even notice it if you’d been working there for any length of time.

  I showed the clipping around-it was starting to get worn from all the handling-but all I got in return were headshakes and negative words. I went out through the open rear doors to where two Latino forklift operators were loading crates into a boxcar on a rail siding. They both said they didn’t know nothing about no bums, man.

  And that seemed to be that. Firth Road looked like a dead-end in more ways than one.

  Yet if Tris Wilson was a reliable witness, and I judged that she was, I had definitely established that Bradford had been out here at five-thirty on Tuesday afternoon. Why had he come here? Who was it he’d wanted to see?

  I only had one lead left to pursue-those microfilm files of the Los Angeles Times at the library. If I couldn’t find the needle in that haystack I had two choices: I could hang around Oroville and keep flashing Bradford’s photo in the hope that somebody recognized him and could tell me where he’d gone; or I could call Miss A. Bradford, admit defeat, and head back home to San Francisco. I doubted if I would do the latter, though, at least not right away. Now that I was back in harness, it would be damned frustrating to have to walk away empty-handed on my first new case. Bad for business, too, if word got around.