The Getaway

by Jim Thompson

“Why? Because I did so this afternoon. Also I iced, fueled, provisioned, keesed my wife…”

  “Okay, okay,” the lieutenant chuckled. “Got any coffee in the galley? Jack, bring us our bucket back there.”

  The gunner came forward with a tin lunch pail. The lieutenant extended it upward, holding onto him for support.

  “Now!” said Doc.

  He got the two of them, almost cutting them in half at the waist with one double blast. They doubled over, toppled down into the dark water between the two boats. Carol’s shot got the steersman in the face and chest. He was still alive when two of the fisherman’s crew tossed him over the side, and blinded, faceless, he managed to struggle to the surface. Mercifully one of the men crushed his skull with an axe. Then they chopped a hole in the bottom of the launch, and leaped back aboard their own craft.

  The diesels roared frantically. The boat lunged at the waves, lunged through them like a terrified thing. Running as though it could never run far enough, as though it would run forever. And then, as the hours passed, slowing. For what was done was done, and for now, at least, there was no need to run.

  As for Carol and Doc…

  They lay in one another’s arms; replete, reunited at last. And Doc held her very close, stroked her head protectively. For she was his wife, much dearer to him than the average wife to the average husband. And if circumstances compelled him to think of her as an opponent—and he was not sure that they did, just yet—it was with no less love and a very great deal of regret.

  She shivered against him, made muffled sounds against his chest. He emitted a few husbandly there-theres, murmured that everything was all right now. Then, realizing that she was laughing, he gave her a tender kiss. “Now, what’s so funny, hummm?”

  “Y-you! I—I—don’t be angry, Doc, but…”

  “Of course I won’t be. Now what did I do that amused you?”

  “N-nothing! It was—well, just you!” She snickered delightedly. “You never really planned on staying in Mexico, did you? You never stopped hoping you could. Someday, somehow, you intended to do it. I could tell. I watched your expression when we were coming down on the train to San Diego, and—and…”

  “And?”

  “Well, you know. Now you can’t. Not after that deal tonight.”

  “Correction,” Doc said. “Now we can’t.”

  14

  The tiny area where El Rey is uncrowned king appears on no maps and, for very practical reasons, it has no official existence. This has led to the rumor that the place actually does not exist, that it is only an illusory haven conjured up in the minds of the wicked. And since no one with a good reputation for truth and veracity has ever returned from it…

  Well, you see?

  But it is there, all right.

  Lying in a small coastal group of mountains, it suffers from sudden and drastic changes in climate. It is almost impossible to dress for it, the barely adequate clothes of one hour become a sweltering burden the next. And somehow, doubtless as an outgrowth of these climatic phenomena, one is always a little thirsty. Still, many tropical and semitropical climates have these same disadvantages, and worse. And there is this to be said for El Rey’s kingdom: it is healthy. Disease is almost unknown. Even such man-created maladies as malnutrition and starvation are minus much of their normal potency, and a man may be almost consumed by them before he succumbs to them.

  It is an excellent place in many ways. Healthy. Possessed of a climate to suit every taste. Protected by the largest per capita police force in the world. Yet there is constant grumbling among its expatriate guests. One of the commonest causes of complaint, strangely, is that all accommodations—everything one must buy—are strictly first class.

  Not that they are exorbitantly priced, understand. On the contrary. A four-bathroom villa, which might cost several thousand a month in some French Riviera resort, will rent for no more than a few hundred. But you can get nothing for less than that. You must pay that few hundred. It is the same with food and drink, nothing but the very best; with clothes, cosmetics, tobacco, and a hundred other things. All quite reasonably priced for what they are, but still worrisomely expensive to people who have just so much money and can get no more.

  El Rey manifests great concern over these complaints, but there is a sardonic twinkle in his ageless old eyes. Naturally, he provides only the best for his guests. Isn’t it what they always wanted elsewhere? Didn’t they insist on having it, regardless of cost? Well, then! He goes on to point out that less exquisite accommodations and material goods would encourage an undesirable type of immigrant; persons his present guests would not care to be identified with. For if they did, they obviously would not be what they were nor be where they were.

  Watching their assets trickle, nay, pour away on every side, people scheme and struggle feverishly to economize. They cut down on food, they do without drink, they wear their clothes threadbare. And the result is that they are just as much out of pocket as if they had bought what they did without.

  Which brings us to the subject of El Rey’s bank, another cause for bitter complaint.

  The bank makes no loans, of course. Who would it make them to? So the only available source of revenue is interest, paid by the depositor rather than to him. On balances of one hundred thousand dollars or more, the rate is six percent; but on lesser sums it rises sharply, reaching a murderous twenty-five percent on amounts of fifty thousand and under. Briefly, it is almost imperative that a patron keep his account at or above the one hundred thousand figure. But he may not do this by a program of skimping and doing without. When one’s monthly withdrawals fall under an arbitrary total—the approximate amount which it should cost him to live at the prevailing first-class scale—he becomes subject to certain “inactive account” charges. And these, added to his withdrawals, invariably equal that total.

  This is just about as it has to be, of course. El Rey must maintain an elaborately stocked commissary; and he can only do so on a fixed patronage basis. Such is the rule in almost every first-class resort. A certain tariff is collected from every guest, and whether he uses what he pays for is strictly up to him.

  To strike another analogy: no one is compelled to deposit his money in El Rey’s bank. But the resort management, specifically the police, will assume no responsibility if it is stolen—as it is very likely to be. There is good reason to believe that the police themselves do the stealing from nondepositors. But there is no way of proving it, and certainly nothing to be done about it.

  So the complaints go on. El Rey is unfair. You can’t win against him. (“You would argue fairness with me, senor? But why should you expect to win?”) He listens courteously to all grievances, but you get no satisfaction from him. He tosses your words back at you, answers questions with questions, retorts with biting and ironic parables. Tell him that such and such a thing is bad, and suggest a goodly substitute, and he will quote you the ancient proverb about the king with two sons named Either and Neither. “An inquiry was made as to their character, senor. Were they good or bad boys, or which was the good and which the bad. And the king’s reply? ‘Either is neither and Neither is either.’”

  People curse him. They call him the devil, and accuse him of thinking he is God. And El Rey will nod to either charge. “But is there a difference, senor? Where is the difference between punishment and reward when one gets only what he asks for?”

  Most immigrants to the kingdom come in pairs, married couples or simply couples. For the journey is an arduous one, and it can seldom be made without the devoted assistance of another. In the beginning, each will handle his own money, carefully contributing an exact half of the common expenses. But this is awkward, it leads to arguments, and no matter how much the individual has he is never quite free of the specter of want. So very soon there is a casual discussion of the advantages of a joint account, and it is casually agreed that they should open one. And from then on—well, the outcome depends on which of the two is the shrewder, the more cold
-blooded or requires the least sleep.

  And whoever is the survivor, and thus has the account at his disposal, will not be alone long. He will be encouraged to seek out another partner, or one will seek him out. And when their association terminates, as it must, there will be still another.

  The process goes on and on; inevitable, immutable. As simple as ABC.

  Mention was made of El Rey’s police; the protection they provide the populace. But this is a word of broad implications. If one is to protect, he may not annoy. He must remember that life belongs to the living. He will be wise to refrain from stepping over the line of his obvious duty to harry down a miscreant who may not exist.

  Sluggings are unheard of in El Rey’s dominion. No one is ever shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, strangled, or brought to death by the usual agencies of murder.

  In fact, there are no murders. Officially, there are none. The very high death rate derives from the numerous suicides and the immigrants’ proclivity for fatal accidents.

  The fine swimming pools of the various villas are rarely used. The horses in the public stables grow fat for want of exercise, and the boats stand rotting in their docks. No one fishes, no one hunts, no one plays golf, tennis, or darts. Briefly, except for El Rey’s annual grand ball, there is almost no social life. Anyone approaching another is suspect or suspicious.

  Doc hardly knew what to do with himself. One day, a few months after his arrival, he took a walk up into the hills; and there, nestled in a pleasant valley and hidden from the city, he came upon a village. The one street was attractively cobblestoned; the buildings were freshly whitewashed. Drifting to him on the breeze came the smell of roasting peppery meat. The only people in sight were two men down near the end of the street, who were sweeping the cobblestones with long-handled brooms. Doc recognized them; he had nodded to them a time or two in the city. He raised his hand in a half-salute. But not seeing him apparently, they finished their sweeping and disappeared inside a building.

  “Yes, senor?” A blue-uniformed carabinero stepped out of a nearby doorway. “I may be of service?”

  “Nothing,” Doc smiled. “I thought for a moment that I recognized those two men.”

  “The streetsweepers? They are friends of yours?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Hardly know them as a matter of fact.”

  “I see. Well, they are newly arrived, those two. They will live here now, in case you should wonder about their absence from their usual haunts.”

  Doc looked around; commented on the pleasing appearance of the place. The carabinero agreed that everything was indeed well kept. “It is required. Each resident contributes such labor as he is able to.”

  “Uh-huh,” Doc nodded. “It’s a cooperative, right? The labor is contributed in lieu of money.”

  “That is right, senor.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Doc took another appreciative look around. “Now, I was wondering. My wife and I have a very nice villa in the city, but…”

  “No, senor. You would not be eligible for admittance here.”

  “Well, now, I don’t know about that,” Doc began. But the officer cut him off.

  He was sure that Doc was not eligible. When he became so, he would be notified. “You may depend on it, senor. Meanwhile, perhaps you would like to walk around—see what your future home will be like.”

  Doc said that he would, and they started down the wide, sparkling street. Smoke rolled up from the chimneys of the houses, but no one stood in their doorways or looked out their windows, and hardly a sound came from any of them. The high dry air seemed unusually warm, and Doc paused and mopped his face. “Where’s the cantina? I’ll buy the drinks.”

  “There is none, senor. You can buy no drinks here.”

  “Well, some coffee then.”

  “That neither, senor. No drink or food of any kind.”

  “No?” Doc frowned. “You mean everything has to be brought out from the city? I don’t think I’d like that.”

  The officer slowly shook his head. “You would not like it, senor. But, no, that is not what I meant. Nothing is brought from the city. Nothing but the people themselves.”

  The words seemed to hang suspended in the air, a brooding message painted upon the silence. The carabinero seemed to study them, to look through them and on into Doc’s eyes. And he spoke gently as though in answer to a question.

  “Yes, senor, that is the how of it. No doubt you have already noticed the absence of a cemetery.”

  “B-but—” Doc brushed a shaky hand across his mouth. “B-but…”

  That smell that filled the air. The odor of peppery, roasting flesh. Peppers could be had anywhere, for the picking, the asking, but the meat…

  “Quite fitting, eh, senor? And such an easy transition. One need only live literally as he has always done figuratively.”

  He smiled handsomely, and the gorge rose in Doc’s throat; it was all he could do to keep from striking the man.

  “Fitting?” he snarled. “It—it’s disgusting, that’s what it is! It’s hateful, hideous, inhuman…”

  “Inhuman? But what has that to do with it, senor?”

  “Don’t get sarcastic with me! I’ve taken care of better men than you without…”

  “I am sure of it. That is why you are here, yes? But wait—” he pointed. “There is one who knows you, I believe.”

  The man had just emerged from one of the houses. He was well over six feet tall, some five or six inches perhaps. And his normal weight should have been—indeed it had been—no less than two hundred and fifty pounds. But what it was now could not possibly be more than a third of that.

  His eyes were enormous in the unfleshed skull’s head of his face. His neck was no larger than Doc’s wrist. It was incredible that he could be alive; but, of course, the climate is very healthy in El Rey’s kingdom and many people live to a hundred years and more.

  He staggered toward Doc, mouthing silently in his weakness. In his helpless silence, the exaggerated slowness of his movements, he was like a man caught up in some terrifying nightmare.

  “Pat—” Doc’s voice was a sickened whisper. “Pat Gangloni.” Automatically, he recoiled from the apparition; and then, bracing himself, he stepped forward deliberately and took Gangloni into his arms. “It’s all right, Pat. Take it easy, boy. You’re okay now.” He patted the skeleton’s shoulders, and Gangloni wept silently.

  The carabinero watched them, an unaccustomed sympathy in his eyes.

  “A sad case,” he murmured. “Oh, but very sad. He is unable to resign himself. Already he has been here far longer than many.”

  “Never mind that!” Doc turned on him angrily. “Can you get me a car—a cab? Something to get him out of here?”

  “We-el, yes. It will take a little time, but I can do it.”

  “Well, do it then! Go on!”

  “Your pardon, senor.” The carabinero didn’t move. “You would take him out of here, you said. Out of here to where?”

  “Where? Why, to my home, naturally! Someplace where I can take care of him. Get him back on his feet.”

  “And then, senor?”

  “Then?”

  “You will continue to provide for him?”

  “Why, uh—” Doc slowed down a little. “Well, yes, of course. I suppose so. I mean—uh…”

  “You would be required to, senor. As long as you were able to provide for yourself. It would be so pointless otherwise. So cruel. Inhuman, as you said a moment ago.”

  Gangloni began to shudder violently. He could not talk, but he could hear; like the man in the nightmare, he knew what was going on. Doc made a feeble attempt to free himself, and the skeleton arms tightened around him.

  “He is a good friend, eh? You owe him much.” The carabinero was sympathy personified. “I can understand. In this one, I would say, there is an inner fineness. He is a man of beliefs, principles—distorted and twisted perhaps, but…”

  Doc abruptly broke free of Gangloni. He backed away on the cobblestones; g
rimacing, mumbling apologetically.

  “I—I’ll have to come back later. I—you know. Make some arrangements first. T-talk with my wife. Sure it’ll be all right, b-but—but you know. How women are, I mean. I—I—Pat! Don’t look at me like that! Don’t…”

  He turned and began to run.

  On the suddenly chill breeze the carabinero’s voice followed him.

  “Hasta la vista, senor. Until we meet again.”

  You tell yourself it is a bad dream. You tell yourself you have died—you, not the others—and have waked up in hell. But you know better. You know better. There is an end to dreams, and there is no end to this. And when people die they are dead—as who should know better than you?

  El Rey does only what he has to. His criminal sanctuary is a big improvement over most. He does not kill you for your loot. He gives you value for your money. He runs a first-class place, and he could not do so if you were allowed to be miserly. Nor can he permit you to linger on when your money is gone. There would be no room for newcomers if he did; and allowed to accumulate, you and your kind would soon take over. You would be in his place, and he would be in yours up on that cobblestoned street with its sparkling whitewashed buildings. And he knows this. He and his native subjects know it. It explains their delight in irony, in symbolism; in constantly holding a mirror up to you so that you must see yourself as you are, and as they see you.

  No, it is impossible to deceive yourself. The kingdom is there, maps and officialdom to the contrary. It is there, call it what you like. All things considered, it is probably the best place of its kind. And its bad features, such as they are, derive not from El Rey but his guests.

  He will not cheat you. He will not kill you. He cannot and will not provide for you, but he will not put an end to your life, no matter how long you live. And in that strangely salubrious climate, you seem to live an eternity.

  In El Rey’s dominion there is one night of the year—the night of the annual grand ball—when there are no “suicides” or fatal “accidents.” Everyone is politely but thoroughly searched before entering the Palacio del Rey, where the fete is held. Everyone is advised that any misfortune to a guest will be regarded with great displeasure. It has been many years since any such misfortune occurred, and the victim’s plunge from a fourth-floor window actually was accidental. But everyone present was fined heavily, and the supposed instigator of the accident—the woman’s husband—suffered total confiscation of his bank account. So today, not only does no one make an untoward move, but everyone shows the greatest concern for the welfare of everyone else. Raise your voice slightly, and you are immediately the target of a hundred anxious eyes. Reach suddenly for a handkerchief or cigarette, and a dozen people move toward you.