Come Back for More

by Al Fray

  “Luckies,” I said, and then slipped them unopened into a pocket. Gus rang up the sale, then limped toward the back when someone called “rack” and I followed him through. Bank tellers aren’t expected to hang out at the corner pool hall and I wasn’t too familiar here but I’d played a sociable game or so from time to time. I parked on a seat along the side and counted the house.

  Fradkin was there. He was thin with thick glasses and an anemic look. A fringe character in the town, a guy who would gladly have sold his soul to be considered one of the boys but somehow lacked the spark. If he had a first name I don’t think anyone knew it. We just called him Fradkin.

  Of the four men in a kelly game I knew only one, but he was the man I’d come to see. Ken Miller, a pseudo tough guy, a bully. His lips were thick and seemed to be in a perpetual sneer. When he smoked, the cigarette always hung from one corner of his mouth and he had a rough line of chatter but he wasn’t kidding me. A punk. Thirty years old and still a punk, a cheap chiseler, a grown-up edition of the high school problem kid. But I hoped to be friends with him before long.

  Because it was from the attic of Ken Miller’s house that Captain Domms had flushed Bernie Miller the night of the bank robbery.

  Distant cousins, Domms had tried to tie them in together, had tried to prove that Ken was in on the ring and helped bring Bernie in from out of town for the job. In this Domms failed. When he tried to pin aiding an escaped criminal on Ken, the defense quickly proved that newspapers hadn’t yet appeared on the streets and Ken could hardly have known that Bernie was involved in a murder. Domms was even unable to prove that Ken knew Bernie was back in River City, and in the end Ken was completely absolved of all connection with the crime. He went back to his job at the cab outfit.

  Now, watching him move around the pool table, I thought that he hadn’t changed much from the days when he’d been kicked out of high school for a series of petty locker room thefts. He glanced at me from time to time while the others were shooting and I knew that he too had gotten the word. I tried to make myself unobtrusive and eventually his courage began to build.

  “I hear,” he said at last, and to no one in particular, “that there’s a scab driving truck out at Tyler.” He grinned and rubbed a sleeve across the union pin on his shirt. I must have been the only stranger; every pair of eyes turned my way, and I could hardly keep from grinning as I slid off the chair. He didn’t know me but I had Ken Miller pegged; the way to his good graces did not lie in softness. I tried a weak grin and looked across at him.

  “I’d like to say about three things in my own behalf,” I said.

  “Go right ahead.” Ken grinned, but it was a sour sort of grin and I could see he figured he had me bluffed. “Nothing you can say is going to make us love a scab.”

  “Well first,” I began softly, “I want you boys to know that I’m not against unions. I believe in them and will join as soon as I can. The second thing is that money is a bit of a problem just now. It might take me most of the thirty days the law gives me to save up enough to pay initiation and dues.” I began to move around the table toward Ken Miller as I finished the bit about needing time, and when I stopped in front of him I changed my tone.

  “The third thing,” I told him slowly, “is that you’ve said scab twice. If you say it once more I’ll knock the few teeth you’ve got left right down your big loud throat.”

  Things got awfully quiet for a minute after that. Ken looked at me and let his cigarette hang a little lower but he couldn’t muster the intestinal fortitude to put down the pool cue and start swinging. I left him on the hook a few seconds, then let him save his face.

  “Hell,” I said, and shrugged. “Maybe we’re on the same side. Maybe there wasn’t any way you could have known how things were. I’ll buy you a beer and we’ll forget it—What say?”

  “Sure. Sure, if you want it that way.”

  “I do,” I said, and turned to Gus Fogarty. “A couple of beers here.” Everybody was breathing normally by the time Gus brought the foaming bottles. I talked some with Ken Miller and some with the others and let them work me into the kelly game. It cost me three bucks but I didn’t mind and after a few jokes about it taking me that much longer to buy into the union, I checked out and went back to my newly rented apartment, pulled off my clothes, set the alarm I’d picked up in a drugstore, and crawled into bed.

  Chapter 4

  The second day I said I’d be able to make out with a few instructions about the streets instead of a guide, and Gail Tyler was relieved. She sent Bub to school and I made my rounds alone, a long run to another city where I managed to work in some personal business. I knew that the tan I’d acquired would soon fade unless it got some help so I picked up a sun lamp. Over nine bucks for a flat-nosed bulb, but it would fit into the socket of the lamp over my bed and was supposed to have about three times the effect of old man sunshine. The other purchase was a kingsized bottle of henna to touch up the blond roots that would show from time to time. When I pulled into the truck yard at five, Gail was talking with Arno Walchek and I walked over.

  “Have a good day?” Gail asked. She looked trim and neat, her long black hair caught up in a pony tail and tied with black ribbon.

  “No trouble at all,” I said. Arno nodded his head and looked toward the semi.

  “Need anything besides gas and oil? Brakes all right?”

  “Fine,” I said and went my way.

  For the next two days I made the rounds of the Cavalier Bar, the pool hall, and other spots in the town. I saw Bo Brandell a time or two and shot a little kelly pool with the boys, but nothing serious seemed to be building. On Thursday Vehon just happened to be driving along the street as I left Tyler Trucking. He pulled over to the curb and rested a fat elbow on the window-trim of his car door.

  “Hello, McCarthy. How’s trucking?” he said.

  “All right.” I slowed to a stop and tried to decide whether or not his smile was just a front. “How’s your strong-armed boy these days?”

  Vehon’s thick head nodded easily. “You hurt his pride, McCarthy. Link was getting pretty big in the head and you cut him down to size. Actually, you did me a favor; they’re a little hard to get rid of, usually, when they reach that stage, but you solved all my problems. Link decided to go on to greener pastures and I’m not at all sorry to see him go. So don’t worry, McCarthy, we’re going to get along pretty good if you’re saving for that union card.”

  “I’ll have it before my time is up.”

  “Good. We can use the right kind of driver here in River City.”

  “I’m the right kind,” I said, my eyes steady on Vehon’s face. “I always look a piece of bread over carefully to see which side the butter’s on.”

  It was enough of a hint but Vehon wasn’t buying yet. He waved and touched the automatic shift, turned the corner and was gone.

  Three hours later I was draped over the bar in the Cavalier and Bo Brandell slipped onto the next stool, a drink she’d brought with her in her hand. She didn’t ask for a smoke or try to open negotiations indirectly.

  “I’ve seen you around a few times,” she said simply. “How do you like our town by now?”

  “Fine.”

  “Think you’ll stay a while?” When I nodded, she said, “I’m Bo Brandell.”

  “McCarthy. Warner McCarthy, but they usually shorten it some.”

  “Hi, Mac,” she said, smiling.

  “Another drink?”

  “Later. Where’re you from, Mac?”

  “Here, there, and around.” She was giving me the treatment now, all the way from that intensely interested look when I spoke to a side-of-the-head tilt as she smiled through raised eyes. Bo was a cutie all right, long blond hair arranged in a pony tail that was all her own. Instead of a barrette or rubber band she’d caught up some of the hair and used it as a band circling the tail. Her voice was low and throaty and she’d made the most of generous curves already supplied by mother nature.

  “Playing
it for mystery?” she asked archly.

  “No. You asked and I told you.”

  “I’ll take that drink, Mac, because you need one—you’re all tightened up,” she said with a smile.

  I ordered a round and we chatted a while. It didn’t take long to figure out that I was being conned, that she was out to get the scoop on McCarthy. Why? For whom? I didn’t know but the background was ready and waiting, so when it seemed like the good hour I launched the story of my life. By and large I took what I could remember from the background of Warner McCarthy, once of Sacramento and now roaming the great beyond. I didn’t know who Bo was going to pass it along to but the pieces would bear at least a moderately strong investigation and I felt pretty safe. By the time I’d bought four shots each we were down to a buddy-buddy basis but when I tried to parlay it into something bigger and better she applied the brakes. Fair enough, I was only riding along for laughs anyway, and a little later I went out of the bar and on to the pool room.

  On Friday I drew a long run with the semi. Only one event kept it from being just another day of work and when I pulled into the truck yard that night I decided to let them straighten me out on that one point.

  “The truck was followed,” I said simply. “It wasn’t the goon squad from the teamster’s local—there were a dozen places they could have jumped me if they’d wanted.”

  “You’re sure?” Gail asked, and glanced at Arno. Walchek scratched his bald head and looked questioningly at me.

  “That’s right. Someone kept hanging on back there, just close enough to check on my rig but not near enough to identify. A couple of times you’ve insinuated that all is not well here in River City as far as the truck business goes. If anyone’s willing to part with a few words on the subject I’ve sure got time to listen.”

  “A town of sixty thousand people ought to have several good sized truck outfits,” Walchek said grimly, “and what do we have?”

  “Tell me.”

  “There’s Ward’s, and there’s Doberman’s—both big outfits,” Gail said. “We’re still hanging on but half a dozen other small truck businesses have gone under. Vehon is head of the local. Most of the drivers are with companies that have trucks incidental to their businesses, of course, like the men driving coal trucks and the wholesale grocers. But of general haulers, it’s Ward’s, Doberman’s and for a while yet, Tyler Trucking.”

  “You mentioned Vehon,” I suggested.

  Gail looked at Walchek again and he said, “Vehon is playing with Sam Ward. Doberman is too big for Vehon to battle outright but the other small independents have gone one by one as the union failed to supply men to drive the rigs and refused to let nonunion men climb into the cab.”

  “But they can’t do—”

  “They can and do,” Gail said bitterly. “A lot of men have worked a few days for us, then decided to move on after a talk with Mr. Vehon or some of his boys. Our older men, Arno and Burke and Frank, they’ve been in for a long time and Vehon hasn’t bothered them, probably because shutting off the supply of new blood is almost as effective.”

  “But they let me work for you,” I said. “Why?”

  “They aren’t letting you, Mac,” Arno said. “You’re the first drifter with enough guts to tell Vehon off and make it stick.”

  “And it’s appreciated,” Gail added.

  I let it go at that. I didn’t want to go out on the limb and commit myself; when the time came for the switch to the cab company I wanted to be free to go. And maybe Vehon would be wanting to take on a man in Link’s place one of these days; I had to keep that in mind too. I thought again about the bank and the day Pop Walters had died, and it gave me courage to be a little hard.

  “Just so we understand each other, you’ve got a fight and I’ve got one—I have to earn a living. Right now we go in the same direction; later our paths might diverge. I’m just doing the best I can for McCarthy and if it helps you for a while, you’re welcome.”

  I went toward my apartment and tried to figure out why my truck had been tailed. The things Gail and Arno had told me were interesting but hardly answered the question uppermost in my mind. The question was answered though, a little later, after I’d made my usual call in Gus Fogarty’s poolroom. I stopped for a few words with Gus, then went back to the tables and when Ken Miller saw me he hung up his cue. “Let’s take a little walk,” he suggested.

  “All right,” I said, and we went out together.

  “Friend of mine wants to see you,” Ken said, and nodded down the street. We passed a few shops closed for the day and then turned into a small hall marked Teamster’s Local.

  “Vehon?”

  “That’s right, and he’s a big cog in the local. The cog, so treat him gently.”

  “You have your way and I have mine,” I said, and then we were going into Vehon’s office.

  “McCarthy,” Vehon said, nodding. “Nice to see you.” He spent a few more minutes with the papers on his desk and it looked pretty much like he was giving me that standard let-’em-wait-a-while pitch.

  “If you’re busy we’ll leave,” I said evenly. That made the papers drop to his desk and once again he grinned at me.

  “These Irishmen,” he said, and shook his big head good-naturedly. “Sometimes I don’t know.” This time I waited him out and when his face grew serious once more he said, “I’ve been a little worried about you, McCarthy.”

  “Why? I thought I was supposed to be the one who had to worry.”

  “You hit this town like a small tornado, McCarthy.”

  “I go my way. I haven’t bothered anyone who didn’t jump on my toes.”

  “Depends on where you stand. At any rate you’re something of a problem. I wasn’t just sure that you were all you claimed to be.”

  “And that brought on worry? Why?”

  Vehon’s eyes snapped momentarily and then he managed another small grin. “That round to you, McCarthy. But we aren’t trying to kid anyone. Our methods of running the local aren’t exactly like the rest of the unions. We know that. For a while I thought you might be interested in—well, in finding out a lot of things we consider to be strictly our own business.”

  “I’m a drifter. Bums aren’t organized and there’s no social standing, so every guy and his brother thinks he can push you around. It gets monotonous. I gave up turning the other cheek and took up swinging a fist long ago and I get along fine.”

  “And how are things at Tyler Trucking?”

  “All right. Why shouldn’t they be?”

  “Uh huh. Now suppose, McCarthy, that we found you a better job. Be interested?”

  “Hell yes. A day’s work and a day’s pay. The more dough the better; what have you got?”

  “Nothing yet. Just checking around and keeping my finger on the pulse of business.”

  “You want me to take another job, I’m willing,” I told him. “I don’t care where the hell I work.”

  “No, no. Maybe it’s better you’re there. Who knows? They found you and they like you—stay with it a while and keep a tight lip and an open eye. You follow me, McCarthy? Something good comes up in the meantime, I’ll pass the word along. How does that strike you?”

  “That’ll be fair enough,” I said. A few minutes later Ken Miller and I headed back to the pool hall. And I didn’t have a very profitable evening in the game, mostly because I kept thinking about a lot of possibilities and where the pieces fit.

  One thing for sure, I wouldn’t need to switch to the cab company now; not the way Ken Miller and I were getting together. And it began to look like Bo Brandell had been asked to check into my background by Vehon. Vehon and Ward were running hand in hand, Gail had said, and that meant Tyler Trucking and McCarthy might have a lot of problems in common after all.

  The car that followed my truck? Suppose Vehon had me pegged for an investigator of some kind. He might have someone tag along with the out of town run just to see where I went, mightn’t he? At least it was a thought. And if Vehon wanted me
to work in a little closer to Tyler Trucking so I could keep an eye open, well, there was a way to do that too. A good way.

  Chapter 5

  On Saturday I went to the ball game. The Cubs were having a pregame workout down on the diamond when I came in and I saw right away that Bub was a better than fair hitter. He took a nice free swing and stepped into the ball, a natural at the plate. Later the boys took infield practice and you could see they weren’t a polished outfit, even for twelve-year-olds. Bub was at first base and as the ball made the rounds I began to notice that the kid was getting tangled up down there. I smiled to myself and kept one eye on the gate and when Gail came through I caught her attention and waved.

  “I didn’t know Little League was one of your major interests in life, Mac,” she said, climbing the wooden steps. Half a dozen unattached males gave her the eye as she came up and you could see disappointment in their faces as she took the vacant seat next to me. This babe had problems but it was fairly obvious that none of them were physical and no guy with enough eyesight to follow a ball game could miss it.

  “Little league, big league, it’s all baseball,” I said, grinning. We watched the rest of the pregame loosening up and Gail went over the fact that Bub had plenty of competition for the first base spot. I didn’t say anything but the wheels were turning over, the plan taking shape. In the first part of the game Bub did real well—laced out a couple of good hits and brought in a run. He fielded all right because the pegs from the infield were right in there. But it was too good to last and along about the fifth inning the shortstop trapped a slow roller and hurried his throw to first. It came a little wide. Not way off, just a fair reach for a competent player but the ball got away from Bub and dribbled toward the dugout. The runner went to second and a man scored. When I looked at Gail she bit nervously at a fingernail.

  “He’ll be—be pretty bad from here on,” she said, shaking her head. “Bub has a tendency to blow up when he misses an easy chance.”