Night of Violence

by Louis Charbonneau

  Night of Violence

  Copyright © 1959 by Louis Charbonneau

  All rights reserved.

  Published in 2013 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

  Cover design by John Fisk.

  ISBN 978-1-936535-86-6

  For Inez and Ovide

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Also by Louis Charbonneau

  1

  Forty miles north of Albuquerque, the tire blew. Lew Cutter fought the abrupt twist of the wheel. The black Ford had been doing sixty-five, but it seemed to move slowly toward the bridge ahead, slanting to the right in spite of Cutter’s desperate pull. Then, just short of the bridge, he saw the narrow dirt road dropping sharply off to the right and he let the wheel turn. The coupé swung down onto the dirt road and pounded to a stop. Cutter sat hunched over the wheel, trembling. He could smell the acrid stench of burned rubber.

  After a moment he got out of the car and walked around to the front. The right front tire had been ripped off the rim and shredded.

  “Jesus Christ!” he snarled.

  He turned brooding eyes upward, as if looking toward heaven. The dirt road had dipped downward so abruptly that the crest of the highway was out of sight above him and to the north, the direction from which he had come. To his right it was visible where it crossed the bridge. A blue Buick whined over the bridge, heading north.

  Cutter wiped sweat off his forehead. Now that the danger of a smash up was forgotten, mind and body quickly buried the momentary sense of panic, and his thoughts returned to his main problem. Changing the tire would cost him a few minutes, but the knowledge was more irritating than disturbing. A few minutes were nothing to get scared about. Garner’s men couldn’t know what route ne had taken, and they couldn’t be very close to him. Cutter glanced at the brown suitcase in the back seat. His wide, thin mouth stretched wider in a smile—more of satisfaction than good humor. There was something deeply satisfying about fifty thousand dollars.

  Cutter walked around to the trunk and opened it. Reaching for the jack cached next to the spare tire, he saw the New Mexico plates in the trunk and hesitated. The California plates had been used long enough. This was a good time to make the switch.

  As he picked up the license plates, Cutter heard the approaching hum of another car heading south, rapidly closing in on the bridge. He looked up as the car—a big, maroon Packard—hurtled over the bridge. Cutter had only a flashing glimpse of two men in the front seat, both staring straight ahead, and then the car was gone, its powerful hum receding in the distance.

  Cutter stared after the car, frowning, disturbed by the faint voice of intuition. He shrugged. No point in getting nervous now. They would still be hunting for him in California—or, at the closest, Nevada.

  He dropped the plates on the ground and reached into the trunk for the spare tire.

  In the maroon Packard, the driver, a small man, flicked on the radio. He dialed past shreds of music and blurred voices until he heard a familiar tone. Then he sat back, pursing his lips attentively as he listened to Tom Harmon’s 5:30 sportscast.

  “I didn’t know if I could get the bastard in this god-dam place,” he said.

  The big man beside him said nothing.

  “I guess he’s carried on a lot of stations,” the small man said.

  He listened to the major league scores for the day. Detroit had shut out the Yankees, 3 to 0.

  “Christ, that Hoeft is fast,” the small man said. “When he’s right the bastards can’t touch him.”

  The big man was silent. He squinted against the brilliance of the late afternoon sun mirrored in the polished surface of the highway.

  “Not as fast as that Herb Score, though,” the talkative one said. “Jesus, a million dollars they offered for Score.” Harmon was discussing a swimming meet, which bored him. “The Red Sox it was. Christ! A million dollars! And then he almost lost his goddam eye. Can you imagine what the bastards would of thought if they’d paid a million dollars for him and then he went and lost his screwin’ eye?”

  The big man looked at him without expression.

  “Cutter can’t be far ahead,” the big man said. He had a voice that fitted his body, deep and ponderous.

  The small man shrugged. “There are a lot of black Fords,” he said. “The grease monkey could of been wrong.”

  “It was him,” the big man said softly. His mouth had a hard, ugly twist to it as he spoke. “If you see the Ford, Lefty, slow down. I want to take him alive. I want him to get it slow.”

  Lefty smiled, half at his partner’s comment and half at Tom Harmon’s sports joke, the tag line that always ended his program. This one was another story about Ty Cobb.

  “That’s good,” he said. “I bet that Cobb was a real son of a bitch on the bases.”

  He switched off the commercial, and the only noise was the drone of the engine and the whistling of the wind past the open windows.

  Lefty thought about how fast Herb Score was, and he remembered the way it was when he had his own high hard one. And he’d had control, too. He still had the control. Once he had tossed a spitball a good hundred feet through a small window, killing two people. The boys in the trade still talked about that one. With his control and his speed, Lefty would have made the big time, if he hadn’t hurt his arm. Sometimes, in his imagination, he could hear the announcer giving the lineup in Yankee Stadium, his voice metallic over the loudspeaker, drifting through the crowded stands: “Berra, catcher. Lefty Cox, pitching.” And the roar would go up from the crowd….

  The big man beside him, whose name was Pete Baer, thought about his brother Al, and he mentally cursed with a slow vehemence. It wasn’t just that Al had had his head cracked open. The Doc said he would be okay. But the big boys wouldn’t trust Al any more. Garner had said as much. Cutter had made a sap out of Al.

  If Sam hadn’t sent him to catch Cutter, Pete thought, he would have come on his own. And he didn’t want to do it with a gun if he could avoid it. He didn’t want Lefty to throw a grenade, his specialty. Pete wanted to get his hands on Cutter … just his hands.

  As if in response, his hands bunched into big hard fists. As he thought about how it would be, his thick fingers dug into his palms. Slowly he opened his hands. They were sweating. Pete took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his palms. His movements were deliberate, almost delicate, sharply out of keeping with his bulk.

  Lefty started whistling, and Pete glanced at him irritably. If he wasn’t talking baseball, he was whistling. Off key, too. Just about anybody would have been better to have along on this job. But they all thought Lefty was great stuff, from Sam Ga
rner on down, because he could throw a pineapple a hundred feet and hit a target. And because he could be equally effective at close range with a knife.

  But he was a stupid slob. He couldn’t finish one sentence without being foul-mouthed. In that he was like all the others, Pete thought with a trace of contempt. Of the whole mob, Pete was the only one who had ever been to college….

  Twenty miles past the bridge there was a juncture with the old highway leading through a town called Daro. Lefty, driving the big car with casual ease, followed the curve of the new highway, bypassing Daro. As the Packard swung into the curve, it flashed past a faded sign advertising the Hideaway Motel. There was a large, peeling black arrow pointing along the old road. Lefty saw the words “½ MILE” and “$5.” Then the sign was lost behind him.

  2

  Art Durbin stood out in front of the Hideaway Motel, under the sign on which the word “VACANCY” blinked on and off in the form of a blood-red tube. He stared gloomily off toward the main highway. Beyond it to the east, the distant mountains shimmered in a purple haze.

  Six o’clock, and only one of the units had been taken for the night. In August, for God’s sake!

  Coming out of the air conditioned office, he had felt the heat pressing down on him like a solid thing, leaving wet prints on his back where his shirt clung. He accepted the heat without irritation. He had known much worse in the islands of the South Pacific, and he had even grown to like it.

  Art turned to gaze at the string of units laid out in a U-shape behind him, surrounding a bare gravel courtyard. There was only one car, the salesman’s gray Buick, parked in front of Unit 1. It was coated with the dust of the road, giving it a drab appearance which was shared by the motel units.

  At that moment Art saw the motel with a sharpened perspective, as if it had suddenly been brought into focus through the lens of a good camera. He saw the weeds growing tall around the buildings, dry and brown, and the chalked look of the faded paint turned powdery by the sun. There was nothing inviting about the motel in the pitiless sunlight. Small wonder that so many cars would slow down, faces turning in the windows for an appraisal, then pick up speed, moving on to find a better place for the night.

  In the beginning Art had been making headway in the struggle against the motel’s age. He had installed the air conditioning, fixed some faulty plumbing, painted all of the units inside and out, bought the new neon sign. He had even talked to an architect about remodeling the exterior, planning it simply so that Art could do a lot of the work himself. But all that was before Lucy walked out.

  Now it didn’t seem to be important any more.

  Art turned to look up the old road toward Daro. Marina was late. As he watched, a rust-colored Plymouth hardtop began to slow down, nearing the motel. For a moment Art thought it was going to turn in to the café across the way, but the car swung toward him.

  As he recognized the car and its driver he felt a welling of disgust. Another unit taken—for a few hours. Two years ago he would have told the man to find another love nest. Now it was too much trouble to say no—and he needed the business. It was as if he took a perverse pleasure in allowing the motel to become cheap and drab and unloved like a middle-aged whore.

  Art went back into the office and behind the counter, feeling the shock of the cold air more keenly than the heat outside. A moment later the driver of the Plymouth entered. The car was parked out of sight.

  “Hi,” the man said. “Got a unit vacant?”

  “Sure.” Art was trying to remember the man’s name. The last name was Smith—or Brown or Jones—but the first name eluded him. The first name was usually their own and they didn’t change it.

  He pushed the register over the counter and the man bent over it to sign. Art saw the scrawled “Harry” and it clicked in his brain. Harry Smith. Mr. and Mrs. Only this would be a different Mrs. from the last one.

  “How much is that?” Harry Smith asked, smiling easily.

  “Five dollars.”

  Art took the money and gave the man the key to Unit 2. “There’s a phone,” Art said. “If you need anything just call.”

  “Fine,” Harry Smith said. He seemed oddly reluctant to leave. “Hot one today.”

  “Yeah.”

  Smith hesitated. “We may be pulling out early. Shall I just leave the key in the door?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  The man turned abruptly and started out. At the same moment Art became aware of the roar of Marina’s MG coming up the road at a fast clip. Smith was going out the door as the MG shifted down and skidded toward the motel. The bite of the tires on the gravel was clearly audible as the little car slid to a stop just outside the office. There was the slam of a door and the quick crunch of footsteps.

  Marina stopped in the doorway. “Hello,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Her blue eyes were still dancing from the excitement of a fast ride in the open car, and she looked strikingly beautiful.

  “Hi,” Art said. “We haven’t exactly been busy.”

  Marina walked toward the counter, swinging her oversize purse. A car door slammed in the courtyard and Marina inclined her head toward the sound.

  “Another Mr. and Mrs. Smith?”

  “How could you tell?”

  “It’s not hard,” she said.

  Art shrugged. “It’s a common name.”

  He lifted a section of the counter for her to come through. She put her purse on the desk and turned to face him, leaning back against the edge of the desk top. Art was sharply aware of the brilliant blue eyes against the deep golden tones of her skin. Everything about her was vibrantly alive, from the crisp black hair curling close to her head to the long, lithe and smoothly tanned legs.

  “You don’t have to take the Smiths,” she said.

  “You know as well as I do that I can’t keep going if I turn business away. Any business.”

  “You could get the business,” she persisted.

  “Sure. Get them to remove that nice new highway so all the cars wouldn’t bypass us.”

  “You don’t even try!” Marina retorted. “Ever since Lucy walked out you’ve just let things go. Have you taken a look at your sign lately—the one up the road?”

  Art felt a quick surge of irritation. Marina’s criticism invariably bothered him, where anyone else’s comments brought only a shrug.

  Marina walked over to stand beside him. He was conscious of her height, although he was over six feet himself. She looked at the register, at the two entries for the day. Her profile was Grecian, Art thought, like one of those statues, with the high-bridged nose and the full, ripe lips, but instead of the cool white of marble her skin had the warmth of honey, and instead of wearing a fixed, mysterious smile, her mouth was moist and mobile. She was taller and slimmer, too, than the Greeks had liked their goddesses.

  “When are you going to forget her?” Marina asked softly.

  “You think I haven’t asked that myself?” Art said. “Maybe I should see one of those brain specialists and have him cut out a piece of my memory.”

  He saw the stiff, set look of her mouth and he understood her anger with him, and he thought a man must be crazy to speak deliberately the words that would set those warm, red lips into a firm straight line.

  But he couldn’t forget.

  3

  In Unit 1, Phil Nelson smiled enthusiastically at the mirror.

  “I’ll only take a few minutes of your time,” he said. “But after you’ve seen the unique new advertising program I have to show you—and seen exactly what it has done for hundreds of other progressive auto dealers all over the country in a few months—I know you’ll agree these few minutes can be worth big money to you.”

  Phil stopped. It didn’t feel right. That should read “only a few months.” Every time he tried to change the opening of his sales talk, he felt uncomfortable about it. Actually he had changed very little—adding the word “progressive” before “auto dealers” and the phrase “in a f
ew months.” But even such small changes in a formula which had been providing his bread and butter for eight years assumed an overwhelming importance. He felt that his opening needed to be sparked up—but he was afraid to tamper with it.

  Well, he could try out the changes in Daro. There ought to be one or two good prospects, and he could test the feel of the new opening before moving in to Albuquerque. He could afford to waste Daro, if it came to that. But Albuquerque was one of the few sure-fire towns in the whole damned state and he had to place an order there.

  It had been a bad trip. Phil always did better on the Coast, where he knew most of the newspaper ad men and a lot of the small businessmen he had to call on. But Joe Carter, the Western sales manager for American Features Syndicate, had talked Phil into the trip through Arizona and New Mexico. It was untapped territory for American, Joe had argued—“Hell, Phil, it’ll be like landing on an island full of virgins.” And, like most salesmen, Phil was easily sold himself.

  He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed. He’d grab a bite to eat at the café across the road and go in to look the town over. Talk to a few people, maybe, and find out who his best prospects might be. There were always “buyers” in every town. He had long ago learned that some men would buy even after they had been stung a dozen times. They were just natural-born buyers. An experienced salesman could smell them. Phil didn’t think of them as suckers. While the advertising programs he sold might not be the best in the world, they could do a job. You had to believe in your product, up to a point, and Phil never felt that the people he sold had been “taken.”

  Just as there were buyers, there were businessmen who wouldn’t give you the time of day. They were the ones who made you feel cheap, as if you were doing something dirty or dishonest. They were the ones who made Phil feel sometimes that he hated being on the road.

  He had tried it the other way once. Dorothy had made him. He got a job selling shoes in a little store in San Bernardino—the kind of small store he meant to have himself some day. But the owner of the store had been a real son of a bitch, and the lousy eighty bucks a week he had paid Phil looked pitifully small when he thought about some of the big checks he could pull in on the road when he was going good.