Phew, what a night.
Sure is cool to hang out with the cast of Intensive Care, though. Even if they are a bunch of conmen.
Not very good conmen.
Now this girl called Dee-Dee shows up, the daughter of Doctor Pearman.
Probably just in time before he, Norman, went out to rob a liquor store for the five thou.
It was the kind of pause that could be filled by anything.
More remonstrations from the formidable though sexy Dee-Dee?
A tearful breakdown by Doctor Pearman? Leastways, by the guy who played him.
But:
Three figures stepped through the gateway in the hedge.
Two burly guys. And a rugged woman of around thirty.
They wore police uniforms.
Dared he hope that these were actors, too? Three tired players from a cop drama wanting a room for the night.
Dee-Dee groaned. ‘See, Dad? One of your victims has reported you.’
‘Oh my,’ he breathed. ‘I don’t think jail is my preferred venue.’
Darren paled.
The rest of the has-been actors and actresses looked as if they’d faint.
‘The game’s up,’ Doctor Pearman muttered.
Dee-Dee took a step toward the three officers. ‘Please. I can explain. My father is an actor. He tends to live in a fantasy world.’
‘Dee-Dee?’ Doctor Pearman looked pained.
‘Whatever my father and his friends have done I’m sure we can resolve it.’
The three cops slipped revolvers from their holsters.
Aimed them across the table laden with wine bottles and potato salad.
‘My dear sirs, madam.’ Doctor Pearman rose to his feet. ‘There is no need for weaponry. I shall not resist arrest.’
The oldest cop spoke. ‘Wiscoff. Norman Wiscoff. I have a warrant for your arrest.’
Now all stares swept toward Norman as the three police officers closed in, aiming their handguns at his chest.
Norman swallowed a lump the size of Tennessee in his throat.
Tried to.
Failed.
His heart thudded against his chest.
The female officer reached down to pull out a pair of handcuffs from her utility belt.
Still kept her stare and the gun bead on him, though.
Norman raised his hands.
‘Okay, okay.’ His voice came as a rasp. ‘You’ve caught me.’
That was when it all became too much for Darren.
‘Oh, my God.’
He fainted. His head hit the tabletop with a forceful clunk.
All three officers glanced at him.
This is your one and only chance, Normy, old buddy. Uncannily, it could have been Duke’s voice in his ear.
Gotta take it.
Don’t wanna shake and bake in The Chair.
Norman stood with his back to the hedge. Its branches were densely woven. It was taller than him.
If he could only . . .
He turned.
Ran hard at the hedge.
‘Stop!’
Those were the cops’ commands.
Don’tcha know what’s gonna come next?
He was right.
Gunfire.
Bullets smacked into branches at either side of Norman, tearing holes through the greenery as he ran into the hedge. His weight and speed carried him through.
He busted out the other side. Then ran in zigzags to spoil the cops’ aim. In the darkness he saw the bullets fly past him like spits of red fire.
Am I hit? I don’t know. Can’t feel anything.
But then, they say that if you’re shot you don’t feel anything.
At least, not at first.
Natural anesthetic.
In his mind he heard Doctor Pearman’s chilling TV persona. ‘What’s that you say, child? You want anesthetic? Let me tell you, young sir, there’ll be no pain relief on my watch.’
Norman ran like crazy across the motel site. He weaved round cabins. Didn’t know where he was going. Only knew that he had to get away from the cops.
A figure glided toward him from his right. In this near-darkness it looked like a ghost.
‘Run straight down to the bottom of the plot.’
‘Dee-Dee?’
‘Keep running. They’re right behind you!’
Glanced back.
No shit.
Flashlights.
Gotta run faster.
Beside him the slender nurse ran.
‘Dee-Dee. What are you doing here?’ he panted.
She flashed him a wild grin. ‘Figured it was time I ran, too.’
They climbed over the fence. Dee-Dee hauled Norman by the arm, guiding him to a narrow track that ran between cornfields. A vehicle approached from behind.
‘We can’t outrun them,’ he gasped.
‘I don’t wanna go back. I don’t wanna keep working to keep those old has-beens in booze.’
Now wasn’t the time to stop and discuss her folly. Norman sprinted.
The vehicle drew closer along the dirt track. Norman expected cruiser lights to whirl at any moment. Maybe the report of a twelve-gauge before the buckshot chewed his back to mincemeat.
The car pulled alongside them. From an open window came a voice:
‘You two gonna jog all the way to Mexico?’
‘Duke!’
He glanced sideways through the driver’s open window.
Sure enough. Duke. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Boots.
‘Get in,’ Duke told them. He stopped the car.
Norman dragged open the rear door of the car. Dee-Dee bundled herself across the seat, her skirt rising up over her thighs.
Norman followed into the back seat, slammed the door shut behind him.
‘Nice uniform,’ Duke said to Dee-Dee.
Then he floored the gas pedal. The car roared away along the dirt track.
Chapter Twenty-seven
‘I’m enjoying this,’ Pamela told Lauren as she collected dirty dishes from the cafe table.
‘Really?’ Lauren smiled.
‘First time I’ve waited tables in a restaurant.’
Lauren’s smile broadened. ‘You might find that the glamour wears off after a while.’
‘It’s good honest labor.’
‘It is that. Filling an empty stomach is God’s work.’
Pamela glanced askance at the other woman.
Lauren shook her head. ‘No, I’m not particularly religious. But it is satisfying to put full plates of hot, tasty food in front of hungry customers. Oh, table seven needs more coffee, I’ll just—’
‘No, no,’ Pamela insisted. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Who’d have thought it? Nine o’clock in the evening and we get a bus full of pool players.’
‘They’re good tippers, too.’ Pamela smiled. ‘I’ll keep that coffee flowing.’
‘You’re a hero. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
‘No worries. Like I said, I’m loving it.’
‘Say.’ Lauren touched Pamela’s arm as she turned to grab the coffee pot from the counter. ‘You know you could make this a permanent arrangement?’
‘Lauren? You’re offering me a job here?’
‘You like the work. I like how you handle customers. Kind of go together, don’t they?’
‘Jeez . . . I don’t really know . . .’
‘I’m not rushing you. Sleep on it tonight. Okay, looks as if those guys are ready for my apple pie and whipped cream.’
Man, the cafe was buzzing tonight. Pamela didn’t have the uniform but she wore a dinky white cotton apron with pockets for her order pad and pen. Quickly she sashayed across the cafe to refill the coffee cups of four guys in white shirts. They were appreciative of the attention and made friendly comments. She’d expected some bawdy remarks but then she noticed the badge on the team shirts. Shearville Pentecostal Chapel Pool Team.
All the booths and tables were full to capaci
ty. There must have been forty people on the team bus. But there’d be no rebel-rousing from these guys. They had plenty of appetite for steaks, lasagne, meatballs, pizza, even a Pitsburger or two, but no appetite for cussing or slapping the waitresses’ butts.
The love of the Good Lord was intoxicating enough for them. They were happy with their sodas and coffee.
Pamela moved from table to table. Her offers of a refill were accepted with polite thanks.
She glanced back to see Lauren serving massive wedges of apple pie, topped with a gleaming mountain of whipped cream. Terry worked the griddle. He’d probably cooked more steaks tonight than he had in a week.
When Pamela returned to the counter with the coffeepots Terry glanced back at her. He was a slim, good-looking guy in his twenties, with a red-brown fringe that hung down to his eyebrows. Young-looking for his age. He could have passed for a high-school student with a wisp of dark hairs on his chin.
Probably only had to shave once a week.
He was perspiring hard. His was hot work.
Above the buzz of diners’ conversation Pamela heard the sizzle of beef turning a succulent brown over the lick of flame.
‘Pamela?’
‘Yes, Terry?’
‘A car full of people has just turned up. I’m running low on steak – would you bring more from the refrigerator, please?’
‘Sure.’
‘Refrigerator ain’t in the kitchen. It’s further out back in the utility.’
‘Okay.’ Lightly, she made her way round the back of the counter. This was the first time that she’d actually been into the back of the cafe. It was all new.
Hope I don’t walk into a closet by mistake.
Or the john.
Sight of the grizzled old-timer Hank sitting on the lavatory bowl while chewing a plug of baccy and dumping a fresh load wouldn’t be the prettiest sight of the evening.
The kitchen was clean. It smelled of fresh herbs. There were gleaming stainless steel fixtures complemented by white-tiled walls. On shelves were catering-size cans of cooking oil, vegetables, coffee. Tubs of flour, sugar, salt, spices. Racks of cutlery, copper pans, tableware – a real working cafe kitchen. With Terry cooking behind the counter and Lauren serving apple pie to customers Pamela was alone back here.
Humming to herself, happy to be busy, she breezed through the kitchen.
Ahead lay a door.
She read a sign. UTILITY.
This’s got to be it.
She pushed open the door. It was gloomy inside but she entered nonetheless. Terry needed to start grilling those steaks. The door swung back behind her. With it being night outside suddenly it was absolutely dark in the utility room.
Come to that, there might be no windows anyway.
She reached out to one side where the light switch should be. Groping for a switch in an unfamiliar room isn’t easy.
Should have held open the door to the kitchen before switching on the light.
Goofball.
Might wind up tripping over a pail.
After all you’ve been through, to fall and kill your fool self in a culinary-related accident would be stupid beyond belief.
Unable to see anything but a glimmer of light in the crack of the kitchen door, Pamela set to work, searching with both hands. Her fingers found the wall. They ranged over it like a pair of five-legged spiders.
Though she could still see squat.
A shelf. Maybe the switch was above that.
She ran her hands across it.
Something sharp. Angular.
A plastic tub?
Something soft?
Cloths?
More objects. Cylindrical. Aerosols?
Just don’t touch anything warm and furry.
Fondling mice in the dark isn’t my thing.
She wasn’t frightened. She even chuckled at the thought of it.
Yeah, mice. Right. Like I’d be scared of a little rodent after Rodney nearly killed me.
‘Shit.’
She’d run her fingers round the obstacles in search of the elusive light switch when she knocked a flat surface with her knuckle. Whatever it was slipped off the shelf to make a light clattering sound on the floor.
Ooops. Hope that wasn’t an antique clock.
After all, it’s good here in Pits. I don’t want to do anything that sours my relationship with a bunch of nice people.
‘Oh, light switch,’ Pamela breathed, ‘where are you?’
Got it.
No.
A nail in the wall. Probably where Terry hangs his apron.
Ah!
Bingo!
Found switch – and—
Click.
The lights burst from the darkness with a brilliant intensity.
Pamela blinked.
Then looked down in the hope that a precious Swiss clock wasn’t lying on the concrete floor in a mass of cogs.
Nope.
Just a shoebox and a bunch of . . .
‘Uh, that’s odd.’
She stared in surprise at what had spilled from the box.
False teeth. Spectacles. Wristwatches.
She bent down. There must have been five or six of each. Those sets of false teeth didn’t look too tasty.
Some stained. Nicotine. Coffee. Red wine.
One bottom set of dentures still had a little green fleck of broccoli stuck between incisors.
The watches.
Mostly cheap everyday watches with plastic casings. A couple worked. Then a bunch of spectacles that could have been worn by a mix of young and old.
Pamela grimaced as she put the spilled contents back into their box.
‘Ooo-eee.’
Handling a stranger’s eyeglasses was a little on the icky side. Handling a stranger’s false teeth was a supper-raiser. As she quickly picked up the pink and white dentures she gulped down the taste of the chili that she’d eaten earlier. When she’d scooped them all up she quickly rose to her feet.
Returned the box to the shelf that was at her shoulder height.
The things you find.
What’s worse? Stranger’s dentures? Or a used condom?
Pamela pushed the box back onto the shelf. The shelf was a deep one with kitchen-cleaning products lining its front. Concealed behind the regular domestic stuff were another two shoeboxes without lids. One contained sets of car keys. They’d been there long enough to have a spider’s web spun across them to create a dusty membrane over the box.
Saw the keys clearly enough.
Some with personalized key rings.
DAD’S KEYS . . . SOUVENIR OF MIAMI . . . I GOT OUT OF ALCATRAZ . . . As well as those with messages there was a novelty skull fob, a mini plastic hamburger, a red plastic heart.
‘House keys, too.’
Strange.
The next box contained a dusty array of pens, asthma puffers, cigarette lighters, button badges (JESUS SAVES, MILWAUKEE CANINE LEAGUE, I BELIEVE, PEACE), penknives, a pencil sharpener, one of those little pocket diaries that were smaller than a carton of cigarettes. Pamela could see that was three years old from the gold numerals embossed on a black leather cover.
Curious.
Must be lost property. But can customers misplace so many sets of dentures?
Surely it’s the kind of thing you notice is missing?
Can’t be easy to gum through a pork chop, can it?
Car keys, too. Soon as you got back in your car after leaving the cafe you’d realize they’d gone.
She plucked the diary from the box.
Opened it.
Benny Loscoff, age 10 (and last will and testy mint).
Pamela turned over the dinky little page; the next one was crammed with a child’s handwriting in pencil.
My name is Benny. This is what happened to me and my bud, Gyp, when we ran away from—
Footsteps on tiled floor.
Pamela heard the noise. Suddenly she was flustered; not wanting to be discovered here in the utility room, r
eading this child’s diary from the box full of lost possessions.
She stared at the door to the kitchen.
Heard approaching feet.
Any second the door would fly open and—
Shit.
Hands moving lightning fast, she plucked her order book from the pocket of her apron and threw it on the floor. Then she slipped the tiny diary into the pocket just as—
Just as the door swung open.
‘Lauren, hi.’
I’m blushing. I know I’m blushing.
‘Pamela? Is there a problem?’
‘No . . . no.’ She grinned in an attempt to look relaxed.
‘Terry said you’d come to collect the steak.’
‘Oh, I was just about to get it, and . . . and I dropped my order book.’
‘Pamela. It’s there on the floor.’
‘Oh.’
‘Behind you.’
‘Right. Great. Thanks. Can’t see for looking, can I?’ She picked it up. Stuffed it into the apron pocket. Felt the hard oblong of the diary beneath it.
Hope its shape doesn’t show through the cotton apron.
‘I’ll get the steak,’ Pamela told Lauren, backing across the utility room to three large refrigerators. One was marked DAIRY. The second MEAT. The third OTHER.
‘No, don’t, Pamela.’ Lauren’s expression was suddenly hard.
‘Pardon me?’
‘I’ll bring the steak.’
‘But I was just—’
‘No, don’t worry. The refrigerator door sticks.’ Lauren smiled. It looked forced. ‘Got a mind of its own, that door has.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Will you attend table three? They’re ready for ice cream.’
‘Yeah, sure. Uh . . .’ Pamela was going to add something inconsequential so as not to appear to have been acting suspiciously, but decided that to say any more would look suspicious. Smiling, she turned to walk away. She noticed that Lauren didn’t make a move to open the refrigerator door while Pamela was still in the room.
She went to serve the ice cream.
The pool players were cheerful. Delighted with a great meal.
Terry was flipping burgers for another bunch of diners who’d just taken a booth.
Pitsburgers for three. Two middle-aged women and an older man with red pimples on his bald head. He wore purple spectacles that reminded her of divers’ goggles.
Pamela was troubled.
The Glory Bus Page 20