He kicked open the door of his car, jumped out to the ground, and, boiling with anger, stalked stiff-legged down to the Mercedes. He looked in at the woman and barked, “If you have to talk your goddamned head off all day long, pull aside so someone else can get through.”
She deigned to look at him then, a blonde with hair the color of honey, sharply plucked brows, arrogant gray eyes, and a stubborn mouth. She was slim and willowy and her white hands on the wheel had long fingers with extraordinarily long carmine nails. A mink coat was draped about her shoulders and the watch on her left wrist glittered with diamonds. Dean remembered the photograph in the newspaper and recognized her at once: Truly Moore. Her disconcertingly direct gaze swept through him and beyond.
She turned back to the guard and said, ignoring Dean, “About three in the afternoon, then. I’m depending on you to keep the curious away.”
The guard nodded. “Yes, ma’am. No problem in that.”
“I don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“No, ma’am. Depend on me.”
“All right, then.” She turned about to look back at Dean’s car and saw the Del Monte emblem above his license plate. She smiled sweetly at the guard and said, “They just allow anybody to live in here now. What a pity. It used to be reasonably exclusive.”
She shifted gears in her car, let out the clutch, and roared away. The guard looked at Dean, whose face had gone white, and smiled weakly. “Old Tom Moore’s daughter,” he said. “They’re taking him to the funeral parlor tomorrow. That’s what she was talking to me about.”
“The bitch.”
“Oh, she’s not so bad, Mr. Holt. Little spoiled, I guess. I’m sorry she held you up. I suggested she pull over to the parking area, but she’s one of those kind used to having her own way.”
“Strictly a brat.”
The guard mumbled, “Maybe you’re right.”
Dean stalked back to his car, slammed the door, and drove on down the winding road. What could you do with a woman like that? The only way he could salve his wound was with the thought: She just doesn’t know who I am.
He drove on to the Lodge, parked his car, and walked into the cocktail room. A foursome of golfers was drinking at one end of the bar, the losers paying off their bets and grumbling about the day’s bad luck. A tall young man was standing alone at the other end. Two of the tables in the room were occupied by women gaily tearing someone’s reputation to shreds. Dean stood near the single man, nodded at the bartender, and was served his usual drink.
He began to cool down about halfway through his drink. He turned to look curiously at the man at his side. He was tall and thin, with light-brown hair and mild grayish-blue eyes. His cheekbones were prominent and his cheeks were hollow, but he did not possess the cadaverous look of his father. Though he was not smiling and was lost in thought, there were smile wrinkles etched deeply at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was wearing slacks and moccasins, and a black band was stitched neatly about one sleeve of his jacket. He sighed deeply as he lifted a double bourbon and water and gulped it down without pausing.
Dean exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be damned! What a coincidence! I just saw your sister a minute ago. How are you, Steve?”
He held out his hand as Steve Moore turned slowly to look down at him. The younger man frowned at him, then smiled lightly, a bleak smile, and shook hands. “Hello, Dean. It’s good to see you.”
“I heard you were back.”
“I got here as quickly as I could.”
“Jees, I’m sorry about your old man — I mean your father.”
Steve ordered another double bourbon and leaned over with his elbows on the bar. “It was quite a blow.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Last thing I expected. He was always so healthy. It’s a funny thing, but I guess all sons just expect their fathers to go on and on and on.”
Dean thought of his own father with a frown, but he said, “I suppose so. They all have to go sometime, though.”
“But I didn’t expect it. So damned healthy. As far as I know, never sick a day in his life. Then,” he shrugged, “this. His heart just quit and that was it. But maybe it was a good way for it to happen to him. Being an invalid would have been sheer torture for a man like Dad.”
“Yeah. The old — He was pretty active. By the way, were you able to talk with him before he passed on?”
“Yes. It was an effort, but he could talk a little. I guess you know I’m taking over the business from now on.”
“I figured that.”
Steve took the new drink the bartender brought, gulped down half of it, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He twisted about to look at Dean, still leaning on the bar, and said, “It’s too bad I didn’t put in more time over in the sheds. I liked the business and enjoyed working at it, whenever Dad would let me, but he always wanted me to stay away from it.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it was because he’d worked hard all his life, ever since he was a kid, and he wanted something different for me. I had to practically fight with him to let me learn the business.” He twisted the glass nervously in his hands and said, “I’m afraid I don’t know much about it, and now I have to take over without any warning.”
Dean gave him a false, hearty smile and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll get along, Steve. Don’t worry. I’m sure everyone in Salinas will give you a hand.”
Steve cocked an eyebrow at him, as his sister had done, and asked, “You, too?”
“Of course. Why not?”
Steve grinned and then chuckled. “Oh, it was something Dad was telling me yesterday. He went through all the men in the business, telling me their characteristics, where they were strong and where they were weak, which ones to look to for advice and which ones to avoid.”
He paused and was lost in thought a moment, and Dean prompted him: “Yeah?”
Steve looked into his eyes and said, “I can’t figure it out, but Dad didn’t like you at all. He put you at the top of the list as the most dangerous man in the business. You and I have always got along, Dean, so I won’t tell you what he had to say, but he sure warned me against you.”
Dean felt his hands clenching and unclenching and had to force himself to relax and be casual. He managed a smile as he said, “Well, I must admit your father and me rarely saw eye to eye on anything. We had our battles. I didn’t know he thought I was dangerous, though. Did you know I worked for him at one time?”
“He told me.”
“I was a packer. He gave me the boot.”
“That’s what he said.”
“Well, anyway, I wish you luck, Steve. It’s a tough racket, but you don’t have too many worries. You got Freeman.”
“And thank God for that.” Steve finished his drink and glanced at his watch. “Jees, I’ve been here too long. Betty and Truly are probably waiting for me. See you later?”
“Sure.”
Dean watched him leave, then turned back to the bar to finish his drink. The bartender leaned over and told him, “That young Moore is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. You know that, Mr. Holt?”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. He’s friendly, he’s democratic, he has a smile for everybody, and you’d never know he was worth a dime. I never seen him throw his weight around yet, not for me or anybody. Strictly a nice guy. But he’s sure gonna need help now. Don’t you agree?”
Dean looked into his glass and smiled, then drained its contents. “Yes,” he said. “I agree.”
Dean drove home and changed clothes, then picked up Ruth Tinsley at her home. Her figure was pulled in and harnessed with a steel-tight girdle, which smoothed out the plump rolls about her hips and waist and kept them under control. She was wearing French-heeled shoes that were mere scraps of leather, with leather thongs that crisscrossed far above her ankles and made them appear slimmer than they were. She called them her chippy shoes. The dress she had on, of gold lamé, fitte
d her snugly and accented the gold in her hair. On each wrist jangled a dozen bracelets of diamonds and other precious stones, in addition to a jeweled watch, engagement ring, wedding ring, and an enormous jade ring circled with opals. Ruth believed in wearing her jewelry. A mink stole was draped casually over one shoulder.
They drove farther up through the pine forest covering the hills to the Parker residence, one of the earlier homes built in the Mediterranean style, with a tiled roof, heavy oak doors, and grilled ironwork at the windows. The entrance was through an enclosed garden patio. The living room had a red-tiled floor, chalk-white walls, and a heavy oak-beamed ceiling. A log fire was roaring in a fireplace almost large enough for a man to stand in.
Part of the aristocracy of the lettuce business was gathered together in the room and in the more modern barroom overlooking the terrace and the ocean. Brokers, shippers, growers, and commission men were there with their wives or current girl friends, with a leavening of two bankers, the Salinas freight agent, two couples from Carmel, and an off-duty bartender who was a friend of Sam’s.
Dean lost Ruth at once, but saw that, as usual, she had headed directly toward the bar and the men gathered there. He knew that she would not leave the bar until they were ready to go. He hoped that, as usual, he would not have to help her out. Ruth had nothing whatever to do or to occupy her mind and she dearly loved the taste of alcohol, so she drank too much. Dean shrugged. What the devil. That was the way she liked it.
Dean stood alone for a moment, enjoying a private little joke. Sam did not know about it, but some years before, when Dean had been nineteen, the elder Parker had sent him to Pebble Beach to deliver a package to his home. Dean had made the mistake of going to the front door, and had been thoroughly dressed down by the butler and forced to go around to the back door. Now he was more than welcome in the living room.
The butler brought him a cocktail and he started circulating about among the men, talking with them about what had happened that day. They had recovered from the shock of Moore’s death and were now all of the opinion that Steve, as long as he had Freeman, would be able to keep the Moore interests intact and as big as ever. Dean listened attentively, but he had little comment to make himself. He had no intention of committing himself in any direction until he had formulated some sort of strategy. So far, he had nothing. He knew that he was drifting, but he did not mind. He also knew that sooner or later he would come up with an angle and then the pressure would really be on. There was plenty of time to think about it.
He was crossing the floor toward the barroom when Jan Parker intercepted him. She kissed him and cooed, “Darling,” in his ear. She held to his arm with both hands, her hip pressed against his, her shoulders thrown back and her head back to look into his eyes from under lowered lids, a pose that was supposed to be intimate and seductive.
Dean’s arm encircled her waist and he patted her bottom. “Hiya, Jan. Nice party you got.”
She giggled and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “It’s just for you,” she whispered. “No one else exists.”
“That’s the way I like it.”
He was smiling, but he felt like slapping her across the mouth with the back of his hand. These goddamned lettuce queens with too much dough and no brains and time on their hands. Most of them were alike and Jan led the parade. They spent too much, they drank too much, and they had indiscriminate love affairs as casually as they changed their clothes. But they were no different from their husbands. Dean thought of them all as a bunch of worms living together in a bottle, crawling all over each other and getting so mixed up in their affairs that it would take a Solomon to sort them out. Jan had once been Mrs. Harding and the present Mrs. Harding had once been Mrs. Parker. Each had had a wonderful time cheating on the other until an accident had exposed the farce. The simple solution had been twin divorces and an exchange of mates. It was not much of a solution. Dean happened to know that Sam and his ex-wife, now Mrs. Harding, were seeing each other quite often in a small motel just out of Watsonville. He doubted that they were talking over old times.
Although she was striking in a rather odd way, Jan was not an especially good-looking woman. She was only an inch shorter than Dean, so that, with high heels, she was taller. Her raven-black hair was cut short in the new Italian fashion, tiny wind-blown ringlets framing her face and cut in sharp and close at the nape of her neck. Her face was round, with an overly large mouth and eyes that turned up at the outer corners in an Oriental slant. It was her most distinctive feature and she made the most of it, with heavy make-up to accent the slant of her eyes. Her shoulders were narrow and her breasts were so small that she wore oversize falsies. Her hips were bony and a bit too wide, but she had good legs, long and slim, yet full.
She clung to Dean’s arm and asked him, “Enjoying yourself?”
“Sure. How about you?”
“I am — now.” She pulled him to one side of the room, near the fireplace, away from the other guests. “Darling,” she whispered, “Sam is going up to Reno Saturday and won’t be back until Monday morning. Does that spell anything to you?”
“Who is he going with?”
“Don’t be silly. I never ask their names. Probably one of his secretaries. But I asked you a question.”
Dean checked the calendar in his mind. Ruth would expect him to take her out Saturday night, which would mean an all-night affair, and he had a golf engagement at the country club Sunday morning.
“You know the answer,” he said, “but I’m tied up until Sunday afternoon.”
She was disappointed and wavered a moment, turning others over in her mind. But Dean was more fun. He was more like an animal. There was a certain cruel streak in him she enjoyed, as if by violating her — and others, too, probably — he was somehow getting even with society.
She sighed and said, “I guess that will have to do. Same place?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me here or there?”
“I’ll pick you up at the Lodge, two o’clock sharp. It’s a date?”
She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder and whispered, “It’s a date.”
They walked into the glass-walled barroom, Jan still clinging to his arm. Dean replenished his drink. There were over a dozen guests at the bar and they were all talking about Moore. Sam spotted Dean and broke away from a small group to approach him. His eyes carefully avoided Jan’s bold stare as he stopped before Dean.
“Say,” he said, “you gave me a rough time this afternoon.”
Dean’s eyes widened innocently. “I did?”
“You sure did. Remember you told me to go for four-seventy-five? Well, I did, and there were no takers. Damn it all, man, I got stuck and had to send out five floaters with three No Bills left on the tracks. That hurts.”
Dean looked distressed. “Oh, hell, Sam. I’m sorry about that. As soon as I got back to my office I could see four and a quarter was going to hold. I called your place, but you hadn’t returned yet,” he lied. “Then, you know how things are, I just forgot about it. I was busy. I’m really sorry.”
Sam had a feeling that Dean was laughing at him. But he had given good advice before and probably would again. It was best to stay on Dean’s good side. What was the loss of one afternoon? He had made enough profit that morning to offset it, and the following day he could probably dump the floaters, though at a lower price. As far as the No Bill cars were concerned, he could get those off in the morning at market price. It was not too much of a loss.
He shrugged and said, “Oh, well, I’ll survive.” He turned to glance out the windows. It was getting dark and the servants were turning on the house lights. Outside he could see the dark bank of fog creeping in from the ocean and seeping through the trees. He nodded toward the windows and said, “Not so good.”
Dean looked out at the fog. “Why not?”
“That fog’s going to soak down the lettuce. But it won’t stay, and tomorrow it will get hot again. A few days like that and we’ll hav
e slime to contend with.”
“So what?”
“Well, what the devil, you know. The trimmers will be throwing most of the staff down the cull chute.”
Dean winked at Jan, then laughed softly. He told Sam, “You characters kill me. If I had my way, I’d throw all the fives and a lot of the fours down the cull chute. You know what happens when we get a good season and all the lettuce comes out fine. We flood the market and the price hits bottom. But when things go wrong and we lose acreage, then the price jumps and we clean up. Do you know how many cars we ship out? Two hundred and sixty cars a day. That’s too much. If we could cut that by a third, we’d make twice as much. Believe me, I don’t give a damn what goes down the cull chute.”
“You’re a funny guy. I don’t think you ever consider lettuce as something to eat.”
“You’re so right. I don’t even like looking at it any more. Lettuce, to me, is a green plant you convert into beautiful green paper. That’s all, brother.”
Sam and Jan burst out laughing and Sam slapped Dean on the shoulder. “I’ll go along with that, old boy. I like that green paper, too, even if you can’t eat it. Speaking of which” — he looked directly at his wife for the first time and each managed his best party smile — “how about those hors d’oeuvres?”
“I’ll ask Max.”
She left them to speak to the butler and Dean sidled around the bar to take a stool at Ruth’s side. She was already on her fifth Martini and was regaling a group of men clustered about her with a collection of off-color stories. Ruth liked a good joke. She filed all the best ones away and polished them at her leisure and she told them well. She had almost a professional sense of timing.
She finished a joke about a bird and a character in a trench and sat back with a modest smile as her male audience burst into laughter. Dean had heard Ruth tell the joke before, but he laughed with the others. Then he said, “That reminds me — ”
Ruth interrupted with a finger held before his mouth. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
Hunger and the Hate Page 5