by Al Fray
Which didn’t exactly add to my peace of mind. I drove the big semi and watched every turn and tried to figure out where the strike would be. There were a number of likely spots along the main drag—too many of them to be able to put a finger on any one and say this is the most likely place for the blow to fall.
The runs were getting smaller at Tyler’s. Some of the bigger outfits weren’t anxious to do business with us any more and I went through the motions with a half empty rig both Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday Gail gave me some verbal instructions along with my clipboard of orders.
“These automatic washers and dryers, Mac,” she said, her smooth white fingers flipping the yellow sheets, “come to quite a shipment. They want you to pick up the first load about eleven so you’ll get out to the appliance shop right after noon. Can do?”
“Can and will,” I said. “What with business the way it is—or isn’t—we don’t want to alienate any of the customers.”
A few minutes later I rolled out onto the street and toward my first pick-up. At 10:50 I pulled into the freight depot for those appliances and the boys on the freight dock started to trundle automatic washers into the van. Before we were half loaded someone yelled that McCarthy was wanted on the phone.
“Where?” I asked. The man who had called my name jerked a thumb toward the end of the building where two phone booths huddled together under a projection of the roof. When I walked over I saw that someone was yakking away in the first and the receiver hung from its cord in the second. I picked up the receiver and said hello. There was a metallic click followed by the buzz of an empty line and then incongruously, a low clear voice.
“Keep the phone to your ear, McCarthy.”
I half turned and saw Ed Vehon easing out of the next booth. He leaned against the wall next to my open door and began to scan a newspaper.
“All right,” I said, “I hear you.”
“Today is the day, McCarthy. Now let’s get it firmly in mind—no blows. You’re loading those washers for Westcott Appliance, and you’ll be—”
“But how did you—” I stopped then as the connection snapped home. I knew now why someone at Westcott’s had specified the time for delivery.
“It’s getting on toward noon,” Vehon was saying, “and if they load you out too soon you can grab a sandwich out of your lunch and stall a few minutes. The time is set for 12:17 and you know which clock.”
“I’ve got it. Seventeen after twelve.”
“That’s right, Mac, and the time now is”—Vehon glanced at his watch, then back to his paper—“ten fifty-seven. Set your watch, then make the final check against the big clock as you roll down Main Street. We’ll make this one good. How about it?”
“Hell, yes. I want that other two hundred and fifty fish.”
“You’ll collect if you deliver. Now hang up the receiver and go on back to your rig. And, McCarthy, it would be a good idea if this was your last phone call for a while. And don’t hold any long discussions with strangers between now and then. You follow me, boy?”
“Stop worrying,” I said. “We’ve got a deal—you don’t have to sweat about the fast cross.”
“Good!”
I hung up the receiver and hiked back to the truck, gave the boys a hand stowing the last of the appliances, and climbed into the cab. There wouldn’t be time to get that sandwich; I wanted to set up the gimmick for my breakdown and there seemed to be no point in overdoing the delay. I slipped into gear, pulled out of the freight yard and over on the closed side of the warehouse. Grabbing a wrench and the length of thin piano wire I’d put into the tool box, I jumped out and loosened the air connection leading to the van. It was a high-pressure line, the hose that forces air into the cylinders on the trailer brakes, and when I had the brass fitting cracked the air began to hiss a little. Quickly I wrapped a dozen turns of wire around the nut, then led the end through a tiny hole in the cab and caught the end on a button of the seat upholstery. When I got back into the cab quite a bit of air had leaked out and it was necessary to feed a little pressure into the line before I could move the rig, and that was just the way I wanted it.
Pulling out from behind the warehouse, I turned into Main Street and headed toward the downtown section. In the distance I could see the huge clock jutting out from the River City National Bank, much too far to be read but my watch showed 12:08. I had passed the point of no return; now I was committed.
And nine minutes to waste in the next mile or less. Fifteenth Street, then Fourteenth, and I checked the watch again. It was 12:09. The leak in my air lines was taking effect and I felt the brakes dragging a little, so I put the valve over and built up back pressure once more. The truck rolled free again.
Thirteenth Street—Twelfth. Watching traffic lights carefully I jockeyed the rig along the side, the flow of cars moving past me, and there were more of them now as we neared the main intersection of River City. The signals were opening nicely ahead of me and now the big clock was getting close. It said 12:15 as I rolled past Fifth Street. Three blocks farther along I could see Doreen in front of the newsstand. Even at that distance the contour of her bright green sweater caught a guy’s eye. Casually she turned and glanced up the street.
I fed a little gas into the truck and picked up speed. Fourth Street, and then Third. I was rolling along at a pretty good clip now, building up momentum for the slew job and I watched Doreen toss her magazine back on the pile and step off the curb between two cars.
Without even glancing up she came from between them and started across some distance in front of the truck, her plastic belt flashing bright in the sunlight, her shoulders back, the bait flying high. I hit the horn and its raucous clamor caught the attention of people along the street but it wasn’t a near miss yet and I had no doubt that at least the male side of the spectators immediately turned their attention from me to her. I put the wheel over to the right enough to go behind her and hit the horn a second time.
For her it was a moment that called for timing and courage and Doreen Phillips had both. Right on cue she stopped, hesitated for an instant, wheeled in an effort to make it back to the safety of the curb, and was directly in front of the eight tons of on-coming truck. I swung hard left, felt the big rig begin to slew, and then set my air. With a screech of sliding rubber, the bucking semi came to a stop, my front bumper only inches from the left curb and the van almost nudging a line of parked cars on the right. With the brakes set there was no pressure in the lines leading back to the trailer. I fumbled for the wire beside me and gave it a slow, steady pull, the brass nut on the air fitting backing off as the wire unwound; and when the wire fell free I pulled the rest of it through the hole and tossed it into my tool box. Gingerly I moved the air valve and heard the air escaping from the open end of the pipe behind the cab.
Horns were sounding as three or four cars stopped behind my stalled van. I swung down from the cab and bent over to look under the truck, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a cop on the sidewalk talking to Doreen. He could give her hell all right, maybe even write a jaywalking ticket—but what was three bucks to Ward and Vehon? More horns now, and the wail of a siren. A squad car stopped behind the few cars piled up astern of me and one of the two boys in blue got out to give official impetus to my struggles.
“Come on, fellow, let’s get that thing going,” he said, “before this turns into one helluva jam.”
“I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be,” I said. “I had to slam the air to keep from smearing some scatterbrained broad all over the pavement. When I went to release the brakes they were locked.” I shook my head and got under the truck, my eyes going momentarily to the dial of my wrist-watch. It was 12:22.
“Well, you’re going to have to do something,” the cop said.
I put my head out from under and looked up at him. “I’m open to suggestion,” I said. “What would you like me to do?”
He frowned for a couple of seconds and then squeezed past the front of my ri
g to see what he could do about traffic on the other side. Horns were raising hell for sure now, and the din was hard on the ears, but I had a while longer to stall. I’d built one sweet jam all right. They were piled up for a block or more now behind me and the cars ahead had drifted across and were waiting in front of the truck cab. Like sheep—nobody giving a damn about the other man; and when cars filled the Main Street part of the intersection, they blocked off Second Street too.
“Maybe we’d better get you towed out,” a voice said, and when I looked up I saw that the long arm was back again. I got out from under and gave him a worried look.
“There are eight big tires under that van, and they’re all locked tight. We aren’t towing this thing anywhere unless we can raise the stern; and where the hell are we going to get equipment for that?” I said. “If any of these jerks leaning on their horns can do any better than I’m doing, bring ’em on. I’ll go hold down their horns for them.”
“Well, I don’t know, but—”
“Then give me a hand,” I said, and stole another peek at my watch. It was 12:28, and with the time it would take to make repairs, I was going to be well over the twelve minutes tie-up time; it would be all right to discover the trouble now. I opened the cab door and pointed to the air valve handle. “Climb up and push the lever over,” I said, “and I’ll follow the air line and see if I can find the trouble.”
“Right here?” he asked, his hand on the brass lever.
“Give it hell,” I said, and when he slammed it over a blast of air shrieked through the open line.
“Right here,” I yelled, “came apart at the fitting. Hand me that box of tools.”
“Sure. And let’s snap it up a little on the repairs.” He swung the tools down and bent to watch, then straightened and hurried away as the cop still in the car yelled that an emergency call was on the shortwave. A few seconds later his siren cut through the din of horns but looking out from under the rig I could see that all he was going to do was make noise. One cop was outside now, trying frantically to work enough cars around to make room for the police car to get out, but it was slow going.
From the direction of the police station I heard a second siren, followed it with my ears as it turned into Second Street and bogged down in the block of cars. My hands sweated on the wrench and vaguely I was aware that the siren down Second Street way had managed to back out and I followed his path several blocks north, then heard him turn back to get past the end of the jam and across Main Street, but it had all taken time.
I had the coupling together now and wanted to jump into the rig and break clear but it wouldn’t look good to escape too soon. The paddy wagon I’d bottled up was just making its way out, running along the wrong side of the street, and three blocks further on he made a turn and disappeared. I stalled another minute building up pressure and then began to wiggle the semi free. My sleeves were wet where I’d blotted sweat from my forehead and my back stuck to the leatherette upholstery. I wanted desperately to know what the call had been, where the heist had been made, but I couldn’t afford to show concern.
Forcing myself to the work at hand, I rolled on toward Westcott Appliance, stood reasonably still while they unloaded me, and made light mention of the dame who’d jaywalked in front of my rig and the traffic snarl that had resulted. The two remaining hauls on my list were an ordeal—not because the merchandise was hard to handle but because my imagination was running riot; but finally the day ended and I pulled into the truck yard. Gail Tyler came toward me as I swung down from the cab.
“There was a special news bulletin on the radio a while ago,” she said.
“Oh?” I gave her a questioning look and waited to hear about the holdup, but I’d guessed wrong.
“A killing,” she said. “Bob Doberman was murdered this afternoon.”
Chapter 12
I swallowed hard and tried to ask the right questions. “Doberman? How’d it happen?”
“Three men, they say. Two were walking along the street and suddenly ducked into Doberman’s office. The gun was probably silenced—there wasn’t too much noise, the newscaster said—but enough so two or three people near by figured out what was going on. He was shot four times and from only a few feet away.
“And the killers escaped?”
“So far. When they came out of his office a big car with the third man swerved over to the curb, and they were gone. The announcer said that an immediate call went out for police but I’ve been listening and there haven’t been any reports yet about them being caught.”
She hadn’t said anything about the truck tie-up and I felt a little relieved, but my relief wasn’t destined to last very long. There was the squeal of tires out front and then a police car whipped into the driveway. Captain Domms slid his fat keister out of the car and came toward me, a firm look in his hard blue eyes. He nodded briefly to Gail and went right to work on me.
“I suppose you heard, McCarthy.”
I didn’t answer, just looked at him and waited. The other cop came up and stood with hands on hips, his eyes spending most of their time on Gail.
“All right, show me how it was, McCarthy,” Domms said.
“How what was?”
“Your breakdown. The one that tied up three blocks of traffic on Main Street and blocked us out for those important first few minutes. What was your rig doing crosswise in the street?”
“I already told the cop that was breathing down my neck at the time,” I said. “Why don’t you ask him? He helped me get going again; he knows the score.”
Domms looked at me carefully and fumbled through three pockets before he found a cigar. He bit off the end, struck a match, and then blew smoke over my head, his eyes steady on my face through the thin blue haze.
“I already read the officer’s report. And don’t give me that high and mighty stuff—a hell of a lot has happened since you went to work for Tyler Trucking and not much of it is good.”
“I’ve heard,” I said evenly, “that there were a few things happening before I hit this town. The way the boys at the pool hall tell it, River City is quite a lively little burg and has been for years.”
Domms blew a second cloud of smoke at me and I didn’t move out of the way. When the smoke cleared he said, “A pool parlor is a hell of a place to go for information, McCarthy.”
Gail spoke then, and though she talked to Captain Domms her eyes were on me. “I’m sure that Mac would be glad to tell you anything he can. Exactly how was our truck tied in with the killing, Captain? The report on the radio didn’t mention—”
“McCarthy’s truck blocked us out,” the other cop told her, obviously glad to get a word in. “And either those boys included your truck in their plans or they got one hell of a lucky break.”
“Included our truck?” she asked. “But how could they know—”
“We’re wasting time,” I said. “Every minute we keep the captain here the men he’s looking for are putting another mile of distance in the way. Let’s get it over with. What do you want to know?”
Domms wasn’t upset. Instead his eyes narrowed and he asked, “And how do you know they’re running? Why couldn’t they be right around town somewhere?”
“That’s possible too, and it’s strictly your problem, not mine,” I said. Swinging up into the cab of my truck I rolled down the window, leaned out, and pointed ahead.
“Now get the picture,” I said. “I was rolling down Main Street minding my own business. I had a load of appliances bound for Westcott’s across town and I’d just come from the freight depot. That you can check for the price of two phone calls.”
“I already have,” Domms said. “Get on with it.”
“I’d crossed Third and was rolling toward Second Street when maybe a hundred or so feet ahead of me this babe stepped out from between two parked cars and jaywalked across in front of me. I beeped the horn, natch, because she had plenty of time to get out of the way. She kept going and that left room for me to pass behind he
r—no strain—so I eased over to the right intending to run through because the way it looked this kid in the green dress was out of my way. Then damn if she didn’t stop and start back. Close as hell! Man, I swung that wheel hard left and hit the brakes. The tail end came swinging around, of course, and landed sideways across the street before I could get her to a standstill, but I felt pretty good because I’d kept from smearing the girl all over the pavement. It wouldn’t have been my fault if I had hit her, understand, but what the hell; you still do what you can. Then I took my foot off the brake and threw the air valve over but the wheels under the van were locked. I couldn’t roll out of there at all. So maybe you got a jaywalking case against the babe that stopped traffic but not against me.”
“Sounds good,” Domms said sourly. “Too good.”
“Hells bells, everyone on the street must have seen her double back in front of my rig,” I said.
“They did, McCarthy. Know the girl?”
“I’ve seen her around. In a restaurant, I think.”
“Not a restaurant; she was a car hop but isn’t working right now. And she’s not exactly a pillar of society in River City either.”
“So don’t lecture me about morals.”
“Real tough, aren’t you, lad?” Domms said.
“The day I ask help from you it’ll be a frigid July,” I said. “I’m not tough but I can look after myself.”
“I’ve heard that too, McCarthy. Now suppose you show me about that air line and why your truck wouldn’t start.”
“All right. Know anything about air brakes?”
“Enough. Just give me your story. You were crosswise in the street and then you tried to back out and couldn’t move?”
“All right,” I said, and then I went through the thing once more giving him the pitch exactly as I’d given it to the cop who was trying to help me earlier. I showed him the air lines and the lever that works the valve.
“It’s like this,” I said. “The brakes on a trailer are like the Westinghouse units on a train. There’s air behind the piston all the time but the pressure in the line from the truck keeps the balance and the brake shoe isn’t against the wheel. To set the brakes, you’re really letting the air out from in front and the built-up pressure behind does the work. Now to release those brakes, you’ve got to force more air back into the line.”