“Doctor Freemartin, or an assistant? In shorthand?” Miss Tinkham said.
“Wire recorder,” Uremia said proudly.
“So.” Miss Tinkham began to see how Dr. Freemartin might have a very lucrative practice indeed. “Some of the by-products alone…”
“How’s that?” Uremia said.
“I don’t suppose he ever allows his patients to mention names, or anything of that sort,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Oh, yes. You have to. Otherwise he gives you the truth serum. You feel awful afterwards.”
“How did you happen to fall into—come in contact with him?”
“I was selling these here silk shorts from door to door, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Men’s underpants. Silk. You sell ’em in the offices an’ go ’round to the houses an’ apartments at night. They’re real pretty. A different color for every day in the week. Blue for Monday. Canary for Tuesday. Champagne for Wednesday. Green for Thursday. Salmon for Friday. Flesh for Saturday, an’ Orchid for Sunday. You can just look at your shorts an’ tell what day of the week it is.”
Miss Tinkham looked at her friends. “Only beer will restore my sanity.”
Mrs. Rasmussen poured it out for her.
“My dear girl.” Miss Tinkham wiped her mouth. “In my opinion, the type of individual who would wear such atrocities would wear the same pair of shorts from Monday to Monday. And what was your…ah
…profession before that?”
“I was a orchid-stapler.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know. Gee, ain’t you been nowheres? I bradded rhinestones on the petals of orchids with a stapler.”
“Sanctus Fumus!” Miss Tinkham fanned herself with a paper bag. “If anything could be more exquisitely vulgar than an orchid, it would be a rhinestone-studded one. I loathe the hideous things—nasty implications in the very name.
“They sure go over big,” Uremia persisted.
“So I have been told,” Miss Tinkham said.
“What I wanna know, wasn’t there no floors to be scoured or no baby-hippins to wash?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Oh, I had my ups an’ downs,” Uremia said. “I wasn’t always able to get refined lines like these. When I got my second divorce, I didn’t exactly pay cash. The lawyer was my boy-friend and not very bright. When I got home an’ my landlord he explained the fine print to me, I had custody of my husband instead of my son. Was I ever mad?”
“What on earth did you do?” Miss Tinkham said.
“It was awful. He wanted I should pay him alimony. But I got a different lawyer. For a while all the job I had was demonstrating artificial fingernails in the Five and Ten. With silver tips on.” The ladies were speechless and Uremia mistook their silence for admiration. “If you only knew the story of my life. It would make some book. Maybe I could tell it to you, an’ you could write it down. You look like some kind of a writer to me. I often think when I read them books how I could be right up on that best-seller list myself. I’d call it Life With A Maniac.”
“Why not?” Miss Tinkham said. “Those autobiographical things are enjoying a tremendous vogue just now.”
“It sounds pretty, all right. But I’d never stick with it, I guess. I get discouraged quick. Low self-efficiency, Lee says. I’m lots more inner-grated now that he changed my name from Titian McGonigle an’ learned me my bubble routine. I have gotten along lots better since we been having this…friendship. The clinic is hooked up with a syndicate and they control lots of nightspots. When I finish my contract in one place, they send me to some other club—lots of times in other towns. I been to Youngstown, and South Bend.”
“It’s a good spot for it,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Where does he come in?”
“Seems like most everybody in the syndicate is mixed up emotionally. Like some are afraid to ride in cars. Some are afraid to sit in the house alone…Some need treatment for not being able to sleep without their gun and some can’t stand to be in a room with the windows open and the shades up…all kinds of neurosis.”
“I should call them occupational hazards,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Anyway, he sure makes a lot of money. So many women with little secrets on their mind come to him and he analyzes them good. Two weeks of unsolicited love—that’s what he prescribes the most.”
“They’d get a hundred dollars an’ thirty days for solicitin’ in San Diego,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“It just means he thinks somebody should knock you over the head and love you without you askin’ ’em to,” Uremia explained.
“What is all this analyzin’?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“It’s what a silly woman does with five thousand dollars, Mrs. Feeley, when she already owns a mink coat.” Miss Tinkham turned to Uremia. “And after the unsolicited-love treatment, are you in love with this…this creature?”
“Haven’t been in love for over four years. It interferes with business. But I and him get along good. He’s a real spiritual type when you get to know him. He’s been planning for the last year to go to California an’ open his own place, away from the syndicate. He’s a kind of key man an’ has to take such a lot of responsibility. I’m from the West myself and I’d sure like to see him and me settle down out there. We could do a lot of good. One of them pretty houses with a big picture window facin’ on a boardwalk—that’s what I’d be happy in. A pretty table in the window with a crushed batik velvet throw on it and the knickknacks arranged nice…”
“You don’t look like you’re from the West,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“I am. New Mexico. But not the wide-open spaces,” Uremia said.
“He gonna marry you?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“I don’t go much for this gettin’ married. When you been married as many times as I have, it kinda wears off. Lee thinks we should just keep on havin’ a friendship.”
“Them boys at the Vice Squad in San Diego don’t approve o’ shackin’ up,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Demand the bell and the book,” Miss Tinkham advised.
“I’m not much of a reader an’ I don’t care for music.”
“She means a writin’ to hang over your bed. Marriage lines,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“I don’t know.” Uremia scratched her head. “He’s got a little bit of phobia about it…”
The subject under discussion stuck his head in the door of the cabin:
“I thought I’d find you here. Ah…breakfast!” he said.
“How’d you get out?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“I told you, didn’t I? The charges are dropped. Squashed.” Miss Tinkham and her friends stared at him. “Didn’t I tell you they couldn’t pin anything on me?” he said.
“It would appear that the police force and the district attorney had suffered from mass neurosis and had come to you, in a body, for treatment,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Well, I have done little favors for a few of them…”
“You know where the body’s buried,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“If I ever opened my files”—Dr. Freemartin lit a foul-smelling cigar—”the things that would fly out!”
“On the West Coast, we call that blackmail,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“The West Coast!” Dr. Freemartin took hold of Mrs. Feeley’s hand. “I’ll pay you well if you’ll take me out there with you. In California I could escape the many responsibilities that are creating tensions within me now. I could relax in such close proximity to Old Mexico!
With such wholesome companionship I could overcome my psychic block against travel. You know, I can’t even ride on an escalator?”
“Save you a lotta money,” Mrs. Rasmussen said; “keep you outa them department stores.”
“We couldn’t do nothin’ like that,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We just got room for ourselfs. Besides, we don’t know when we’ll be leavin’—we gotta testify in the case tomorrow.”
“I told you it’s dropped—finished. You a
re free to go any time.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“You simply must not glorify the reflex, madam. You must control your antagonism toward me.”
“It ain’t started good yet! We’re gettin’ our duds together an’ haulin’ outa here in short order. Miss Tinkham, will you wake up Ol’-Timer?” Mrs. Rasmussen snatched the remains of the loaf of bread from the table and put it in the paper bag.
“Ol’-Timer ain’t et,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Give him a beer,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Now look”—Dr. Freemartin put on what he hoped was his ingratiating smile—”hunger and love control everything—especially pretty little girls like you three…”
“If you offer me a lollipop, I still won’t folly you into no alley,” Mrs. Feeley said. “The best thing you can do is scram. We don’t want no riders, like it says on trucks. We’re gonna paint a sign on the door: Not For Hire. Just stopped here to see the sights, an’ we seen ’em. We got a certain amount o’ natural curiosity, like everybody else, but now we had a bait. We don’t want nothin’ to do with no people that run no clinics an’ spin-bins! Got that?”
“Now you are behaving in a very primitive fashion, dear lady—you are distrustful and suspicious; you’re going on nothing but your inherited engrams!”
“We seen enough—we don’t want no part o’ you. Now get the hell outa my path before I open a couple o’ buttonholes in your hide.”
“Perhaps inquisitiveness is primitive.”—Miss Tinkham put on her hat with the seashell wreath and waved her lorgnette—”but if you knew as much about behaviour patterns as you pretend to, you would know that suspiciousness and distrust are safety measures; they work for security. I must also remind you, as to your request to travel with us, that, among certain of the New Zealanders, one of the best ways of committing suicide is to paddle one’s canoe into waters that do not belong to the tribe. I do not think your colleagues in California would welcome you with open arms, even if we were so indiscreet as to take you with us. Your field, Doctor Freemartin, is already overcrowded.”
“I wish I knew your name,” he said. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and removed a large roll of bills from it. He tore the bills in bits and threw them on the floor. Then he carefully folded the envelope and placed it in his wallet. “You see, money is no object,” he said. “I have stacks of it.”
“Had,” Miss Tinkham said. “Since it is six hundred miles to St. Louis, and we shall probably make an express-run of it, I suggest that we each have a refreshing bath before we start. Doctor Freemartin”—Miss Tinkham opened the front door—”if you will be so kind. And take Miss De Brie with you.”
“Now you’re an educated woman—you don’t look like you have much money to me, but you got a lot of information—never can figure out how poor people can afford to know so much, I could steer you onto something worth while if you would drop these hostile mechanics, relax a little and go more for the pleasure principle!”
“Gerrardahere!” Mrs. Feeley shoved him through the door, “an’ don’t start that foamin’ at the mouth about no sneak atomic attack neither.”
Dr. Freemartin backed through the door. Uremia followed him.
“I don’t know why you’re mad at us,” she said. “We ain’t mad at you. He’s funny when you poke him because people like that has their Venuses in Gemini.”
The analyst tried another tack. “When you have had your bath, come on over to the bar and we’ll rationalize this whole thing. Between Uremia and I, we can make it very worth while for you to transport us to the Coast. You can take your own time…”
“Goddamit, I told you twict, no!” Mrs. Feeley shouted.
“But I’ll pay…”
“Really…” Miss Tinkham withered the pair with a glance. “Your infantile substitution of money for libido is too revolting. We bid you good-day.”
Mrs. Feeley’s arm shot out and slammed the door.
“We’ll be waiting for you.” Dr. Freemartin took off his bowler and bowed through the open window.
“If I have to stay ’round that chunk o’ mousemeat much longer,” Mrs. Feeley said, “I’ll do so much goddamage I’ll never get outa hell!”
“Such persistence I have never seen,” Miss Tinkham said. Mrs. Feeley was busily pulling the shades down and locking the windows. Mrs. Rasmussen waked Old-Timer.
“We gonna sneak out the back way an’ start the car?” Mrs. Feeley asked. Miss Tinkham shook her head and sat down.
“We have to sit down and think. This situation must be reasoned out calmly. We can’t take his word for anything. Suppose we leave here on the assumption that the case is dismissed and find that he is merely bluffing?”
“You got somethin’ there.” Mrs. Feeley rubbed her chin.
“On the other hand, suppose he has something serious over the heads of the authorities? Something bad enough to make them back down. We can’t afford to go blundering into court demanding to have our testimony heard, if there is collusion between the City Officials and the racketeers.”
“If them politicians is gettin’ a cut, they won’t give up the graft, no matter what the syndicate does. How we gonna get outa this jam?” Mrs. Feeley looked puzzled.
“Phone up,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, producing a nickel.
“There is no substitute for genius,” Miss Tinkham said. “The Chief of the Vice Squad…an Irish name.”
“O’ course,” Mrs. Feeley said. “He was the only honest one in the bunch. If he says we can go, we’ll be washed an’ ready. Hope to Gawd Pea-Head ain’t done nothin’ to our car—analyzed it or nothin’.”
“That’s unlikely,” Miss Tinkham reassured her. “He is all too anxious to ride in it. If I only knew why!
Back in the Ark in our quiet surroundings I am certain we could reason this out. Our thinking caps have gone rusty from lack of use.”
“Beer. That’s what we need. Ain’t had a drop since breakfast. This’ll prove an excuse for the glass.”
“I’ll look around and see if I can’t liberate some more cold bottles while Miss Tinkham phones,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Me an’ Ol’-Timer’ll check the car just to make sure. I’ll lock everythin’ up good. Don’t want that flea-spitter for a stowaway.” Mrs. Feeley and Old-Timer went out the back door of the cabin and walked over to the blue Cadillac. They checked it silently and thoroughly. None of the locks had been tampered with. The trunk was secure. Aphrodite reposed peacefully on the back seat, her lampshade slightly awry. All the white-walled tires were standing up in fine shape. Old-Timer lifted the hood and tested the oil. The radiator was full right to the top. The gas tank was locked, just the way he had left it the night before. He turned on the key, pressed the starter, and the engine responded at the first touch. The big motor idled and purred like a cat full of goldfish. He held up his right hand to Mrs. Feeley and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
“Lock it up again,” Mrs. Feeley said, and started back to the cabin. She saw Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham hurrying out of The El Casablanca. Miss Tinkham’s lips were tightly pursed and she motioned Mrs. Feeley to be silent until they got in the cabin. Mrs. Rasmussen carried a carton and several paper bags. Miss Tinkham carried a large paper bundle.
“Did you go to the store?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“No need to.” Mrs. Rasmussen unwrapped half a baked ham and a roast chicken. Miss Tinkham put the bottles of beer in the electric refrigerator in the kitchenette.
“No sense to doin’ that,” Mrs. Feeley said. “What you unpackin’ for? Take it right in the carton. We ain’t got time to look for ice for the beer can till we get to some better town. I wanna get outa here fast.” Mrs. Rasmussen opened beer and handed Old-Timer a thick slice of ham on the end of a loaf of French bread.
“Our departure must be postponed for a while,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Then they’re gonna try us? He was only bluffin’, the stinker!” Mrs. Feeley tossed off
her beer.
Miss Tinkham shook her head. “We are having a visitor,” she said.
“Jeez! Not him again!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Makes me nauseous, he does.”
“The case was dropped,” Miss Tinkham said. “I had no difficulty in reaching Chief Connolly. He was in a state of great depression. I am convinced of his sincerity, but he is outnumbered. I would be willing to make a modest wager that he is speedily dismissed from the department—even if they have to trump up something.”
“Gawd, they’ll frame him like a tinted enlargement! What’d he say about us? Can we go?”
“Oh, yes. The case was dismissed for lack of evidence. He said they refused to book it. Dasey and Freemartin were released this morning.”
“Anybody over at the joint? Ain’t seen a livin’ soul here all day but them two—nobody in the cabins.”
“Just him an’ her,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “They’re in a booth with a bottle o’ gin between ’em, thicker than three in a bed without a sheet. They’re hatchin’ up somethin’.”
“Any customers?”
“Nobody. Crusher ain’t there. It’s gettin’ near dark now an’ the chef ain’t there. I thought it would be a sin to see this nice food goin’ to waste—the good bread was gettin’ stale, so I inherited some of it. Nothin’ but luncheon meat an’ aspic salad over at the store—looks like frozen swill in the bottom of a garbage pail. This chicken’s nice—got dressin’ in it. I got a bottle of olives an’ some cheese—one on the house!”
“What was they doin’ while you was…”
“Preventing waste?” Miss Tinkham smiled. “I went over to say something to explain my presence, to throw them off the trail of my true mission—the telephone. I said to Doctor Freemartin: No clientèle in the daytime, I see.’ He gave a vague wave of his hand and said, ‘Plenty of clean towels! In the locker in the front office. Help yourself.’” Miss Tinkham started another beer. “The man is totally demented.”
Wait For The Wagon Page 5
