"Welcome to Rancho del Monte, Mr. Nameless!" I said a bit too effusively, extending my hand a bit too high, as though expecting it to be kissed.
"Jus' call me Junior," he said, rather thickly.
"And you must call me Barbara, Junior," I said, quickly withdrawing my. hand, for I had seen his hands and a more scabious pair of paws have never before been flashed in front of my horrified eyes.
When I saw Junior's hands—he was a nail-biter, all the way to the second knuckle, and a nonwasher, how far up I don't care to imagine—I was certain he had leprosy or scrofula or impetigo at the very least. When he spoke, I drew from my meager fund of medical folklore and came up with facial paralysis, laryngitis, or cancer of the throat. Well, they'd told me he'd been ill. But what stunned me the most was the condition of his clothes. He was wearing an Italian silk summer suit that must have cost about two hundred dollars, considering that it did fit him and that Junior was no ready-to-wear size. Yet it was filthy, covered with spots of egg and grease and gravy and oil and things I don't even like to think about. His shirt was just as grimy as it was expensive. So was his tie. His shoes were incredibly scuffed and down at the heel, the laces broken and hastily knotted in so many places that they looked like bouclé. He needed a shave rather badly and a haircut even worse. And this was a man with a valet!
The valet came as something of a shock, too. I will readily admit my experience with gentlemen's gentlemen has been limited to movies, the novels of P. G. Wodehouse, and a chance encounter with a man who claimed to have been the late Walter Hampden's dresser. However, Murphy, which was the name of Junior's valet, fell something short of what I'd expected. Instead of resembling Arthur Treacher or Eric Blore, he looked like a broken-down old prize fighter. And instead of being sedately clad in a black sack suit and a bowler, Murphy wore a Hawaiian sport shirt crawling with hula girls, surfboard riders, and pineapples, and some wrinkled old Army pants.
Nor was there any restrained, servile bow in my direction. Murphy grabbed my hand, almost pulling the arm out of the socket, shook it vigorously, and said, "Pleezta-meetcha, honey!"
As I was recomposing myself to say a few hostessy words of welcome, Buck trickled out with my can of beer and I was a little put out to think he had; It seemed that in my new role as the Darling of the Rich it should have been a magnum of champagne at the very least. However, Junior's face lit up like a pinball machine, his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes absolutely sparkling.
"Oh," I said grandly, "can I offer you something to drink, Mr. . . . um . . . Junior?"
Well, you'd think I'd offered him Marilyn Monroe.
"Ix-nay, honey," Murphy said to me under his breath. "This kid's a bottle baby."
I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about.
Then Murphy said aloud—and a little too loud, as though he were talking to someone who was simple-minded or hadn't quite mastered English—"Come on, Junior. We'll go to the room. It's time you had a nice rub-down and a little nap."
I could swear that I heard Junior sob as Murphy led him off.
That first season I was terribly solicitous—probably too solicitous—of the guests; always popping into their rooms to see that they had enough blankets and hangers and towels and that all the lights worked and there was sufficient writing paper and reading material. I am also honest enough to admit that I'm vulgar enough to be intrigued by the very, very rich. But, curious as I was, a little something just warned me to stay away from Junior's de luxe accommodations for a while.
Golden Boy's next appearance was at dinner, and he and Murphy didn't arrive until the six or seven other guests had finished their cocktails and were seated. I had sort of planned for Junior to sit at the main table with Bill and me and a pretty young thing of nineteen from Galveston, imagining that Murphy would take his meals with the help. Murphy, however, had made arrangements of his own, unbeknownst to me. He had instructed Buck to seat them at the, small table for two, where they could be all by themselves. Although I had planned to do a little mild lionizing of Junior among the other guests, I was almost relieved that he wasn't eating at the same table. Even if Junior had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, nobody had bothered to teach him how to use it correctly.
After dinner was finished, I had just time to introduce Junior around to the guests before Murphy whisked him away to their own quarters. And some of the guests looked downright horrified at the sight of Junior. My career in the gold fields hadn't started out too propitiously. "Did you ask all the society reporters out to interview your social lion?" Bill asked horridly as we were getting ready for bed that night.
"No, I did not!" I snapped. "Besides, he's a sick boy." "Sick, in the head," Bill said. "And would you like to know with what?"
"Oh yes, Dr. Mayo," I said, "please let me know what the eminent diagnostician thinks is wrong with Junior." My, wasn't I withering!
"Wet brain," Bill said.
"Wet what?"
"Barbara, the boy's a lush, a booze-heister, a rummy. He's a real, chronic alcoholic and I'll bet he's been on a six-month binge and hasn't dried out from it yet."
"But, Bill," I said—not quite convinced and not quite not convinced—"the law firm said he'd been ill and needed recuperation. They didn't mention . . ."
"You can bet your bottom dollar he's been ill," Bill said with that irritating logic. "It's real bottle fatigue. Didn't you notice that whisky tenor? Look at his color. Look at all that blubber on him. That's not solid fat from eating, it's alcoholic bloat. Real rummies don't eat—not when they can drink."
"Well," I said grudgingly, "he didn't eat very much tonight and it was a very good roast."
"You can bet he didn't eat much," Bill said. "He still has the shakes so bad that he could hardly pick up a fork. And do you know why his hands look so scaly?"
"Why?"
"Because he's probably had pellagra."
"Pellagra?" I squeaked. "Why, Bill Hooton, that's like saying he has scurvy! How could anybody have pellagra unless he was shipwrecked or abandoned on a desert island? That just doesn't happen to people in civilization."
"You can starve to death in the middle of a supermarket if you don't eat," Bill said, "and that's what's happened to Junior. It's pure diet deficiency."
"But why didn't his lawyers say what was the matter with him?" I said, grabbing up the beautiful letter of reservation from the desk.
"Because they didn't want you to refuse him, stupid," Bill said. "And they didn't want to send him to one of those expensive drying-out places where he'd meet nothing but a lot of other alcoholics with the exact same problems and no conversation except how anxious they are to get back to the bottle. You know, unless those problem drinkers want to cure themselves and go to A.A. or the Yale Plan or a good psychiatrist, it's almost impossible to keep them away from liquor."
"Well . . ." I muttered, not quite certain what to believe.
"And why do you suppose they asked specifically if we had a bar and how far we were from town?"'
"Well, I don't know," I said angrily. "All I know is that Junior and his Valet are . . ."
"Valet!" Bill sneered. "That's a hot one! Junior's about as well-groomed as a chimney sweep. As for Murphy, he's the most typical hospital orderly I've ever seen—big, strong, tough, watchful. I'll bet he got his start in the psycho ward at Bellevue. You notice that he never lets Junior out of his sight."
By then I was convinced Bill was right, but I wouldn't have admitted it under torture. "All I know," I said far too elegantly, "is that Mr. Nameless and his manservant are our guests at our ranch; that they're occupying rooms that cost forty dollars a day; and that they will be here all summer. Besides, I think Junior is quite charming."
"Okay, have it your own way," Bill said. "But I don't suggest you give a cocktail party in Junior's honor."
The next morning I locked up all the guests' liquor and put the key down my front. I warned Evangeline to keep an eye on the lemon extract and the vanilla and I personally pou
red the rest of the wine vinegar down the drain. But as the days went on I felt ashamed of myself for being so silly. Junior was behaving himself perfectly. Although I saw him only at mealtimes, he seemed a little gentleman. He didn't ride or swim or play tennis or even mingle with the other guests, but he did spend quite a lot of time sunning himself in a deck chair on his terrace and reading crime magazines. His color was a lot better, he was shaking less and eating more, and every week the law firm paid his bill with a big, beautiful, baby-blue check.
By the end of the second week I was so used to Junior that I didn't pay any attention to him, and even Murphy seemed to be relaxing his vigilance. That was our big mistake. I should have realized the only way to keep an constructed alcoholic from the bottle is to nail him into his coffin. They always find liquor; and even though Junior didn't seem very bright, he had ways and means, too. Junior's way was Curly and his means was bribery.
With the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, it now seems to me that I noticed Junior's sharp decline about the I same time I noticed that Curly was off the ranch more than he was on it. It was during Junior's third week that his appetite fell off and during the same week that Junior himself fell off the terrace, for no apparent reason except that Murphy had gone into town for Mass. He looked kind of bloodshot and glassy-eyed to me, but when I got a whiff of his breath there was nothing more telltale than a strong odor of peppermint. It was also during this week that I noticed Curly looking resplendent in not one, but three new silk cowboy shirts of the sort that cost about twenty dollars each, or a good deal more than he could afford on the salary we were paying him. I noticed, too, that Curly had got into the lamentable habit of driving around in Junior's gold Jaguar—and always at times when Murphy was sleeping or swimming or otherwise off guard. It worried me to think of a dope like Curly roaring over the countryside in a five-thousand-dollar automobile that didn't belong to him, and I told him to cease and desist.
The big blow fell late one Thursday afternoon. Buck and Evangeline were off that day and Bill was taking the guests out on the ride, since Curly had a sick headache and was allegedly suffering in the bunkhouse. I was alone in the ranch house, and Junior and Murphy were dozing in the deck chairs on their terrace. At least, Murphy was asleep.
I was considering a little shut-eye of my own when I heard a car coming into the drive—and it wasn't exactly rolling in with the noise a regular car makes, but sort of sneaking in, if such a thing is possible for a car to do.
"Lord, who's this coming without a reservation?" I said to The Girls.
Neither cat answered.
I peeked out the window and noticed the gold of Junior's Jaguar and the fuchsia of Curly's new silk shirt. And I was boiling mad! Curly had claimed to have too severe a headache to take out the afternoon ride, leaving Bill to do it on cook's day off. Yet he now seemed perfectly able to get himself up in his new finery, borrow Junior's car, which I had told him not to do, and have a little outing all his own. But, as the car was moving so slowly and surreptitiously behind the shrubbery, I had plenty of time to get out of the house and plant myself squarely in the middle of the driveway.
When Curly saw me he gave me a look that made me think he'd like to gun the car up full speed and flatten me, but I stood my ground and the car stopped just short of my skirt.
"Feeling better, Curly?" I asked him.
"Uh, yes, Ma'am," he mumbled. "A little."
"And you thought that a nice little spin in Mr. Nameless' car—which I've told you sixteen times not to drive—would make you feel still better, didn't you?"
"Ma'am, I felt so poorly I just went inta.town to git me some cough medicine."
"I thought you had a headache, Curly," I said, edging around to the side of the car. "You even mentioned something about brain tumors running in your family. The distaff side, I believe you said."
"Well, I did, Ma'am," Curly stammered, "an' I drove in to git me some powders."
"You certainly got a lot of them, Curly," I said, snatching the package off the seat beside him. It contained a quart bottle of gin.
"Oh, I meant to tell yuh, Ma'am, I got that for Mister Bill. He tole me to."
"Mister Bill doesn't drink gin, Curly," I said, "and if he did, there's plenty of it in the house. Locked up." All of a sudden I was beginning to get the whole picture—Junior's decline and fall, Curly's new finery, his unexplained absences—and Curly, fuchsia silks and all, did not make a very pretty picture as an amateur bootlegger pandering to a hopeless alcoholic whose family was trying to straighten him out.
"He tole me to git it in time for the cook-up, Ma'am," Curly said. "He wants it fer the barbecue sauce."
"My husband uses sherry in the barbecue sauce, Curly. He uses one tablespoon and we've got gallons of sherry in die house, too."
Curly was the color of his shirt, but he was steadfast in his big lie. "I don't know nothin' about that, Ma'am. Bill just tole me . . ."
"Did he ask you before he took the ride out this afternoon or when he got back?" I asked coldly.
"Just as soon as he came back, Ma'am," Curly said hurriedly, clutching at any straw. "He come inta the bunkhouse an' sez 'Curly, will you go inta town an' . . .' "
"Well, that is odd, Curly," I said, "because he isn't back yet. Now, stop lying to me and tell me the truth: You went out and got that gin for Mr. Nameless, didn't you?"
"Ma'am, I . . ."
"Didn't you?"
"Well, he did ask me to . . ."
"And you've been rumrunning for him for the last couple of weeks, haven't you?"
"Well, Ma'am, I did do a couple of little errands for him when he . . ."
"And. he's been paying you money—lots of money—to keep him supplied, hasn't he, Curly?"
"Miz Barbara, I on'y did what he . . ."
"Did it ever occur to you that he's a sick man, that liquor is poison to him, that his family sent him out here, with Murphy looking after him, just so he could get well and stop drinking and . . ."
"Ma'am, he jus' likes a drink like anyone elst."
It suddenly occurred to me that I was carrying on like a fishwife right out in the wide-open spaces. It also occurred to me that it was now or never for dealing with Curly—now, when I'd caught him red-handed. By throwing a good scare into him we'd undoubtedly end up with a better wrangler than we'd started with and the Nameless family might possibly end up with a better heir. "Come into the house, Curly," I said. "I want to talk to you."
He shambled out of the car, leaving the motor still running.
"Just leave that bottle in the car, Curly," I said, "This is one package you're not going to deliver." With a stately toss of my head, I guided Curly up to the ranch house, sat him down in the empty lounge, and started my temperance lecture. I also dragged in such tear jerkers as Duty to One's Employer, Honesty, One Lie Leading to a Thousand—oh, I was going great. So great, in fact, that Curly was close to tears and I shed a couple myself.
My spiel lasted the better part of an hour and it might still be going if I hadn't heard Murphy out in the driveway shouting, "Holymarymotheragawd! Junior!"
I rushed to the window just in time to see Junior, drunk as a lord, sitting in the car tipping the last of the gin to his lips. Then I saw Murphy dash out into the driveway, but not fast enough. With a roar of the motor, the Jaguar was off with Junior at the controls.
Curly and I raced out just as the car shot past. Junior screamed something that sounded like a Comanche war whoop and tossed the empty bottle out with a crash. Then he gunned the car and really roared up the driveway and out of sight around the back of the house.
"He ain't allowed to drive!" Murphy panted. "He's wrecked a dozen cars already!" Then Murphy got into the station wagon and tried to follow, but our old Ford was no match for the Jaguar.
Oddly enough, I had sufficient presence of mind to rush Curly down to close the front gate so that at least Junior would be confined to our ranch and wouldn't go killing any total strangers—just the guests and me. The
n, having been almost knocked down by the station wagon, I got up on the terrace where I'd be a good deal safer than I was standing in the middle of the driveway. At first I philosophically thought it might be wiser to let Junior drive around the property until he got tired of it or ran into something and had to stop, or until he used up all the gas, or until the quart of gin had had its full effect and he passed out at the wheel. Whenever that might be. But just then I saw Bill, seven guests, and eight horses plodding over-the hill and my heart literally stopped beating. So, just to add to the general pandemonium, I joined in the melee, too. Better to leave Bill a widower on the ranch than to have him killed and be left there by myself, I thought as I joined in the chase.
Junior circumnavigated the house twice, with Curly and me chasing him and Murphy chasing us and the horses coining nearer and nearer. But I guess Junior was getting a little bored with that dull old gravelly driveway, because the third time around he didn't stick to the road. Instead, he swung sharply to the right and shot up the hill behind the house where there wasn't any road at all. Horrified, I saw his car leap up the hill between his house and the pump house. The snapping and splintering of our trees was almost deafening, and he'd started a minor landslide. Murphy, in the station wagon, was in hot pursuit, charging right up the hill behind Junior.
Rather selfishly, I yelled: "Don't take our car up that hill! You'll . . ."
My warning was drowned out by the loudest splash I've ever heard.
"Oh, dear," I whispered to nobody at all, "the swimming pool!"
I raced up the hill just in time to see Junior float to the surface, a little like Vera Zorina in the Goldwyn Follies. Down in the bottom of our lovely turquoise swimming pool was the golden Jaguar sending up a perfect cascade of bubbles.
Absolutely spellbound, I just stood there at the edge of the pool and watched a perfectly fascinating succession of things rise to the surface: Junior first, then a road map, then a posture pillow, then some soggy festoons of Kleenex, a pack of Lucky Strikes, a book of Rancho del Monte matches, and finally the receipt for Junior's gin. The damage might have been irreparable, but it looked awfully funny. I let out a little trial giggle, and by the time everyone else had raced up to the pool I was rocking with laughter, the tears rolling down my cheeks.
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