Come Back for More

by Al Fray

  “People around town tell me you’re a good driver, McCarthy. That’s the only kind I’m interested in, so I have to pay a little better than other outfits.”

  “I didn’t know I had a publicity department.”

  “You have. I understand you did one hell of a job protecting your load of merchandise not long ago.”

  “That’s the build-up. What about the pitch?”

  Big Bob Doberman grinned at me, swung his feet down, and put massive elbows on the desk. “Hell, man, you’re wasting time out at Tyler’s.”

  “They pay union scale.”

  “I pay more. Eighteen drivers, and not one of them making as low as the book. The boys who handle big equipment get real good dough.”

  “You mean overtime?”

  “Sure, but more than that.” He looked at me shrewdly for several seconds and then tapped a pencil against his teeth. “I’ll go four bits an hour over scale for a good man. Besides that I’ll write you into the company insurance protecting you during off-duty hours and we’ll pick up the tab. Fringe benefits. With taxes the way they are these days all the little extras add up. You know that.”

  “And what have I done to earn all this luxury? Or more important, what do I have to do?”

  “Drive truck. And hustle. The world is full of guys looking for a job but damn few of them are looking for work.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, “but I’ll have to think it over.”

  “What’s to think over? I’ve made you a hell of a good offer, McCarthy.”

  “I’ll have to give my present boss a chance to match your bid,” I said.

  “Tyler Trucking? Hell, man, they can hardly pay you as it is. Any Friday night now you’ll be coming up without that check.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, and fought down a desire to reach across the desk and hang a solid right on his chin. Ward wasn’t the only one trying to force Gail out of the trucking game, and I could see the shape of this offer. As soon as Tyler went under Doberman would take over the work, or maybe some would go to Ward and the rest to Big Bob Doberman.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said.

  “Do that. But don’t wait too many days. If another good man comes along I’ll have to put him on the payroll.”

  Doberman stood up then and gave me that tight handshake. He was a big man in more ways than one; if he locked horns with the Ward-Vehon combination some of the boys might be in between and I didn’t want McCarthy to be one of them.

  When I left the office I stopped in at a grocery store, bought a bag of apples so I’d have something to take out, eased over to the phone booth, and dialed Ward’s number.

  “McCarthy,” I said, when Sam Ward answered, “and I’ve been offered a job. Never saw a town so hard up for men to handle trucks.”

  “Job, eh? I figured that would be it. What’s his bid?”

  “Four bits an hour over standard rate, plus a few fringe benefits. He also mentioned quite a bit of overtime.”

  “So you’d work long hours! You’re making more as it is, what with union wages from Tyler’s and a boost on the side from me.”

  “That’s right. I’m willing to stand pat for a while. Anything else?”

  “Okay, McCarthy. I like your spirit, boy. We were going to give you a buzz later in the week but no harm in telling you now that there’s a deal on the fire. Should be a nice chunk of cash for you, and you’ll be hearing from Ed about Thursday. And have a phone put in, Mac; you can afford it on your extra dough and we may need to contact you in a hurry some night.”

  “Can do; will do,” I said, and then cradled the phone and carried my apples back to the apartment.

  Along the way I mulled over a couple of weighty problems. With eighteen drivers Doberman had a big outfit—Gail’s little truck company wasn’t eating into his profit very much. Not by a hell of a way. And I’d never seen any other town where truck companies were bidding for drivers. What was his game anyway?

  The second item nagging away at me was the deal Ward mentioned. Now that time was closing in I wasn’t so sure about that—I wanted to get in, had to work in closer to the syndicate Ward mentioned, but I didn’t want to get tangled up in something I couldn’t wiggle out of. The town was rotten; Domms said it was loaded with organized hoods all out of proportion to the size of the place.

  And in organized crime nothing could be more expendable than hobo truck drivers.

  Chapter 10

  About Thursday, Ward had said, and I had to sweat out the time of waiting. Monday I put in some long hours with Tyler Trucking and in the evening I played a little pool at Fogarty’s. Tuesday the landlady let in the boys from Bell and they installed my phone so I called Vehon, Sam Ward, and also Gail to leave my new number. As far as the first two were concerned my telephone was strictly for contact—anything of importance would be discussed in person. I got through Wednesday okay but the tension was building. Thursday I was in the shower after work when the bell finally rang. I put a foot out onto the bath mat, then pulled the foot in again and finished my shower.

  They can be slave or master, those telephones, and I wasn’t going to start out wrong with this one. It doesn’t make sense, really, but it’s true. You can get up off your fat, walk through a rainy night to the drugstore or corner grocery or just about any place else to spend your hard-earned cash, and after you get there if the bell happens to jingle the clerk will leave you dripping at the counter while he runs to answer the phone—for someone who has taken no more trouble than to spin the dial a few times. Ridiculous? Of course it’s ridiculous, but strictly the way it always turns out. There are plenty of ways old Alex Bell’s wonderful invention can get you into its clutches, but I draw the line at hopping out of the shower and sprinting through the house to answer the thing. If the call is important the friend will ring again; if it isn’t, you haven’t missed anything.

  When I finished my shower and went into the kitchen the phone rang a second time. I scooped up the receiver and said hello.

  “McCarthy? Vehon.”

  “What’s new?” I asked.

  “This and that. If you’re not busy tonight how about stopping by the union hall. Thought we might check up on your card.”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Now will be all right.”

  “Check,” I said, and cradled the receiver.

  Ten minutes later I slipped into the Teamster’s Local and went down the hall and into the big man’s office. This time Vehon didn’t try that you-wait-while-I-go-through-these-papers routine. He tilted back in his chair, then grinned at me and jerked a thumb toward the door.

  “Mind shutting that, McCarthy?”

  I closed the door.

  “McCarthy, how many ways are there of tying up a truck?”

  “Plenty,” I said. “Depends on why you’re stalling it and I suppose where, and also for how long.”

  “For ten minutes, say. Or fifteen.”

  “Brief me. Then I’ll work out something definite in the way of an answer.”

  “You only need a quick once-over at this stage, McCarthy. Suppose you want to tie up traffic on the street for a few minutes, starting at a definite time.”

  “And am I standing there with my rig while she’s stalled?”

  “Sure. You’re trying frantically to get her started. Only you don’t make it until you want to.”

  “I see,” I said. But there was a lot I didn’t see. The first part, sure—I was to stall my truck and hold up traffic while the boys pulled a heist, but I wanted to look a little farther down the road than that. I wanted to be damn sure of what would happen to McCarthy when that was over.

  “Isn’t it going to look a wee bit suspicious? My blocking traffic right at the time it will help you most?”

  “Don’t worry, McCarthy,” Vehon said. “We’re providing you with a reason, an airtight reason to jam things. All we want you to do is work out the mechanics and submit the thing to us. We’ll call the shots.”

 
“All right. But I’ll need a few minutes’ time to think about it.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time. We’re holding another meeting tomorrow night and you ought to have it by then. Right?”

  “Sure. No strain if I’ve got that long. What time?”

  “We’ll let you know,” Vehon said. He waved a hand and I got up and went out and down the street.

  I gave the poolroom a fast go-by but before I was half a block past I heard my name called out behind me. When I turned, Ken Miller was hurrying toward me.

  “No pool, Mac?” he asked, his thick lips parting in a side-of-the-mouth smile.

  “Not in the mood,” I said. I started along the street once more and Ken fell in step with me. He glanced all around and lowered his voice.

  “Hear from Vehon tonight?”

  “Vehon? About what?” I’ll be dipped, I thought; either the boys up front are trying to find out how readily I talk or this guy’s lip is as loose as the free end of a flapping tarp.

  “Trucks,” Ken said, winking at me. “They get stalled sometimes you know.”

  “What truck? Stalled where?” I asked innocently. Miller did another careful survey of the street and nudged me with an elbow.

  “I’m in on that caper, Mac. You don’t have to kid me.”

  “Kid you, buddy? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. C’mon, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Sure, Mac. A beer.”

  So we turned into a bar and lapped up a couple of schooners of brew. He kept trying to pump me and said enough to let me know that he did have something in the forthcoming opus Vehon and Ward were staging, but in the back of my mind was still the thought that this was a test of McCarthy’s tongue tension and I was determined to keep it plenty tight. Miller tired of trying after awhile and turned to the subject of dames; but his conversation in this department was neither sparkling nor enlightening, and as soon as I could give him the kiss-off I patted him on the shoulder, said something about having work to do, and made my escape.

  Back in the apartment, I brewed a pot of strong coffee, downed two cups, crawled into the sack, and then closed my eyes to do some serious thinking.

  A stall! Ten minutes, and it had to look good! So there’s the air lines and the linkages and the pistons and the brake shoes and…

  The call came late on Friday. I’d already given up and racked in about midnight but before I dropped off the phone jingled. “Hell of a long day you guys work,” I said after Vehon had identified himself.

  “Think of the dough,” he said shortly, “and if you’re still interested in cash get out of the slumber chamber and come down to Ward’s garage. Just walk along the alley; we’ll let you in the back way.”

  I pulled on pants, a T-shirt, socks, shoes, a leather jacket, and slid my wallet into a pocket. The streets were almost deserted and only an occasional car passed. I turned into the alley and when I came to the door and lifted a hand to rap, the door opened and Ken Miller grinned out at me.

  “In here,” he said, and led the way to a small cubicle office. And that office was pretty well filled. Vehon and Sam Ward were there, both big men, and next to Vehon, Doreen Phillips. Sam made the introductions.

  “I’ve seen Mr. McCarthy before,” Doreen said.

  For a second my jaw dropped open and then Doreen said, “At the drive-in. I used to work there, Mr. Mac. Remember?” She gave me the old personality smile, then changed to a pout that was half accusing. “And you’ve forgotten.”

  “Sure,” I said quickly, “the doll I met the day I hit this burg.”

  Doreen smiled then. She was strictly an eye stopper, this kid—wide-eyed smile, long red hair, and really stacked—but she couldn’t quite keep you from knowing that she was well aware of her charm. She never for one moment let anyone forget that she was put together like something in one of your better dreams. She was making the most of nature now in a sweater a little too tight, an uplift brassiere just a little too high. But she was there and meant to catch my eye and I gave it the full play. When I figured I’d run it about to the end I turned back to Ward.

  “Some eyeful, eh, McCarthy?” Ward said.

  “A very beautiful girl,” I admitted, and Doreen rewarded me with a smile but I couldn’t help noticing that Vehon wasn’t amused.

  “Let’s get down to business,” he said. He dropped a sheet of paper on the desk, picked up a pencil, and drew a couple of parallel lines. “Here’s Main Street. And Second Street crosses here. You know that intersection, McCarthy?”

  “Sure.”

  “The only part of this deal that concerns you revolves around this spot. Here’s where you stall the truck—and traffic,” Vehon said. “Sam, do you want to take it from there?”

  Ward leaned his fat belly on the desk, picked up a red rubber eraser, and put it between the lines marking Main Street.

  “Here’s your rig, Mac, coming toward Second Street. Like this.” Slowly he moved the eraser along the path my truck would take. “Now we said we’d give you a reason to stop. Doreen is that reason. We don’t want no foul-up so pay attention while I show you just how this is to be. She’s standing by the newsstand just short of Second. Right here.” Sam put a finger of his other hand where the sidewalk of Main Street would be.

  “I’m with you so far,” I said.

  “All right. Now she’s looking at the magazines but keeping an eye out for your truck. When she sees you coming she puts down the mag, turns, and jaywalks across Main just short of the corner right in front of your rig. You hit the horn and everybody sees her—nobody’s going to miss it.”

  Doreen’s smile was one of triumph and power and she elevated her shoulders and raised the charm an inch or two higher.

  “How close is she? Do I almost brush her?”

  “No, not when the show begins you don’t, and that’s where you’re going to have to handle your rig with a sure hand, McCarthy,” Ward said. “A simple stop wouldn’t do it; we want to dam off the whole street and that means you get your truck crosswise in the thing. You follow me?”

  “I’m way ahead. To do that the truck will have to slew. The van will have to whip.”

  “Right, McCarthy. Which is why we’re paying a fancy price for this job. We want someone who knows what he’s doing. The kid here is going to be on the spot—she’ll be out in front of you doing the confused female act complete with a fast change of direction and your timing will have to fit together like a couple of trapeze artists catching hands in mid-air. No errors allowed.”

  “Then let’s get to work on who zigs and who zags and where.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re about to do.” Ward grinned.

  In the next twenty minutes we went over details, even did a walk-through to be sure Doreen and I understood how every turn was going to be made; and then they wanted to know about the gimmick I’d decided on for stalling the truck once she was stopped. That took another ten minutes and a short trip out to one of Ward’s rigs standing in the garage while I pointed out ways and means for accomplishing the end. When we came back to the office I had two more questions.

  “So far we haven’t said anything about what comes off while I’m holding up production,” I pointed out. “And the closest we’ve come to mentioning money was a vague word or two about a fancy price.”

  “The first question goes unanswered, McCarthy,” Vehon said. “It’s taken care of in the second. The syndicate figured on paying five hundred bucks for your part in this, a pretty high price if you ask me.”

  I tried not to show surprise. A hell of a lot of cash for a few minutes’ work; they were certainly going to make a big play somewhere, a real score.

  “I like the sound of the dough,” I said at last, “but the risk entailed—”

  “Hold it.” Ward stuck a cigar in his face and gave me a slow hard look. “You’ve got no risk. You collect some cash now, two fifty.” He shuffled a bundle of lettuce from his wallet and counted twelve twenties and a ten onto the scarred desk—
small bills neither new nor traceable. “The rest you get within a week after you do the job and that whether or not things work out for us. You’re taking no risk; we’ve provided an airtight reason for your accidentally jamming traffic and any truck can stall.”

  I didn’t touch the money. Instead I looked up and met his eyes coolly. Ward glanced at Vehon and Vehon nodded, so Ward shrugged his shoulders.

  “All right, McCarthy, here’s the pitch. There’s something we have to remove and we don’t want anyone looking over our shoulders while we do it. Simple enough? So we arrange for people to be interested in something else. Now that’s as far as we need to go.”

  “You’ve gone far enough for me,” I said, and tried to work up a greedy look as I gathered in the green. There didn’t seem to be any more information forthcoming. Ward grinned and put a hand on my shoulder as I stashed away his money.

  “The day will be given you later, as well as the hour and so on. Just hold yourself in readiness, Mac.”

  “That’ll be fair enough,” I said. “Now that I know what you want done you can depend on the thing turning out a hell of a lot better than the time you were hoping I’d pull the truck over for a hijack job.”

  “We expect this one to turn out, McCarthy.”

  “This time we understand each other,” I said. And then to Doreen, “Be seein’ you through my windshield, cutie.”

  She smiled and lifted a hand to wave and then I went my way. It was almost three when I crawled back into the sack but speculation about the five hundred they were paying me soon gave way to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  It was simple, of course, to tell myself that I should relax and take it easy; slowing down jumpy nerves was another matter. Ward and Vehon hadn’t given me much information but there were a couple of facts that I could work out for myself. The big delay, for example, in cutting me in on the day and the hour. They weren’t running the risk of my selling them out. When the show went on, it would roll fast and I’d have to play the hand all the way out and take my chances.