"Point of No Return? Where's that and what is it?"
"Carl Jenson's place. He's lived there all his life. His father owned it before he did: a filling station and a snack bar. There's no other filling station after Point of No Return for the next hundred and sixty miles, and that's on the other side of the mountain."
"How far is it from here?"
"Fifty miles."
"How do I get there—walk?"
He grinned at me.
"Nothing as painful as that. You're in luck. Mr. Jenson will be in here in a while. He comes into town every three months to buy scrap metal: plenty of that going in this bum town. You talk to him. He's a nice fellow. He'll give you a ride out to his place if you tell him you want to get over the mountain. He's always a good one for helping people out of a hole."
"When will he be in then?"
He glanced over his shoulder at the fly-blown clock.
"About twenty minutes. You stick around. I'll tip you when he comes in. How about another coffee?"
I would have liked one, but my money was running low.
"No, thanks. If you don't mind me hanging around …"
He drew a cup of coffee and shoved it at me.
"It's on the house. You look as if you've come a long way."
"Yeah." I rubbed my bristly chin. "I'm joining a pal in Tropica Springs. I've been travelling rough. My pal and I are going into business together. I've been travelling on my thumb to save my money."
"Money . . ." The counter man shook his head glumly. "I've never had enough of it. I wouldn't be in this lousy town now if I had enough to take my wife and kids somewhere where I could earn a fair wage. Can't get far without money." He looked out through the open window to watch a big cream and black Cadillac float past, throwing clouds of dust either side, some of it coming through the window. "Those guys. They never stop here. They're loaded with dough, but they never spend it here. At least Mr. Jenson does all right. They have to stop at his place whether they like it or not. I reckon he has a gold mine out there."
While he was speaking, a big man came in through the open doorway and walked to the bar.
"Let's have a fast coffee, Mike," he said "I want to get away early today."
He glanced at me and then away. As the counter man drew the coffee, he went on, "How's the wife? I haven't seen her around this trip."
"She's in Wentworth this afternoon, Mr. Jenson," the counter man said. He looked at me, "She'll be sorry to have missed you."
Now I knew he was my man, I looked at him more closely. He stood fully six foot four in his socks and was as broad as two ordinary men. His face was fleshy and sunburned. It was a good face: open, kind and humorous. At a guess he was around fifty-two or three. Although he was big, there wasn't much fat on him. He looked durable: a lot more durable than most men of his age.
The counter man said, "Excuse me, Mr. Jenson, this fella is looking for a ride over the mountain. I told him Point of No Return is the best spot to pick up a truck."
Jenson turned and looked me over, then he smiled.
"How do," he said "Yeah, Mike's right. You won't get any truckers stopping on the road, but they do stop at my place. Glad to be of help. I'll give you a lift to my place, but you'll have to take your chance with the truckers. Most of them aren't permitted to carry passengers over the mountain: something to do with the insurance."
"Thanks," I said, "if you're sure it won't put you out."
He laughed.
"I'm glad to have company on the drive back. It's a damned awful road. My name's Carl Jenson." He held out a big fleshy hand.
I shook hands with him.
"I'm Jack Patmore," I said, thinking up the name on the spur of the moment.
"Are you heading for Tropica Springs?"
"That's right."
He finished his coffee and dropped a coin on the counter.
"Well, if you're ready ..."
He shook hands with the counter man as I slid off the stool.
"So long, Mike: be seeing you."
I also shook hands with the counter man, nodding my thanks, then I followed Jenson's enormous bulk out into the burning sunshine.
He led the way to where a ten ton truck stood in the shade. The truck was loaded with scrap metal: rusty iron bedsteads were piled together with rods, bolts and broken farm equipment.
Jenson swung himself up into the cab and I followed him. It was like an oven in the cab and we both stripped off our coats.
Jenson took out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. As we lit up, he said, "May as well make ourselves comfortable. It's a long, hot run." Then he started the engine and drove down the dusty main street.
Neither of us said anything until we were clear of the town, then Jenson broke the silence by asking casually: "Is this your first visit out here?"
"Yes," I said.
"Me—I was born and raised here. It's a lonely spot and it's goddamn hot, but I like it. You come far?"
"Oakland."
"That's quite a step. Never been there myself. What's it like?"
"Okay."
He glanced at me.
"I wouldn't have guessed you were country bred. What line are you in if it isn't being nosey?"
"I'm in the lock trade. My dad was a locksmith too: runs in the family."
"Locks, eh? Would you know anything about metal?"
"Sure. When I'm not fixing locks I'm building safes, and you've got to know about metal with safes."
"Yeah, that's right."
He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. We were driving along a dusty road that led through the desert. In the far distance was the mountain. The wheels of the truck churned up the dust that came in through the open cab window, smothering us.
"You wouldn't know anything about car engines, would you?" he asked after a long silence.
"As much as most," I said, wondering what he was getting at. "I can take an engine down if that's what you mean. I once made a new cylinder head for my old man's Ford. That was quite a job, but I did it."
He glanced at me again, and I was aware the sharp blue eyes were going over me intently.
"If you can do that, you know cars," he said. "Are you planning to stay in Tropica Springs?"
I was getting bothered by this steady stream of questions.
"Yes," I said, and looked away from him out of the cab window.
In the distance I could see a hawk hovering, sharp etched against the sky that seemed bleached white with the heat.
"Have you a job waiting for you?" he asked. "What I'm driving at is this: if you're looking for a job, I could give you one."
"You could? What kind of a job?"
"I need a guy who can handle metal and cars. These past two years have been tough going for Lola—that's my wife—and for me. I keep promising myself I'd get help. You seem the kind of young fellow I could get along with. Mind you, the place is pretty lonely and you'd have to do your turn at night shift. The nearest town is Wentworth—twenty miles of desert road, but you'd find the food okay. Lola certainly knows how to cook. She's Italian. You like Italian food?"
"I guess so."
"You wait until you try her spaghetti: never tasted anything so good. You'd have a cabin to yourself. There's a radio. I have a spare TV set: you could have that too." He looked hopefully at me. "I'd pay forty bucks and all found. There's nothing to spend your money on. You could get together some capital."
I didn't hesitate for more than a second or so. This was my chance to get lost. Anyway, I could work for him for a few months, get together some money and then move on.
"Sounds fine," I said. "Okay, I'd like to give it a trial."
He grinned at me.
"Then you've got yourself a job, son," he said and reaching out his enormous hand, he patted me on the knee.
CHAPTER FOUR
I
The first sight I had of Point of No Return was when the truck had panted up a sharp hill and then began to coast down into the valley tha
t was as flat as a plate with ribbed white sand, blinding in the sunshine and dotted with burnt up scrub.
"That's it," Jenson said, pointing, "that's my place."
There was a small bungalow, a couple of low sheds, a bigger and higher shed, three gas pumps, and on the other side of the highway, a cabin. All the buildings were painted sky blue, and they stood out against the whiteness of the sand with startling intensity
"That cabin on the far side is for you," Jenson said. "That was where I was born. My old man built it with his own hands. I built the bungalow when he passed on. It takes guts to live out hire. It's lonely and tough going. I'm lucky to have found a woman who'll share it with me. Without her, I'd be sunk. We're on call every night of the week. You'd be surprised the number of times we have to turn out in the middle of the night. Truckers drive over the mountain at night—it's cooler, and they always stop here for gas. That's why I reckon you'll be a big help to me. With three of us taking turns, the night shift won't be so bad."
We were down in the valley by now. The heat came at us with an edge to it that brought me out in a sticky sweat.
"You feel it?" He seemed proud of the heat "But at night it's okay. At night, it can be really cool."
He put his great hand on the horn button and gave two long blasts. He looked at me, grinning.
"That's to let Lola know I'm coming. She'll be surprised when she sees you. She's always telling me we don't need a hired hand. The fact is, Jack, it's because I've listened to her for so long I've never had a fella to help out. You know these Italians—goddamn thrifty. That's the way they're made. Me—I guess I'm pretty careful with my money too, but my wife—land's sake— she's more than careful. 'What do we want a man here for?' she says. 'If I don't mind getting up at night, why should you?' That's the way she talks." He shook his head. "At my age, it's not right. For more years than I care to remember, I've slaved seventeen hours a day. Okay, I've made money, but I've never had any fun out of it. What do you make money for, Jack? You tell me. What do you make it for?"
"Why, I guess, first for security, then when you have that, you go after some fun," I said, humouring him.
"That's right!" He punched me on the knee. "Security first. Well, I've got that taken care of.
Now at fifty-five, I'm going to have some fun. With you here, Lola and me can go into Wentworth every now and then. With you to help out, it's going to be a lot easier here."
But there was a slight doubt in his voice that made me look at him, puzzled. He didn't sound like a man who is sold on what he is saying.
The truck was now pounding along the flat, burning road and we passed a big sign that read:
Point of No Return
You Have Been Warned!
Last Chance for Gas for 165 Miles
Snack Bar. Repairs. Greasing. Service.
I looked beyond the sign to the three gas pumps and the garage that loomed up towards me.
The service station was bright and gay. There were paths to the bungalow and to the cabin across the highway edged with stones, painted white. There were flowers planted around the gas pumps that made a gay splash of colour. Behind the pumps was a long, low building that housed the snack bar. Beyond the snack bar was the bungalow with bright blue curtains at the windows and a cream coloured front door.
"This is quite a place," I said. He beamed at me.
"Glad to hear you say it. I've certainly worked at it. You and me—we could do a lot more to it. I've plenty of ideas. Up to now I've had to do it all on my own."
He opened the cab door and climbed down onto the white, burning sand. I followed him down.
If I had owned this place and had a wife to share it with me, and if I had blasted my horn the way Jenson had, I would have expected my wife to have come out from where she was and give me a welcome.
But no one came out of any of the buildings to welcome Carl Jenson back to his home.
The place could have been a morgue for all the excitement his arrival caused, and that registered with me, although it didn't seem to surprise him.
He waved to the cabin.
"You go ahead. You want a wash and a shave." He gave me a nudge in the ribs that made me stagger. "You hungry? I'll get you something. You go ahead and clean up."
"When I'm through—where do I come?"
He pointed to the lunch room.
"Right there," and nodding, he walked up the path to the bungalow.
I went over to the cabin, pushed open the door and walked into the living-room. It was comfortably furnished, and there was a T.V. set in one of the corners. Beyond the living-room was a tiny bedroom. I stripped off my clothes and went into the bathroom. It took me a little time to get clean and shave. By now I had raised quite a moustache, and I decided to keep it. I returned to the bedroom, put on my shirt and trousers, and then took a look at myself in the mirror on the wall.
The moustache made quite a difference, but I was still acutely aware that I was being hunted. Looking at myself now, I felt more secure. If there were pictures of me in the papers, I was pretty sure with this moustache, I wouldn't be recognised.
I went to the cabin door and stood looking across at the opposite buildings, then I looked back at the long winding road disappearing into the hills. The desert stretched either side of me: bleak, hot and desolate. It gave me a feeling of security. The police would be looking for me in Oakland or one of the other big towns. I was pretty sure they wouldn't think to look for me here.
I moved out into the sunshine and crossed over to the lunch room. There were ten fixed stools in front of the counter and five tables along the wall for those who wanted to eat in style. Along the counter were beer and soda spouts. There was a glass case full of pies, baked to a turn, with individual labels on each, reading: cherry, apple, pineapple, cranberry. There was a unit containing paper napkins, condiments, ketchup, glasses and knives and forks. Everything was spotlessly clean. On the wall was the menu written in bold, neat printing:
Today's Specials
Fried Chicken
Veal Steaks
Beef Hash
Fruit Pies
Through the half open door behind the counter came the smell of onions frying that made my mouth water. I was just about to tap on the counter to attract attention when I heard Jenson say, "Now look, Lola, you mustn't get worked up like this. I know what I'm doing. This young fella can take care of the place, and we two can go to Wentworth a couple times a week. I don't like you going there alone. It's not right for a woman to go to the movies on her own in a town like Wentworth."
"And why isn't it right?"
She spoke with a strong Italian accent and her voice was shrill.
"It isn't right. You're a respectable, married woman. There are guys in Wentworth ..."
"Are you telling me I go around with men in Wentworth? Is that it?"
"Of course I'm not! I'm just saying it isn't right. With this fella here, you and me can go together. That's what we want, isn't it?"
"I know one thing—I don't want any strangers here! I've told you that a thousand times!"
"I know you've told me, but you're wrong. We've got to have help. How many times did you get up last night? Six—maybe seven times. You need your sleep. With this guy to help us out, we'll get our sleep and we'll get some freedom. When he's on night shift, you and me can go to a movie. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"How many more times do I have to tell you?" Her voice was angry and excited, "I don't want strangers here. Besides, he isn't working for nothing, is he? Since when have you started to throw your money about?"
The hard shrill note in her voice bothered me. She sounded vindictive, and in a hell of a rage.
"Stop yelling at me! Let's give him a trial. If you don't like him, well okay, then we'll get rid of him. You'll be glad to have him around. Now let's stop this. How about something to eat?"
"How do you know you can trust him? Do you mean you intend to leave him here to take the money, to have the run of thi
s place while we're in Wentworth? You're crazy!"
I felt it was time to let them know I was here. I went on tiptoe to the door, opened it and let it slam shut. Then I walked heavy footed to the counter.
"Anyone here?" I called.
The angry voices abruptly came silent. There was a pause, then Jenson came out of the kitchen. His fat, good natured face was red, and there was an embarrassed look in his eyes.
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