She said he had always been generous and had given away most of his money helping people. She said this with satisfaction. It was the right thing to do, she declared, but then he hadn’t known he was going to pass on so soon. She had been left without much money. I would be her first lodger.
She took me upstairs and showed me the room. She explained it had been her husband’s study. She said he had liked television, but she didn’t, so if I wanted it, she would leave the set where it was. I thanked her. A little anxiously, she asked if thirty dollars would be all right. I said it would. She told me there were two bathrooms and mine was down the corridor. She lived downstairs. She said dinner would be at seven, but I could have it later if I wished. I said seven would be fine. She asked if I had any dislikes. Remembering what I had been eating lately I nearly laughed. I said I wasn’t fussy. She said she would bring the meals up on a tray and would I like her to get some beer in which she would keep in the refrigerator. I said that would be fine. She hoped I would enjoy my work with Bert who (I waited for it) was a nice man. She said she had a black lady (probably nice too, I thought) who did the cleaning and would do my laundry. Would breakfast be all right at eight o’clock?
When she had gone, I unpacked, looked at some of the books but found they were strictly scholastic and there was no light reading. I went along to the bathroom and spent an hour soaking in hot water. Then I changed into my new outfit and went out on to the veranda. I watched the boys and the girls having fun on the beach until Mrs. Hansen brought up the dinner which consisted of fish pie, cheese and ice cream. There was also a can of beer.
I took the tray down when I had finished and left it in the kitchen. Mrs. Hansen was out on the patio, reading. I didn’t disturb her.
Back in my room, I sat on the veranda and smoked. I couldn’t quite believe this was happening to me after those ten awful months when I had been living rough. Now, suddenly, I had a two hundred a week job and a real home. It was too good to be true. Later, I watched TV news, then went to bed. It was a nice bed. In the shaded light by the divan, I thought it was a nice room. I seemed to be catching the ‘nice’ habit. I went to sleep.
Lying on the divan, a cigarette between my fingers, I could hear Mrs. Hansen preparing my breakfast. I was going to have a busy day. Maisie (she had told me her name was Jean Maisie Kent, but would I call her Maisie?) had shown me a list of pupils I was to teach. I had three one-hour lessons in the morning, an hour off for lunch, and five one-hour lessons in the afternoon.
‘They are all just out of school,’ she explained. ‘They are all beginners. The only one you have to be careful about is Hank Sobers. He is a showoff and thinks he knows it all. Just be careful of him, Mr. Devery.’
I said I would and would she call me Keith as I was calling her Maisie?
She nodded. For her age (she couldn’t have been more than sixteen) she was remarkably self-possessed. I asked about the Highway Code, admitting I had forgotten most of it. She said not to worry as Bert took the code classes. That was a relief. All the same I borrowed a copy of the code from her, meaning to look at it that evening, but had forgotten to.
I shaved, took a shower and dressed, then went out on to the veranda. I thought about Bert Ryder. Up to a point I had been truthful when I had told him why I had been jailed for five years, but I hadn’t been truthful about some of the details nor when he had asked if I was still ambitious. Ever since I had returned from Vietnam, after seeing the easy money made out of the black market, I had developed an itch for the big money.
There was a Staff Sergeant who had been so well organized that, so he had told me, he and his three buddies would be worth close on a million dollars by the time they quit the Army.
They had robbed the Army blind. They had even sold three Sherman tanks to a North Korean dealer to say nothing of cases of rifles, hand grenades, Army stores and so on. In the confusion of the fighting and during the Nixon pullout, no one missed the tanks nor the stolen equipment. I had envied these men. A million dollars! Back at my desk at Barton Sharman I had kept thinking of that Staff Sergeant who looked more like an ape than a human being. So when this merger seemed about to jell, I didn’t hesitate. This was my chance and I was going to take it! Once the merger went through, the share price would treble. I opened an account with a bank in Haverford and lodged with them Bearer bonds worth $450,000 which I was holding in safekeeping for a client of mine. With these bonds I bought the shares. When the merger went through, all I had to do was to sell, pick up the profit and return the bonds.
It looked good, but S.E.C. stepped in and the merger never was. I had lied to Bert when I had told him no one got hurt but me. My client lost his bonds, but I knew the bonds had been tax evasion money so he was almost, probably not quite, as big a thief as I was.
I had also lied to Bert when I had told him I was no longer ambitious. My ambition was like the spots of the leopard. Once you are landed with my kind of ambition, you were stuck with it. My ambition for big money burned inside me with the intensity of a blowtorch flame. It nagged me like raging toothache.
During those five grim years in jail I had spent hours thinking and scheming about how to get my hands on big money. I kept telling myself what that ape-like Staff Sergeant could do, I could do. I hadn’t lied to Bert when I had told him I had patience. I had that all right. Sooner or later, I was going to be rich. I was going to have a fine house, a Caddy, a yacht and all the other trimmings that big money buys. I was going to have all that. It would be tough, but I was going to have it. At the age of thirty-eight, starting now from scratch, and with a criminal record, it was going to be more than tough, but not, I told myself, impossible. I had rubbed shoulders enough in my Barton Sharman days with the tycoons, and I knew them to be what they were: tough, hard, ruthless and determined. Many of them were unethical and amoral. Their philosophy was: the weak to the wall; the strong takes the jackpot.
My chance would come if I was patient, and when it did, nothing would stop me grabbing it. I would have to be tougher, harder, more ruthless, more determined, more unethical and more amoral than any of them.
If that was what I had to be, then that was what I was going to be!
Mrs. Hansen tapped on the door and brought in my breakfast. She asked if I had slept well and would I like fried chicken for dinner. I said that would be fine. When she had gone, I sat down to buckwheat pancakes and two eggs on grilled ham.
I told myself that when I got my first million, I would send Mrs. Hansen a big, anonymous donation. She was stealing herself blind.
‘How did it go, Keith?’ Bert asked as I came into his office for the lunch hour break. ‘Any problems?’
‘No problems. These kids are certainly keen. It’s my bet they have been practising on their father’s cars. They can’t be as good as this first time.’
He chuckled.
‘I guess that’s right. Anyway, you like the work?’
‘If you can call it work, I like it,’ I said. ‘I guess I’ll go grab me a hamburger. See you at two.’
‘Oh, Keith, use the car. It’s no use to me. I’ve never learned to drive, and I’m too old to start now. So long as you pay for the gas, it’s yours.’
‘Why thanks, Bert.’
‘Mrs. Hansen has a garage at the back. It’ll save you a bus fare.’
‘Nice idea.’ I underlined the word ‘nice’ and grinned at him.
‘You’re catching on. Want a snort before you go?’
‘Thanks, no. No hard stuff during working hours.’
He nodded his approval.
I went over to the cafe across the street, ordered a hamburger and a Coke.
So far the job seemed dead easy. As I had told Bert, the kids were crazy to get their driving permits so they could take off in some old buggy they had saved for, and they were eager to learn. I seemed to have the knack of getting along with young people. I had mixed enough with them in Vietnam and I knew their thing. But, I told myself, I mustn’t let myself get sucked
into this easy way of life. It was fine for a month or so, but no longer. At the end of the month, unless some opportunity turned up - the big opportunity I was waiting for - then I would have to move on. I would take a look at Frisco. Surely in a city of that size the opportunity would be waiting.
When I returned to the Driving school a few minutes before two, I found Hank Sobers waiting. Remembering Maisie’s warning, I looked him over. He was a tall, gangling youth of around eighteen with a crop of pimples, hair down to his shoulders, wearing a T-shirt on which was printed: Don’t Look Further Than Me, Babe.
‘This is Hank Sobers,’ Maisie said. ‘The boy wonder,’ and she went back to her typing.
‘Hurry it up, dad,’ Hank said to me. ‘I ain’t got all day.’
I moved up and loomed over him. This had to be handled fast and right.
‘Talking to me?’ I barked.
They teach you how to bark in the Army, and I hadn’t forgotten.
I startled him as I had meant to startle him. He took a step back and gaped at me.
‘Let’s get going,’ he said feebly. ‘I’m paying for these bloody lessons and I expect action.’
I looked at Maisie who had stopped typing and was watching, her eyes round.
‘Is he paying or is his father paying?’
‘His father is.’
‘Right.’ I turned back to Hank. ‘Now listen, son, from now on you call me Mr. Devery . . . understand? When you get into that car, you will do exactly what I say. You won’t voice your unwanted opinions. I’m going to teach you to drive. If you don’t like the way I do it, go elsewhere. Get all that?’
I knew from what Maisie had told me there was no other Driving school in Wicksteed so I had him where I wanted him.
He hesitated, then mumbled.
‘Oh, sure.’
‘Oh sure. . . what?’ Again the bark.
‘Oh sure, Mr. Devery.’
‘Let’s go.’ I took him out to the car. As soon as he got into the driving seat, started the engine and moved the car from the kerb, I could see he didn’t need lessons. It was my bet he had been driving his old man’s car without a permit for months. I told him to drive around, had him park, had him stop on a hill, had him U-turn. I couldn’t fault him.
‘Okay, pull up here.’
He parked and looked at me.
‘How’s your driving code, Hank?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Go talk to Mr. Ryder. If he passes you, I’ll pass you. You don’t need lessons. You handle a car as well as I do.’
He suddenly grinned.
‘Gee! Thanks, Mr. Devery. I thought you’d screw me around just to get my old man’s money.’
‘That’s an idea.’ I regarded him. ‘Maybe you’d better have five more lessons.’
He looked alarmed.
‘Hey! I was only kidding.’
‘So was I. Drive me back and I’ll talk to Mr. Ryder.’
We returned to the Driving school. I talked to Bert and he had Hank in and tested him.
Ten minutes later, Hank came out of Bert’s office, a wide grin on his face.
‘I walked it!’ he said to me. ‘And thanks, Mr. Devery, you’ve been swell.’
‘You still have the official test to take,’ I reminded him. ‘So watch it.’
‘Sure will, Mr. Devery,’ and still grinning he took himself off.
‘You certainly have a way with you, Keith,’ Maisie said. She had been listening. ‘That voice! You scared me.’
‘An old Army trick,’ I said, but I was pleased with myself.
‘Who’s next on the list?’
I knocked off just after 18.00, looked in to say so long to Bert, then getting in the car, I started down Main street towards my hired room.
A police whistle made me stiffen. I looked to my right. A tall man in brown uniform, a fawn Stetson on his head, a gun on his hip, crooked a finger at me.
My heart skipped a beat. For the past ten months I had steered clear of the cops. I had even got into the habit of crossing the street or stepping into a shop if I saw one coming. Well, there was no skipping this one. I checked my driving mirror, saw the street was clear of traffic behind me and pulled to the kerb.
I sat still, my hands moist, my heart thumping while I watched in my wing mirror his casual approach. Like all cops when stopping a car, he wasn’t in a hurry - his way of waging a war of nerves - and finally, he came to rest beside me: a young guy, hatchet faced, small cop eyes, thin lips. The first non-nice person I had met in Wicksteed. He had a label on his shirt that read: Deputy Sheriff Abel Ross.
‘This your car, Mac?’ he demanded, movie tough.
‘No, and my name’s not Mac, it’s Devery.’
He narrowed his narrow eyes.
‘If it’s not your car what are you doing driving it?’
‘Going home, Deputy Sheriff Ross,’ I said quietly, and I could see I was fazing him a little.
‘Mr. Ryder know about it, Mac?’
‘The name’s Devery, Deputy Sheriff Ross,’ I said, ‘and he knows about it.’
‘Licence.’
He held out a hand as big as a ham.
I gave him my licence and he studied it.
‘You’ve renewed it. Why has it lapsed for five years?’
Now he was getting me fazed.
‘I gave up driving for five years.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t need a car.’
He cocked his head on one side, staring at me.
‘Why didn’t you need a car?’
‘For private reasons, Deputy Sheriff Ross. Why do you ask?’
After a long pause, he handed the licence back.
‘I haven’t seen you around before. What are you doing in this town?’
‘I am the new driving instructor,’ I told him. ‘If you want to check me out suppose you talk to Mr. Ryder?’
‘Yeah. We make a point of checking out strangers here. Especially guys who have given up driving for five years.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You should know,’ he said, and turning, he stalked off down the sidewalk.
I sat for a long moment, staring through the windshield. I had served my sentence and there was nothing he could do about it, but I knew this could happen in any town I drove in.
Once a jailbird to the cops, always a jailbird.
Across the way was a bar. Above the entrance was the simple legend: Joe’s Bar. I felt in need of a drink. Locking the car, I crossed the street and went in.
The bar was big and dark and there were two fans in the ceiling churning up the hot air. For a moment or so, coming in from the bright sunlight, I couldn’t see much, then my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Two men were propping up the long bar counter at the far end, talking to the barkeeper behind the counter. When he saw me, he walked the length of the counter to give me a broad smile of welcome.
‘Howdy, Mr. Devery.’ At a guess, he was fiftyish, short, fat and happy looking. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Summers. I own this joint . . . What’s your pleasure?’
‘Scotch on the rocks, please.’ I regarded him, a little startled, ‘How did you know who I am?’
He grinned.
‘My boy had a driving lesson from you this morning, Mr. Devery. He tells me you’re sharp. Coming from him who thinks anyone over twenty-five is square is praise.’
‘Sammy Summers?’ I remembered the kid. He hadn’t been one of the bright ones.
‘That’s him. Scotch on the rocks right here, Mr. Devery. Welcome to our town. Though I live in it, I’ll say it is real nice.’
One of the men at the end of the counter suddenly bawled, ‘If I want another goddamn drink, I’ll have another goddamn drink.’
‘Excuse me, Mr. Devery,’ and Joe hurried down the counter.
I sipped my Scotch as I regarded the two men at the far end of the counter. One was short and skinny in his late forties. The other - the one who had bawled - was tall, beefy with a beer pau
nch and a red, sweating nondescript face that sported a thick Charlie Chan black moustache. He was wearing a lightweight dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. He looked to me like a not too successful travelling salesman.
‘Joe! Gimme another Scotch!’ he bawled. ‘C’on! Another Scotch!’
‘Not if you’re going to drive home, Frank,’ Joe said firmly, ‘You’ve had more than enough already.’
‘Who said I was driving? Tom’s going to drive me home.’
‘That I am not!’ the skinny man said sharply. ‘Do you imagine I want an eight mile walk back to my place?’
‘Do you good,’ the big man said, ‘Gimme another Scotch, Joe, then we’ll go.’
‘I’m not driving you,’ Tom said, ‘and I mean that!’
‘Why you skinny sonofabitch, I thought you were my friend!’
‘So I am, but I’m not walking eight miles even for a friend.’
Listening to all this, something nudged me. Fate’s elbow? I wandered down the counter.
‘Maybe, gentlemen, I could help,’ I said.
The big man turned and glared at me.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Now, Frank, that’s not polite,’ Joe said soothingly. ‘This is Mr. Devery, our new driving instructor. He works for Bert.’
The big man peered blearily at me.
‘So what’s he want?’
I looked at the skinny man.
‘If you drive him home, I’ll follow and take you back.’
The skinny man grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down.
‘That’s real nice of you, Mr. Devery. Solves the problem. I’m Tom Mason. This is Frank Marshall.’
The big man tried to focus me, nodded, then turned to Joe.
‘How about that drink?’
Joe poured a shot while Mason plucked at Marshall’s sleeve.
‘Come on, Frank, it’s getting late.’
As Marshall downed the drink, I said to Joe, ‘Would you call Mrs. Hansen and tell her I’ll be a little late for dinner?’
‘Sure, Mr. Devery. It’s real nice of you.’
Unsteadily, Marshall strode out of the bar. Mason, shaking his head, followed with me.
‘He doesn’t know when to stop, Mr. Devery,’ he muttered. ‘Such a shame.’
1976 - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead Page 2