Come Back for More

by Al Fray

  I made strong coffee and lapped the rug a few more times and finally came down to separating into either-or, starting from the beginning.

  Either Walchek was selling Tyler Trucking out or he wasn’t. Suppose he was—then Domms had a fairly good case worked out; a planned and well-timed job that went wrong due to an unforeseen wreck. But if Arno wasn’t dealing with someone for the silk—then where did he go? Suppose his truck was boarded at an intersection, or perhaps flagged down on the highway. He was getting along in years, he might not have been alert to danger quite soon enough. It posed a few problems but none were impossible of solution. Any lumps they might have given Arno in a struggle would naturally be attributed to the wreck, there would be no way to identify a blow to the skull later. He wouldn’t be the first man to have been put into a car or truck and sent to his death—or bundled into one, already dead, and started on his last ride. The more I dwelled upon that angle the more it looked like a possibility, and I dropped off to sleep making plans for an early morning safari.

  But that too seemed to lead disappointingly into a blind alley. I phoned Gail before daybreak, and we made the trip to the scene of the accident. We went over the truck painstakingly, yet all we came up with was a few small pieces of broken glass, part of a light bulb. We found them in the cab of Arno’s wreck.

  “They could have come from anywhere,” Gail said. “The fact that the dome light in the truck cab wasn’t broken is no real indication.”

  “I know. And the scratches on the steering wheel were probably made when Arno hit, but a good alert police department might—”

  “Then let’s take it to Captain Domms,” Gail said. “He can—”

  “Domms?” I tried to keep her from seeing how I felt about him and then I said, “You take it, Gail. I’ll—be busy driving; it’s almost time to roll.”

  “But, Mac, you found the pieces of glass.”

  I didn’t say anything, just kept my eyes on the road as I drove her car back toward the office. She was silent for several minutes and then she said, “All right, Mac. As soon as the trucks are on their way I’ll go down and see Captain Domms.”

  Chapter 7

  It was a long day, the three of us handling Arno’s work among us, and it was late when I pulled into the yard and checked under the hood of my rig. Bub came out, a baseball cap on his head and a smile on his face as he watched me measure the oil.

  “Practiced on that footwork today, Mac,” he told me. “Shucks, it’s easy if you don’t get ’em crossed.”

  “Good,” I said, and went to pump a quart of lube oil. When I finished with the truck and snapped the catches, Gail was coming toward me. Pedal pushers and low shoes were overruled by general feminine pulchritude and there was a light in her eyes as she leaned her elbows on the fender of the truck and smiled at me.

  “What’s new in town?” I asked. She started to answer, then stopped as footsteps sounded along the walk and Captain Domms barged in on us.

  “Afraid these bits of glass aren’t going to be much help,” Domms said, holding out the pieces of light bulb. I moved into the light—I wanted the captain to see me before he heard my voice when Gail made introductions.

  “Captain Domms. Mr. McCarthy,” Gail said. We shook hands and his eyes went over me carefully, then drifted back to Gail. He gave her the fragments of glass.

  “Not worth following. The boys gave them to me when I came in this morning, Miss Tyler, and told me about your finding them in the wrecked truck. Now when was the last time Arno changed bulbs in his dome light?”

  “Well, I don’t know, of course, but—”

  “The dome light wasn’t smashed in the wreck; you found what’s probably part of a bulb.” Domms shook his gray head and turned palms up. “What am I supposed to make of it? Arno could have broken it earlier. A month, a week, even yesterday, for all you know! Maybe you got trouble with your insurance carrier and maybe you’ll hear more from the department about who got the silk, but the wreck itself—well, that looks like strictly an accident and homicide isn’t interested.”

  A few seconds later he said good night and went toward the police car parked at, the curb. Then Gail said, “It’s pretty obvious that you didn’t want to meet Captain Domms. You’ve been careful to keep clear; I hope you don’t think I arranged—”

  “Of course not,” I said quickly. “And I haven’t been ducking him. It’s just that he’s a cop and I don’t happen to belong to his fan club.” Gail raised her eyebrows and looked at me strangely as I pulled my leather jacket out of the truck and found my smokes.

  “The rig is ready to roll,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

  Two hours later I was out making the rounds. I didn’t see Doreen at the drive-in but when I hit the bar she was on hand along with three others enmeshed in my little tangle. The four of them, Bo Brandell, Doreen, Vehon, and Sam Ward were lapping up brew in a booth near the back. I slid onto a leatherette stool up front and ordered a highball. By the time I was halfway through my drink I had companions—Vehon and Sam were climbing onto bar stools next to me. Glancing in the mirror I saw that the two girls were still in the booth, and then Vehon went into introductions.

  “McCarthy, want you to know Sam Ward. Sam, McCarthy.”

  “How do you do?” I said, and shook a fat hand pushed at me. “What can I do for you two?”

  “Sam has various interests in River City,” Vehon said. Sam Ward was still looking at me, his eyelids down just a little as he made his survey. When he finished the inventory, Sam turned to the bartender in front of us.

  “Go get some ice,” Sam said.

  “I got ice,” the bartender said, and reached for a handful of cubes.

  “Maybe you’ll need more before the night’s over,” Sam said. “Go get it.”

  “Oh, sure, some ice.” The bartender grinned sheepishly and went to the far end of the bar and made himself busy. Sam turned back to me, a tough expression sliding like a mask across his face.

  “You put in a long day, McCarthy.”

  “I draw union scale for it.”

  “Don’t get tough with me, McCarthy. You aren’t talking to a bum.” I didn’t say anything so Sam lit an expensive cigar and went on. “This little forage you made in the early hours—that trip out to the wreck. Why, McCarthy?”

  “I’m not sold on the truck accident. I just don’t believe that Arno Walchek was in full possession of his faculties when he rammed that underpass, so I took the Tyler babe out for a look around.”

  “Maybe we don’t like that,” Vehon said. Sam blew smoke over my head and nodded.

  “Vehon is right, McCarthy. We don’t like it.”

  “So what the hell do I care whether you like it or not. I’m not on your payroll.” Sam’s eyes narrowed once more and I said, “I told you, Vehon, that I’ll work any place there’s money. So far the only cash I’ve made in River City came from Tyler Trucking; I’m interested in the hand that feeds me.”

  Sam Ward was looking at me with half closed eyes again and I thought grimly that he’d changed since I knew him years ago. Still tough, still hard as concrete, but he’d learned caution somewhere along the line. If it came to a battle I’d a lot rather have the mouth-type with a lot to say than a guy who thinks things through beforehand. Sam took another long drag at his cigar and then a slow smile spread over his chubby face.

  “Maybe we can do business, McCarthy,” he said, and nodded thoughtfully. “We all seem to be interested in the same thing—money. And now, you’re making more of it. You’re working for me.”

  “Good,” I said, and fought down a feeling of regret over parting company with Gail and Bub. But this was what I’d come back to River City for and there was more than an outside chance that I’d be helping them indirectly, so I said, “How much is the dough and when do I report to Ward’s Trucking?”

  “You don’t. We want you where you are, right in the cab of a Tyler truck. And the dough—well, in addition to what they pay you at scale, yo
u’ll be getting fifty a week from us. In cash, McCarthy, no tax. Suppose we say you arrange to bump into Vehon at the union hall each week along about Friday.” Ward turned to Vehon. “Ed, you’ll have McCarthy’s money, and handle payment. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Vehon said.

  “Sounds all right,” I said, “but I think a few words on just how I’m to earn this side money might be in order.”

  “For watching and listening while you’re at Tyler’s and talking only when you’re with me,” Ward said, and laughed a little. “All she’s got left over there is a couple of guys old enough to be her dutch uncles. A man like you oughtn’t to have any trouble acing himself into the top spot.”

  I took a slow drink from my glass and made a fast evaluation. If they conned me too easily it might look bad; I’d have to play the money-hungry angle pretty consistently to carry this off.

  “I’m beginning to get the picture,” I said, “and so long as we understand each other, I like what I’ve seen this far.”

  “What’s to understand?” Ward asked guardedly.”

  “That risk and cash go hand in hand. For listening and passing the word I’m well paid at fifty a week. If it comes to—well, to something else—you can still count on me, but the rates would have to keep pace with the job.”

  “These Irishmen,” Vehon said, and grinned. In the mirror I caught a quick wink passing between them and then Ward laughed too.

  “Sure, Mac. When we find a good man we pay well. The only question is how good you are, and if it turns out you’re worth important dough you’ll find us reasonable.”

  “Then I guess we’ve made a deal.”

  “You know we have,” Ward said, and slid off of the stool. “Now first thing you do for us is forget Arno Walchek’s accident. Let the cops worry about it; that’s what the city pays them for.”

  “I’ll remember to forget,” I said.

  “You know Fradkin and you know Ken Miller,” Ward went on softly. “Any orders you get will come from Ed here or from me, and maybe through one of those two boys. You got that, Mac?”

  “Fradkin too?”

  “And Miller,” Ward said carefully. “They’re on the payroll too. I guess we understand each other, McCarthy?”

  “We do,” I said, and then Sam Ward and Ed Vehon went back to the girls. I downed my drink and walked out onto the street.

  Marty Bruno was still in his cigar stand when I came along the walk. “How’ya, Marty?” I called, as soon as I was close enough for him to hear, a fast how-ya-Marty before he had time to strain his ears for some other sign to recognize me by.

  “Hello, Mac. What’s the word tonight?”

  “A fresh pack. What’s new with Marty?”

  “Sixes and sevens. Still with Tyler?”

  I nodded, then remembered that he couldn’t see. “Sure. Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Tough about Arno Walchek.”

  “That’s right. But accidents happen, Marty,” I said, and watched him closely. If he had any doubts about Arno’s death being an accident or if Marty Bruno had picked up any other bits of information it certainly didn’t reflect in his face.

  Chapter 8

  A couple of evenings in the following week I found time to toss a ball with Bub and he’d improved a lot. Those feet weren’t getting tangled up any more when he reached for wide ones. By game time on Saturday Gail and I were in the stands. She was a lovely doll in a pleated skirt and a white sweater. Plenty of gents around us were turning an eye her way but she seemed not to notice the attention she was getting. Her arm linked through mine and I was glad to be the lucky man.

  “Bub seems more sure of himself today,” Gail said, nodding toward the diamond.

  “He looks good in the pregame workout. Let’s hope he does as well after the ump yells ‘play ball,’” I said. But we needn’t have worried; the kid was right on top of the game all the way. His first time up he slammed a triple to deep right and started the scoring off when two men ahead of him crossed the plate. In the second inning he scooped a wide peg out of the dirt to save a bad throw from short and nip a Pirate rally that had threatened to get out of hand.

  “We can breathe again,” Gail laughed.

  “Let’s live it up,” I said, grinning. “How about a coke and a dog?”

  “Love ’em.” It was a rousing game right on down to the end when Bub, stretching far to his left, trapped a wild throw from second to complete a double play and beat the Pirates. The game was over.

  “We nosed out the Pirates,” Bub cried gleefully, as we left the park, “and now we’re in first place. Boy, what a ball game!”

  “You did all right,” I said. Gail put her arm around Bub and looked over his head at me, a warm light in her blue eyes.

  “Yes,” she echoed, still looking at me, “you did all right!”

  I laughed and swung the door of her Pontiac and we headed back toward the Tyler bungalow. When we went into the living room Gail told Bub that we were all going out to dinner.

  “Gee, Mac, that’ll be fine,” Bub said. “I’ll wash my face and put on—”

  “Hit the showers, bum,” I said. “If you’re going to be a ball player you’ve got to learn to scrub it off when the game’s over.”

  “All right, Mac. You guys wait, huh?”

  “We’ll wait. And Mac’s right,” Gail said. “Take a good long shower.” She winked at me, set out two glasses, and opened the cupboard. “The selection isn’t extensive but I think a toast is in order. Whisky or rum?”

  “Rum. The warrior’s drink,” I said. She made the highballs and we raised the glasses.

  “To a warrior who doubles in truck driving,” Gail said.

  “And to his boss,” I said.

  We talked some and relaxed and pretty soon Bub came in wearing clean blue denims, a T-shirt, and a happy smile.

  Dinner wasn’t as calm as it might have been, the kid being keyed up, but it was pleasant. The only moment of anxiety came when we were starting our dessert and I looked up to see a familiar foursome following the hostess toward a table marked reserved. They were Doreen, Bo Brandell, Ed Vehon, and Ward, and I was sure that Vehon’s eyelid dropped just a trifle and Sam’s lips bent into the beginnings of a smile but they passed without further sign.

  Which was good! They wanted me to be in solid at Tyler’s and it wouldn’t hurt for them to see me making progress.

  By ten we were back and Bub trotted off to the sack while Gail and I sat down to drink a nightcap and watch a couple of TV comics go through their tired routines. When the commercials began to get even more nauseating than usual I flipped the thing off and we had another drink.

  “Now, now,” Gail said, as I snapped off the lamp next to the sofa, but she didn’t resist when I drew her close and kissed her. Our hands caught and the fingers interlaced. I kissed her again, this time a little harder and her lips weren’t quite closed, and somewhere along the line the heat began to build. She shifted and half turned. A shaft of moonlight spilled through the window and lighted her face framed by careless swirls of black hair. Her eyes were wide open but they closed as her arms went around my neck and I bent over her.

  “Mac,” she murmured. “Mac, we—I—”

  My lips closed over hers and the room was still. A gentle breeze stirred thin mesh curtains and the subdued sounds of traffic on Main Street drifted over us…

  On Monday Gail had the orders on our three clipboards when we came to work and a tinge of pink crept into her face when our eyes met.

  “What’s on the program?” I asked lightly, and scanned the sheet of paper. Then a soft whistle escaped me and I tapped a finger on the first item listed.

  “The semi is a lot of truck for this haul,” I told her. It was a shipment of coats coming out from the city and I had to drive empty one way for the pick up.

  “It’s quite a load in some ways. Expensive fur,” Gail said.

  “But your biggest rig shouldn’t be tied up—” I stopped then because the toe of her sm
all shoe had moved over enough to touch mine lightly and the look in her eye said to stall awhile. I checked under the hood a second time and let the other two trucks roll out ahead of me. Gail stood on the steps and I pulled up a few feet, then stopped with the cab of my truck beside her.

  “It’s expensive merchandise,” she said in a low voice. “I’d rather you made this haul, Mac, even though it’s a light load for this rig. One hundred and forty coats at eight hundred each comes to something over a hundred thousand dollars, one of those operations which depends heavily on no one knowing just when the shipment will depart.”

  “I see.”

  “And this would be a good time to forget chivalry if you should happen to see a woman driver stalled along the highway. I mean this is a run we want to be sure of.”

  “I’m with you all the way,” I said, and fed a little gas to the engine. “I don’t suppose your dad had a gun on hand for such occasions.”

  “An old service automatic, Mac, that he got from a G.I. But I don’t know. I suppose if you want—”

  “I want,” I said grimly. “If it came out of World War Two it won’t be a stranger; let me have the little beauty and we’ll get this show on the highway.”

  I tucked the forty-five down between the seat and backrest, draped a handkerchief over it, waved to Gail, then slipped into gear and nosed out onto the street. My destination was just under a hundred miles and I let the big semi out a bit on the straight stretches. She was working smoothly and I checked the rearview carefully from time to time but everything seemed in order. When city traffic began to close in around the truck I eased over one lane nearer the side and let them speed past. Following the route Gail had marked out for me, I had no trouble locating the warehouse and I stood by, making careful tally while they put the merchandise aboard. I locked the steel doors in place and made sure everything was secure, then climbed into the cab again and pulled out into the stream of cars moving along the street, slowing to hit the lights just right.