Purgy and Hughes immediately started talking about the truck, and Grofield did his best to pay attention and not think about the dogs. In the usual manner of buyer and seller, Purgy kept pointing out how good the truck was and Hughes kept suggesting flaws it probably had. "Looks as though she was driven pretty hard," Hughes said, holding the driver's door open and leaning his head in beside the seat. "Look at that brake pedal, how she's worn on the one side. Some cowboy drove the hell out of her."
"Why, that truck's only two years old," Purgy said. He had a high-pitched voice, but very hoarse, as though he'd worn his throat out reaching for high notes. "Barely broke in," he said. "Where you going to find a truck this new at the price I'm asking?"
Grofield stood and watched. This wasn't his specialty; he was along to drive the extra vehicle if they bought the truck.
Hughes looked under the hood. "Got pliers on you?"
"You ain't gonna take it apart," Purgy said.
"Just want to take a look. We need a tape measure, too."
"You don't want much," Purgy grumbled, and turned to Grofield. "See that bread truck there? Take a look in the back, there's a toolkit, bring it on over."
"Okay."
"Dogs!" Purgy yelled. "Stay!"
They stayed. Grofield walked across the brown dirt to the bread truck and found the toolkit in the back, and none of the dogs followed him. But when he started back he saw half the dogs back there by Purgy standing absolutely still and watching him. Six or seven of them, that was, with an equal number still moving around Hughes. Grofield carried the toolkit over and put it on the ground by the truck, and the watching dogs started to mill with the others again.
Hughes took the pliers and tape, and handed the tape to Grofield. "Size of the opening in back," he said.
"Right."
The inevitable three or four dogs traveled with him as he went around to the back of the truck and opened the doors there. He climbed up into the trailer, and was half-surprised that none of the dogs leaped up after him.
The interior of the trailer was bare, except for two pipes running the length of it just above head level. To hang furs on, probably. Grofield measured the opening, spent a minute walking around the interior, stamping on the floor, pushing against the walls, and then he dropped down amid the dogs again and went back to where Hughes and Purgy were arguing over a sparkplug in Hughes' hand. Purgy was saying, "I give you this truck the way it come to me. I don't switch sparkplugs, I don't set back the mileage, I don't do nothing. It's yours, the way the guy drove it in here, for two grand."
Hughes said, "Now you know I'm not gonna pay two thousand dollars for this truck."
"Where you gonna get a truck like this?"
"As hot as this? Nowhere." He turned and looked questioningly at Grofield.
Grofield said, "Fifty-seven inches wide, eighty-four inches high."
"Narrow," Hughes said. "I'm not sure we can use it at all."
"You don't want to buy the truck," Purgy said, "nobody's got a gun to your head."
Grofield said to Hughes, "The floor seems okay."
Hughes nodded and leaned in at the engine.
Purgy said, "What are ya doin now?"
"Putting it back."
With Hughes showing him nothing but back, Purgy turned to Grofield. "You know trucks?"
"They're bigger than cars," Grofield said. "That's about my limit."
"Well, believe me, this truck is a steal at two grand."
"You mean it's stolen," Hughes said, his voice muffled because he was still involved with the engine. He surfaced, turning back to Purgy with his hands out in front of him. "You got a cloth to wipe my hands?"
"Up on the seat of the truck. Go on up, start the engine, listen to it."
"I believe I will," Hughes said, and climbed up into the cab. While Grofield and Purgy watched and waited, Hughes started the engine, switched it off, started it, switched it off, started it, raced it, switched it off, started it, lurched the truck forward about three feet, switched it off, started it, lurched it backward about three feet, switched it off, started it, and drove it away.
Grofield watched it leave. About half the dogs stayed with him and Purgy, and the rest went trotting off with the truck.
Hughes was a first-rate driver. There wasn't that much room to maneuver in among the cars and trucks and buses and odd vehicles stored on this flat area, but Hughes threaded the maze with no trouble at all. He backed in a figure eight, he drove forward in various directions at various speeds and in various gears, and finally he drove it back over to Purgy and Grofield again, jolted to a stop, and switched off the motor.
Purgy had his hands on his hips, ready to be belligerently defensive about the truck. He watched Hughes climb down from the cab and said, "Well?"
"Brakes grab to the right a bit," Hughes said. "Trailer doesn't track very well."
"It's empty, what do you want from it? You know a truck like that isn't meant to drive empty."
"It's worth five hundred, I suppose," Hughes said carelessly.
"Five hundred! Are you out of your mind? Don't you want me to even get my cost back?"
"I've sold you things," Hughes said. "I know what your cost is. You maybe paid a hundred and a half for this-"
"Hughes, you're a goddam fool. Who's gonna sell a truck like that for a hundred and fifty dollars?"
"The people that brought it to you," Hughes said. "They made their money out of what was in it. All they wanted is a safe place to unload it, and not leave it off a road someplace for the cops to pick up and maybe find somebody's fingerprints or coat button or something. I told you, I've sold you stuff. So you paid a hundred and a half. If you take it apart and sell the pieces you can sell and junk the rest, you'll maybe make three hundred out of it."
"There's another dumb idea," Purgy said, trying to be scornful but only being irritable. "There's better than three hundred just under the hood alone."
"But we're saving you the trouble," Hughes said. "You don't have to do any work on it at all, you don't have to store the parts, you don't do anything but spend five minutes out here having a nice talk with me, and you make better than two hundred percent profit. That isn't bad."
"I told you my price," Purgy said. Now he sounded as though he'd been insulted.
"Oh, you didn't mean a number like that," Hughes said. "That was just to argue from. But it's getting late in the day, we've got a long drive ahead of us, so I figured I'd go straight to the sensible price. Five hundred."
"Now look," Purgy said, "you're an old customer and I like you, and I know you like this here truck. So I'll give you a break. I paid twelve hundred for that truck, and I'll give it to you for fifteen. Now, that's fair, isn't it?"
"Oh, come on, Purgy. You didn't pay any twelve hundred and we both know it. Now, why say a thing like that?"
"Well, I wouldn't if it wasn't so."
"Then it's the first time I ever saw you get took, and I can't take the truck. Come on, Grofield."
Hughes started toward the Javelin, Grofield beside him.
Purgy shouted, "Hughes, goddam it, are you tryin' to make me mad?"
Grofield suddenly became doubly aware of all those dogs, milling around between there and the Javelin. Did they want to make Purgy mad? Did they want to dicker with a man who had all those dogs around? What if he told the dogs not to let you go until you met his price? Grofield put his hands in his pockets, not wanting his fingers to stray accidentally into any passing dog's mouth.
Purgy shouted, "Hughes, you just stop goddam it where you stand!"
Hughes stopped, and turned around, and looked at Purgy. "You've always been a tough bargainer, Purgy," he said, "but you've never told me an out-and-out lie before. Twelve hundred dollars. Why, man, my three-year-old daughter wouldn't believe that."
Grofield looked at him. Three-year-old daughter?
Purgy suddenly grinned. "Aw, Hughes, you're such a dumb bastard. I've lied to you plenty."
"Not such obvious lie
s, then," Hughes said. "Listen, so we don't get mad at each other, I'll go eight hundred."
"You'll go eleven hundred and no more arguing," Purgy said. "And don't talk to me about a thousand, because eleven hundred is my bottom number."
Hughes said, "For eleven hundred, you can paint the goddam owner's name off the doors."
"Eleven hundred like she stands."
"I will walk away from here, Purgy," Hughes said. Grofield looked sideways at him, and Hughes' profile was grim and angry. There was no mistaking it; Hughes was mad, and ready to stomp away no matter how good the truck was.
Purgy didn't say anything for a minute, and Grofield, studying him, saw that Purgy too was on the edge of real anger. Grofield waited, knowing better than to enter into this thing, but hoping one or the other of them would eventually climb down off his ultimatum. It would be really stupid to have to wait around St. Louis an extra fifteen days because of no truck, with a perfectly good truck standing right there.
Finally, Purgy sighed. He shook his head, and shrugged his fat shoulders, and said, "I don't see any damn reason to get upset. What the hell, if I can't bend a little what am I in business for? I'll spray a little paint over those doors for you."
"Dark green," Hughes said.
"Well, it may not be a Grade A Perfect one hundred percent match," Purgy said, "but I'll give it the closest I got."
Hughes suddenly nodded; his face and body became more relaxed. "It's a deal," he said.
"That's fine," Purgy said, with a broad smile. "I'll go get the paint."
"We've got our own plates to put on," Hughes said.
"Well, go ahead."
Purgy waddled away toward the house, and Hughes said, "Come on." He and Grofield went over to get the plates out of the trunk of the Javelin. They were Missouri plates, for a commercial vehicle, and they weren't on anybody's wanted list. "These babies cost me a hundred and a quarter," Hughes said, taking them out. "And now I went a hundred over what I wanted to pay for the truck."
"I thought you were going to walk away," Grofield said. "I really did."
Hughes looked at him in surprise. "You did? What the hell would I do that for? The truck's worth fourteen."
"You looked mad."
"It took you in, huh? I don't think it took Purgy in."
"I do," Grofield said.
"Purgy's slier'n he looks," Hughes said. He gave Grofield one of the plates and a screwdriver. "You do the back, I'll do the front."
"Right."
They walked together toward the truck. Hughes said, "I hope Barnes makes a good price on the guns. We'll go over the two grand if we're not careful."
They separated at the rear of the truck, where Grofield hunkered down to remove the Pennsylvania plate the truck was carrying. A couple of dogs came over to watch, but by now Grofield was getting used to them – silent, restless, observant, more like an audience in a theater than anything else.
He was just finishing removing the Pennsylvania plate when Purgy came back down from the house, shaking a can of spray enamel in one fist. The metal stirring ball rattled around inside it. Grofield put the clean Missouri plate on, picked up the Pennsylvania plate, and walked over to see what the spray job looked like.
It was a slightly lighter shade of green, but Purgy was doing a pretty good job of bleeding it out at the edges. It would be plain that a firm name had been removed, but it would look like a neat job, not something done in a sloppy hurry.
Hughes came over with the other plate and the other screwdriver and studied the door. Purgy, finished, stepped back and said, "How's that? Nice, huh?"
"I won't argue with you, Purgy," Hughes said, as though he thought the paint job was lousy.
But Purgy was in a good mood now, and didn't care what Hughes said. "You just didn't want to pay me so much," he said, grinning. "I know you, Hughes."
"What about the other door?"
"Keep your pants on, I'm gonna do it right now. And then you got to pay me."
"You keep your pants on, too."
Purgy went around to the other side of the truck, and Hughes said to Grofield, reluctantly, "I suppose I'd better drive the truck. Get to know it and all."
"Don't worry," Grofield said. "I'll treat your car like a bride."
"I don't think I'd like that," Hughes said.
"You know what I mean."
"Let me go first," Hughes said. "You just stay at my pace."
"Sure."
Hughes gave him the license plate and screwdriver. "We'll stop somewhere and eat. I know a couple places."
"Fine."
Hughes looked across at his car, and then at Grofield. He wanted to give Grofield an hour or two of instructions about how to handle the car; Grofield waited and watched him fight the urge and win. "See you later," Hughes said.
"See you later," Grofield said. He turned and walked toward the Javelin, his hands full of license plates and screwdrivers. Dogs were loping all around him. He found he was grinning at the car.
6
A match flared in the darkness – Ed Barnes, lighting a cigarette. In the yellow light, Grofield could see the three of them sitting on the floor of the empty truck, himself and Barnes and Steve Tebelman, and the big sheet of plywood leaning against the end wall, two lengths of clothesline stretching across it to keep it in place. "That's really a nice job," he said, looking at what was painted on the plywood.
"Thanks," Tebelman said. Barnes shook the match out, and they were in darkness again. There was a faint redness when Barnes drew on the cigarette, but not enough to show more than vague outlines.
"You're a talented guy," Grofield said. "You ought to be able to make a living out of that."
"Commercial art?" Tebelman's voice dripped with scorn.
"Oh," Grofield said.
Barnes said, "An artist." He said it with no particular intonation, as though simply describing a condition of life.
"I understand that," Grofield said. "I'm into something like that myself."
"You are?"
Grofield heard the interest in Tebelman's voice, and was tempted to go into a whole explanation about being an actor in a pre-technological sense – he had the feeling Tebelman's attitudes would be basically similar – but something about the presence of Barnes, his cigarette a red dot in the darkness, inhibited him. Barnes, he knew, was the more typical heister; a professional with only this one profession, who found all his satisfactions, financial and otherwise, within the one area. Tebelman was the only other person like himself Grofield had ever met in this business.
And Tebelman's question was hanging in the darkness, awaiting an answer. More conscious of Barnes' presence than he would have been in a lighted room where he could see the man, Grofield said, "I'm an actor. I own a summer theater."
"Isn't there money in that?"
"Hardly. Not with movies and television."
"Ah." There was a little silence, then, until Tebelman said, "You know, there's a school of thought that says the artist and the criminal are variants on the same basic personality type. Did you know that?"
Grofield was sorry now the conversation had gotten started at all. "No, I didn't," he said.
"That art and crime are both antisocial acts," Tebelman said. "There's a whole theory about it. The artist and the criminal both divorce themselves from society by their life patterns, they both tend to be loners, they both tend to have brief periods of intense activity and then long periods of rest. There's a lot more."
"Interesting," Grofield said. He wished Hughes would start them moving; he held his left hand up near his face, pushed the sleeve back, read the radium dial of his watch. Ten minutes to eleven. He knew Hughes was waiting for the county sheriff's car to come by. The truck they were sitting in was parked in a closed-for-the-night gas station a quarter mile from the Food King store. Once the sheriff's department car went by, they'd have a minimum of twenty minutes before that car would come around again to the Food King parking lot. So Hughes was waiting for it, and once
it was safely out of the way they would start to move.
Tebelman was saying, "Of course, there've been a lot of artists who were criminals first, like Jean Genet. But you and I reverse that, don't we? You're an actor, and I'm a painter."
"That's right," Grofield said.
Barnes suddenly said, "I'm quite a reader, you know." The heavy voice, calm and uninflected, was a total surprise; it didn't seem to convey any emotion at all, nothing but the information contained in the words, the same as when he had earlier said that Tebelman was an artist.
Grofield stared at the red cigarette end. He had no idea how to take what Barnes had said. Maybe if he could see the man's face…
Tebelman had apparently decided to take it straight. "Is that right?" he said.
"I started in Joliet," Barnes said. "You have a lot of time on your hands in a place like that."
Under cover of darkness, Grofield permitted himself to grin.
Tebelman said, "A lot of artists got started in prison, just for that reason. Like O. Henry."
"I really took to it," Barnes said. "Now I read three, four books a week."
"Is that right?"
"Westerns," Barnes said. "Ernest Haycox, Luke Short. Some of these newer ones, too, Brian Garfield, Elmer Kelton. Some parts of the country it's tough to find them."
Tebelman said, "Did you read Sliphammer?"
"Did I!"
The truck suddenly jerked into motion. "We're off," Grofield said. But Tebelman and Barnes were talking about Westerns.
7
In most supermarkets, the male clerks restock the shelves with merchandise after the close of business on Friday evening in preparation for the volume they expect to do on Saturday. In a large store, this restocking can take as much as six or seven hours, starting at a nine P.M. closing and continuing through most of the night. The Food King outside Belleville, Illinois, was no exception.
Deliveries to supermarkets after closing hour on Friday are unusual but not unheard of, and so the tractor-trailor that drove into the Food King parking lot at two minutes to eleven P.M. on Friday the eleventh of April seemed perfectly ordinary and legitimate. The cab of the truck was green, the body aluminum. There was no firm name on either.
Lemons Never Lie Page 7
