“How would it be if we was to stop next chance, eat an’ wash a little bit, then you an’ Ol’-Timer get in the back seat an’ sleep till we get to Amarillo?” Mrs. Rasmussen suggested. “I’ve slept the whole night like a baby, an’ long as I only got to look for a Number Sixty-six ahead o’ me, I can wheel us on in. Do you a world o’ good.”
“I had to open your bag twice to pay for the gasoline,” Miss Tinkham said.
“What do you say, Ol’-Timer?” Mrs. Feeley leaned forward.
For answer, Old-Timer slid the car neatly into a roadside stand where three trucks were parked and the drivers were eating breakfast in a bright, clean room.
“He slud in like Dizzy Dean goin’ home!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Don’t forget the beer.”
Dr. Freemartin slumbered in his corner.
“Leave him lay.” Mrs. Rasmussen ordered hot cakes, sausage and coffee. “While he’s eatin’, we can talk in the car. But it ain’t safe to stop.” She looked around her nervously. “The daytime’s gonna be the worst; they can see us so plain. Nighttime the color o’ the car don’t show up so gaudy.”
“They ain’t no safe place.” Mrs. Feeley moved her plate further away from the truck drivers. “They musta took our number. Hey!” Her face lit up. “We can stop at a junk yard an’ pick us up another set o’ license plates! Why didn’t we think o’ that sooner ’stead o’ havin’ the jumpin’ jitters for twenty-four hours?”
“Then,” Miss Tinkham smiled wearily, “we would really know what trouble is. This way, the worst that can happen is that we’ll all be killed. If we tampered with the Holy Writ of the Registry of Motor Vehicles, I shouldn’t like to contemplate the consequences.”
“Guess that’s out,” Mrs. Feeley said. “But it wouldn’t hurt just to sort o’ splash a little thick, gluey mud on the number plates—accidental, o’ course.”
“If we could lay up days, somehow,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “seems like the night drivin’ ain’t so much of a strain; we’re so naked-like drivin’ along in that shade o’ blue with all them rods lookin’ for us.”
“Lay up days!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We oughta be home by tomorra; it’s Wednesday, today. We can do it easy. They ain’t no place safe to stop.”
“Would that it were possible,” Miss Tinkham sighed. “It will be much later than Wednesday, if we make it.”
Dr. Freemartin came staggering into the restaurant.
“Ham an’ eggs,” he snarled. “No coffee. Keeps me awake.”
“Old-Timer, will you wait for Doctor Freemartin while we wash up?” Miss Tinkham said. She and her friends hastened to the washroom. Miss Tinkham stood in front of the closed door and whispered, “Our chance has come! I am scarcely tired any longer.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Feeley whispered.
“He left his blue bag in the car. Hurry.”
The ladies went out through the restaurant with no show of haste. Mrs. Rasmussen got in behind the wheel and Mrs. Feeley sat next to her.
“Quickly!” Miss Tinkham leaned over the back seat. “Don’t bend down, he may be watching. Try the zipper.”
Mrs. Feeley slid down in the seat and tried the bag.
“Locked.” She was disgusted.
“He is becoming more careless every day,” Miss Tinkham said. “He asked Mrs. Rasmussen to carry it when we left the Blue Grotto. Where is the hatpin you used to insure elbow room in the subway, Mrs. Feeley?”
“Right beside you on the floor,” Mrs. Feeley said, “stuck in the lining of my bag. I won’t need it. If he moves close to me, I’ll just open the door an’ ‘Goo’-bye, John!’”
“Hurry.” Miss Tinkham handed the hatpin across the seat deftly. “Pierce the bag with the pin, thoroughly, from both directions. See if it comes in contact with anything solid like a medicine tin or a bottle.” Miss Tinkham waved and bowed to the proprietor of the lunch stand who stood in the entrance staring at her, cigar in hand. He shrugged and walked away. “Just to distract Doctor Freemartin, in case he should be looking,” she said.
“Ain’t nothin’ hard in here,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Not nothin’ even as big as a vile of Carter’s Little Liver Pills. We been swindled.”
“He must be carrying it on his person. He transferred it at the Blue Grotto,” Miss Tinkham said. “Careful. We’ll have to look further at the next opportunity. Did you enjoy your breakfast, Doctor?”
“Waste of time. Waste of time. Let’s get going,” he said.
“You should do something about your time neurosis,” she smiled. “It gives me an idea for combining two old favorites, ‘The Prisoner’s Song’ and ‘Time On My Hands.’”
“Stow it,” he said. “There’s no time for your corny jokes. How far are we from El Paso?”
“I wouldn’t have the faintest notion,” Miss Tinkham murmured sleepily. She raised herself slightly and sat on the folded map. “Lock both doors, Mrs. Feeley. We don’t want to lose the dear doctor.”
“You’re doin’ fine, Mrs. Rasmussen.” Mrs. Feeley clapped her on the back. “Deep in the heart o’ Texas, an’ goin’ right on across.”
Miss Tinkham came out of the rest room looking greatly refreshed.
“I was concerned about losing our passenger during the stops when Old-Timer was sleeping,” she said. “His interest in El Paso and the Mexican Border is indicative of a desire to part company with us.”
“We ain’t gonna let him do a bunk,” Mrs. Feeley said. “My mind’s made up to haul him on in an’ turn him over to Mike Shea. Them boys’ll know what to do with him.”
“Once we picked up the beer at the first place we seen open after breakfast, I didn’t hardly stop for nothin’,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “He wasn’t no trouble, ’cept hollerin’ for gin. They didn’t sell nothin’ but beer. He wanted me to stop back at Shamrock, but Mrs. Feeley said the Irish wasn’t much for gin, so he’d have to wait.”
Miss Tinkham looked at the clock.
“I believe we’ll be in Amarillo by three. I shall resume my post as navigator then. We must be sure to take the proper turn onto Route Sixty, otherwise we’ll end up in Albuquerque. You made wonderful time, Mrs. Rasmussen; Old-Timer can take over now, if you like…”
“I’ll wheel her on in,” she said. “I’m kinda shaky, but drivin’ gets you. After a few hundred miles you get wheel-happy an’ don’t want to quit.”
Dr. Freemartin appeared with a bottle of gin under each arm.
“What’s the delay? What’s the delay?”
“You yellow-bellied, white-livered repeater!” Mrs. Feeley raised her hand with a beer bottle in it. “Goddam if I wouldn’t like to toss you over a canyon.”
“You speak the violent language of the jungle tigress,” he said.
“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Get in the boat!”
Mrs. Rasmussen spurted off onto the highway. Mrs. Feeley sat beside her and finished her beer. Dr. Freemartin exhaled gin in heavy gusts.
“We really haven’t the slightest need for a Flit-gun.” Miss Tinkham covered her nose delicately. “It’s stronger than DDT.”
“It’s all for the Flag,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Call me when we hit El Cajon Boulevard.”
“A lady Barney Oldfield,” Miss Tinkham murmured as Mrs. Rasmussen took a curve on two wheels. A heavy Lincoln hurtled past and a yell reminiscent of a Comanche raid split the air. Miss Tinkham jumped high in the seat. Dr. Freemartin slid down in his corner until he was almost on the floor. A second long, black car zoomed by.
An enormous creature wearing a ten-gallon Stetson stuck his head out and howled: “We got you! Slow down!”
“Pass ’em!” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “Loaded with death-weepons! See them shotguns? Pour the coal to her, Mrs. Rasmussen, an’ damn the expense.” The needle moved up to eighty on the speedometer.
“The Texas Rangers!” Miss Tinkham said, crouched down on the back seat. “We must have broken one of their unwritten laws.”
“Keep going,” Dr. Freemartin said.
“The Ran
gers have the power of life and death over everyone in Texas,” she said, “although I never heard of a speed limit in Texas.”
“That bunch looks more like…” Dr. Freemartin raised his head up for a peep at the car they were catching up with.
“Boy scouts on a bacon-bat?” Miss Tinkham said. “If they are not Rangers, they are part of the Chicago gang that recently incorporated in Dallas. I do wish we knew which was which! It will be horribly embarrassing if we turn out to be resisting arrest.”
Mrs. Rasmussen’s foot was flat on the floor.
“They’re sure souped-up!” Mrs. Rasmussen muttered. “Can’t get by ’em.”
“They’ll be lyin’ in wait for us, right ’round the bend,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I feel like callin’ the police. It’s the first time since Mr. Feeley was took that I feel the need of a husband to stand between me an’ the wind!”
“Two more are behind us,” Miss Tinkham shrieked to make herself heard over the wild screaming that got louder and louder as the two cars came closer.
“Crouch down on the floor,” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “That’s how they go just before they scalp you!”
“And right in the city limits!” Miss Tinkham said. “You can always tell when you are in the city limits in Texas. All the signs say: Speed Limit Fifty Miles Per Hour. Rigidly Enforced.”
The scream of a siren rose to a hysterical pitch.
“Gawd! They’re disguised as cops,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Better stop before they start shootin’.”
“They haven’t got a thing on me.” Dr. Freemartin sat back up on the seat and straightened his tie.
Mrs. Rasmussen finally pulled the blue Cadillac to a thunderous halt. A highway patrol officer stepped from his car and watched his companion speed on after the two Lincolns. He walked over to the Cadillac and stood silent for several minutes.
“You folks were going right on in, weren’t you?” he said.
No one answered.
“New Jersey,” he said. “I’ll just have a look at your driver’s license, please, ma’am.”
Mrs. Rasmussen produced her wallet and handed her license to him.
“California? Don’t they have speed laws out there, ma’am?”
No one said anything.
“It isn’t that we mind the speed so much, but you really should stop for the red light. You really should. Some of the accidents are very untidy…”
“We was fleein’ for our lives!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Them hoods with sawed-off shotguns threatened us. Aimed right at our heads, they was. Whyn’t you catch them instead o’ botherin’ us?”
A squawking, rattling noise emerged from the patrol car.
“I have always heard that disregarding the red light was the most efficacious way to summon police protection,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Car twenty-eight. Car two eight,” the metallic voice came from the radio.
“You’re wanted on the squawk-box,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’ll be right with you in a moment.” The traffic officer went over to his car.
“Just like The Virginian,” Miss Tinkham sighed, “always so gentle. If any of us says ‘son of a bitch,’ we must be sure to smile!”
“I’m sorry you had a scare.” The patrolman came back. “That was only a couple of carloads of high-school kids…”
“Gawd! How big do the men grow here?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Just youngsters, racing with the old car…”
“Old what?” Mrs. Feeley started to climb over Mrs. Rasmussen. “What do you mean, old car?”
“Now, ma’am, no offense intended”—the officer held up his hand—”you see, these are just poor Texas youngsters, the kind that have to wash their own Lincolns. They’ve never seen a car of…well, of this model. These boys trade in their Cadillacs every time the ash trays get full. I’m sorry they startled you, ma’am. It wasn’t very polite of them. If you’ll just tell me which way you were going, I’ll be glad to give you an escort.”
“How far to El Paso?” Dr. Freemartin spoke up.
“We are not going to El Paso,” Miss Tinkham said.
“How far to San Diego?” Mrs. Feeley said. “Let’s get the fac’s.”
“Eleven-oh-six, ma’am.”
“Tonight?” Mrs. Feeley brightened.
“He means one thousand one hundred and six miles,” Miss Tinkham said.
“We’re gettin’ no nearer fast,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’m tellin’ you they was gangsters. I demand you to arrest ’em!”
“That would be carrying a joke a little too far, ma’am.” The officer smiled his lovely, sad smile. “We love our children. I’ll take you right on down Sixty to Farwell at the State Line. You take Seventy at Portales. Follow me, ma’am.”
Mrs. Feeley opened her mouth to mention a stop, but he was gone on ahead.
“Tally-ho!” Miss Tinkham cried.
“Step on it, Mrs. Rasmussen,” Mrs. Feeley reached back for a beer. “First time in my life I ever had one o’ them boogers yowlin’ his sireen in front o’ me, ’stead o’ behind me. We might’s well lean back an’ enjoy it.”
The long rest filled Old-Timer’s veins with stormy petrol. Through the hot night he guided the blue sedan over three hundred miles of New Mexico. The ladies dozed fitfully by turns. Dr. Freemartin was watchful and restless.
Thursday dawned splendidly as Miss Tinkham woke. She looked at the clock.
“Half-past four. We should be coming to Las Cruces,” she said.
“It’s only forty-four miles to El Paso,” Dr. Freemartin said. “I think that’s the best way.”
“Nobody asked you what you thought,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We want to get home—so near now, we can’t hardly sleep. We ain’t takin’ time out for no side trips.”
“Only thing we’d want to stop for would be Mexican dinner at Ashley’s,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “But he wouldn’t hardly be open at five in the mornin’. We’re so near home, we’ll soon be runnin’ down to the hot-tortilla woman on Imperial for a batch of fresh ones to make our own enchiladas—plenty o’ cheese an’ onions. Sure go good with the beer.
“I always liked hamburgers,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but after this ride, I doubt if I can ever look another one in the face.”
“Hamburgers,” Miss Tinkham mused, “and the constancy of hot-dogs. A dish of Mrs. Rasmussen’s scrambled eggs with cream cheese and chives…”
“What’s the use o’ talkin?” Mrs. Feeley said. “No use torturin’ ourselfs. There just ain’t no place like home.”
“If you are not eating, you’re talking about eating,” Dr. Freemartin growled. “If you want a Mexican dinner, we could cross the border…”
“We are not going to stop until Cambray. We shall have our breakfast and wash up a bit.”
Old-Timer drove in to an attractive wayside stand built of adobe.
“Sure nice to see the West,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Save me a place at the counter.” She climbed out of the car, stretched her legs, and went inside. Miss Tinkham remained seated and signaled to Mrs. Rasmussen to stay in the car. Old-Timer and Dr. Freemartin went into the building and climbed up on stool in front of the window. Mrs. Feeley soon joined them. Miss Tinkham beckoned to her through the window.
“At every opportunity I have searched the inside of the car,” she said. “Something that happened in Texas started me thinking. Do you remember how self-confident, almost brazen, he was when we were arrested? He sat up and said they had nothing on him.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“I was too scared to notice,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Them wasn’t no kids.”
Miss Tinkham waved that aside.
“The point is this: he has either disposed of the narcotics along the way, or hidden the dope somewhere in this car.”
“He wouldn’t a got scared an’ throwed it away?” Mrs. Feeley said. “Be worth too much for that, wouldn’t it?”
“It constitutes his entire capita
l,” Miss Tinkham said. “The last thing he plans to do is throw it away or give it away. He is going to dole it out in very small quantities for enormous prices. The moral fiber of addicts is completely destroyed. They will do anything, pay any price, to obtain their Nirvana.”
“Ol’-Timer’s been with him the whole while,” Mrs. Feeley said, “even followed him into the grog-shops for his gin. He’s better’n a shadow.”
“At what point he disembarrassed himself of the stuff is what puzzles me,” Miss Tinkham said. “Each time he has been out of the car, I have conducted a further search. The hatpin has gone through every bit of upholstery in the car.”
“I wondered what you was doin’ scroungin’ ’round in the dark a coupla times,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Thought maybe it was mice.”
“I even searched inside the spare tires at Farwell, while he was eating supper. When we stopped for gasoline after midnight last night, I picked up a bit of wire, bent it and fished around in the gasoline tank. Nothing. But nothing! It’s most discouraging…”
“You look in the engine?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“I had Old-Timer look last night,” she began to blush. “I am ashamed to confess it, but I rummaged through everyone’s suitcases, to make sure he hadn’t tried to palm it off on one of us. I apologize now.”
“Hell! That’s nothin’,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “He’s dumped it on somebody, ’cause he’s too cocky. I could swear he ain’t carryin’ it on him.”
“I’ve searched everything I can think of,” Miss Tinkham said. “We better go in before he wonders what’s detaining us.”
“You can’t trust him alone,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“For ways that are devious,” Miss Tinkham whispered, “these criminals have infinite resourcefulness and invention. One of us must stay in the car to stand guard at all times.”
“We could lock the car good,” Mrs. Feeley said, “when we get out for anything.”
Miss Tinkham looked around at the windows of the car.
“This is a de luxe model, I grant you, but I doubt greatly that this is unbreakable glass; he has many thousands of dollars in narcotics concealed in here and he would not hesitate…”
Wait For The Wagon Page 12
