Come Back for More

by Al Fray

  There were plenty of people lined up along the bar when I went in. I took a quick look, didn’t see her at the rail, and then glanced toward an oversized piano bar in the corner. A bald and ageing beer virtuoso fingered the keys and there were half a dozen couples draped over the formica top shaped roughly like a concert grand. Doreen was near the end and, watching for a few moments, I thought her attention was divided between the piano player and an eager beaver on her left who kept whispering in her ear and pushing a drink toward her. I didn’t like that too much either so I planted myself on the other side and elbowed for room. A bouncy waitress closed in, I ordered a rum highball and asked Doreen what she’d have. She tilted back and turned bleary eyes toward me, then pointed an unsteady finger.

  “Mac McCarthy, I didn’ think you were comin’.”

  “It was only five minutes ago that I talked to you on the phone,” I reminded her, and then because I didn’t want any attention focused on us I rolled up a buck and tossed it onto the saucer of coins in front of the piano player.

  “Thanks, mister. What’s your pleasure?”

  “‘Down by the Old Mill Stream,’” I said, “if you haven’t played it just before I came in.”

  “That ‘Old Mill Stream,’” he echoed happily. “How about a little vocalizing, folks?” He rippled off a slow and nostalgic run on the keys to get attention, then went into the melody and half a dozen well-lubricated voices broke into the strains of “Mill Stream” and Doreen began to sing too but the guy on the other side of her was forgoing the pleasure of song. Instead he’d straightened up on the stool and was giving me the questioning eye behind Doreen’s back. I didn’t want any trouble with him—I didn’t want trouble with anybody; I only wanted to get everybody singing long enough to whisk the kid out of this dive. There was a five and three ones piled in front of her, a pack of smokes, a lipstick, and a small gilded purse half open on the bar.

  “Yours?” I whispered in her ear.

  She nodded her head, her slow cadence keeping time with the words… “dressed in gingham too”… so I slid everything including the money into the bag and put it in her hand.

  “Drink up, baby,” I said softly, “we can find a better place than this.” Doreen broke her singing long enough to pinch my cheek and grin at me.

  “Mac McCarthy, shame on you.” Then she caught the music again and went on with… “you were sixteen, my village queen.” My drink came and I downed half of it while they were getting to the end of the stream. The piano player looked up.

  “How about ‘Harvest Moon’?” I said.

  “‘Harvest Moon.’” He took off on that and this time I caught Doreen’s arm and whispered in her ear again. She gave me a tch-tch-tch through rounded lips, then giggled and slid off of the stool. We started toward the door and were halfway across before I realized that the guy on her left had made no effort to stop me. He should have. If he’d been soaking up drinks very long be should have been fumbling out of his coat and offering to see me in the alley, but he sat there with a sardonic look on his face, and it troubled me a little. When we were outside I turned toward Doreen.

  “Who’s your friend at the bar?”

  “A nice man. A ree-a-l nice man—he bought Doreen a drink.”

  “I thought he might have,” I said dryly. “What’s his name? Have you seen him around much?”

  “I don’t know his—Mac is jealous, Mac is jealous,” she chanted, and her high heels wobbled as she walked. I guided her toward my car but we weren’t quite there when a big Lincoln sedan pulled up beside us and Ed Vehon got out, his fat face something less than amused. “Working late tonight, McCarthy?”

  “I’m working all right. On a job somebody else ought to take care of.”

  “Oh?”

  “Damn right,” I said, and turned her toward his car. “But now that you’re here you can take over. Know where she lives?”

  “Of course.” He was looking at me closely, only half convinced.

  “Then you chaperone her home; that wasn’t in my contract. But someone better do something about her lip. It’s soaking loose from the alky, I think.”

  I turned on my heel and went toward my car leaving Doreen and Vehon standing there on the sidewalk. When I got back to my apartment and crawled into bed I snapped out the light and lay in the darkness trying to fit the pieces together. The guy next to Doreen in the bar—he’d been giving her the play and pushing drinks her way but it wasn’t much of a romance. He hadn’t been mortally hurt by my acing him out of first place. It looked a little more like business with him and I didn’t like the color of that either.

  Monday I was in the saddle early and it ran to a big day’s work. A long haul that kept me out of the city all day and it was after six when I pulled into the truck yard. I checked the rig, backed her into a stall, gave the clipboard to Bub, rumpled his hair, told him to rush the board into the office, and then got into my car and drove back to the apartment. I had just finished dinner and was going to watch TV when the phone rang.

  “McCarthy?” It was Ed Vehon. “Coming downtown tonight?”

  “Could. When and where?”

  “I’ll be in the office awhile, if you should happen by.”

  “Will do,” I said, and hung up the receiver. I finished up around the place, then drove downtown, parked, and went into the union hall. Vehon was alone and he nodded toward the door. When I closed it he got up, lit a cigar, and began to pace the floor.

  “I want to mention first, McCarthy, that I didn’t quite understand last night. The kid’s hitting the bottle too much—it was good you got her out of there when you did.”

  “Whisky will hide your problems for a while,” I said, “but they’ll never distill enough of it to remove them permanently. Someone ought to tell Doreen that.”

  “We’ll see. At any rate, we appreciate your being alert. Actually, the bartender called me and I was coming down to do exactly what you did. You just happened to see the shape of things first.” Vehon regarded the tip of his cigar and sucked on a tooth. “I like you, McCarthy. Sam likes you too and we’ve spoken highly to the upper echelons of the syndicate about you. It may do you some good.”

  “How much good?”

  Vehon grinned. “If what we have under consideration now turns out to be all right, you’ll make yourself a pot of gold, Mac.” Vehon sat down again and tilted back in the chair. “That hack you bought—it came to less than we paid you and you could have handed them cash for the thing. You didn’t; you bought her on time. That’s using the head, McCarthy.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  “And the bartender gave me the picture on your slipping Piano Pete a bill to keep the songs going while you eased the kid out of there. Smooth operation, lad.”

  “I’m being snowed. What’s the pitch?”

  “No snow. No pitch, except that we can use a man like you, Mac.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “I’m for that.”

  But mentally I slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching halt. He was plastering it on with a heavy hand, larding me down. The water could be getting deep again, it seemed to me.

  “But there’s one thing I think we ought to get straight,” I said. “The last time we planned I was under the impression we were moving some stock. Instead it was a rub-out. Five hundred bucks was big money for a moving job—it was damn small for murder.”

  “You didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I know. But—”

  “Your part was minor—you took no risk of any size. Now we’ve cleared the way for big things and you’ll be in on them. You’re cashing in on the good job you did earlier.”

  “All right. But next time let’s play it on top of the table. You didn’t know where I stood before; you do now.”

  “Right. You’ve got a deal, McCarthy. When the details come through I’ll call you.”

  “Do that,” I said.

  On the way back to my place I mulled over some of the things Vehon had said. River City wa
sn’t exactly a giant metropolitan center—a mere sixty thousand, but Ward and Vehon were front men for a large organization. I tried to fit the pieces together and guess at the actual size of the thing but there were too many unknowns. An offshoot from one of the organized mobs in the city was my best guess and if that was right it was going to make the going plenty tough in the near future. It was enough to worry hell out of a guy.

  For the next three days I had only short runs, a few tons of this or fifty cartons of that to be shuttled from the freight yards to a small factory or shop, but they kept the truck rolling and made expenses for Gail Tyler. On Friday I backed down to the loading platform, swung the heavy metal doors of the van, and watched them drive three brand new tractors into the truck. They were going to a dealer in farm machinery at a crossroads about thirty miles out and it made a change from city traffic.

  Unloading this type of merchandise was both quick and easy—a couple of six by sixteen wooden beams made a serviceable ramp and the dealer simply drove his tractors down onto his lot. Within minutes I was on my way again. Empty, the big rig rolled effortlessly over the gravel and shortly I slowed for the stop at the highway. As I made my turn I noticed a taxi parked over on the shoulder a block ahead and when I straightened the truck out for the run to River City, the cabbie got out and began to flag me down. I saw at once that it was Ken Miller.

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked, rolling off onto the shoulder just behind his stalled cab.

  “Breakdown, Mac. Damn thing just up and quit on me. I’m stranded. Jeez, am I glad to see you.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m a little ahead of schedule and can afford a few minutes. Let’s throw the hood and see what we can find out.” I started to get out of the truck but Ken shook his head.

  “Naw, t’hell with it, Mac. Just give me a lift on into town, that’s all I need. I’ll check in with the dispatcher and let them send someone out for the damn thing.”

  “But maybe it’s only some little—”

  “I don’t give a damn if it’s only a loose distributor wire—let the bastards spend a dime once in a while to keep their equipment in shape. All I want to do is hold down the other side of your cushion for a ride into River City. How about it?”

  “Well, if that’s the way you want it—”

  “Damn right. They can send out and pick it up. Let’s go.”

  “Be my guest,” I said, and opened the door.

  It was one of those half hours—he was being real chummy and we were supposed to be friends so I listened to the tired jokes he cracked and tried to smile when I should. Finally he got around to asking me about the rig I was driving—wanted to know how good the air was and what some of the buttons operated.

  “Always did want to drive one of these things,” he said.

  “There are plenty of jobs around River City,” I pointed out. “You’ve got a chauffeur’s license; you could change over from the cab.”

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d want to do it as a permanent occupation,” Ken said grinning, and rattled a pocketful of coins. “We don’t draw as big a scale as you guys but on the other hand, nobody goes around tipping truckers. A good hackie picks up plenty on the side in the course of a week and only the little bit you have to list in order to make things look legit is taxed. Unless he’s stupid as hell, a cab driver only declares a small part of his tips with his income.”

  “I suppose,” I said.

  “But I’d sure like to wheel this one a few miles, just for the hell of it. Okay, Mac?”

  I thought about the straight stretch between us and River City. There wasn’t anything he could hurt and I was supposed to be his friend. My ultimate project called for us being on good terms for a while longer, so I couldn’t very well refuse. I eased over to the side, brought her to a stop, and then went around to the other side as Ken slid across the seat.

  “I can handle her, I think,” he said. “Just keep an eye on me and if I make a blow, say so.”

  “All right. You can manage the shift?”

  “Hell yes,” Ken said, shifting into gear.

  And I’ll admit that he did have a touch with rolling stock. He slipped smoothly from gear to gear, enough to let me know that this wasn’t his first time in a big rig by quite a way, and he seemed at home behind the wheel. Before long we were batting along at fifty, and then I showed him how to make a nice even slowdown. He did well enough, too well for the new hand he claimed to be, and when we neared the city he brought her to a smooth stop and we traded sides once more. I pulled into the depot again and Miller hiked toward the cab company office two blocks farther on while I went to see about the main elements of a prefab house I was scheduled to haul out to a lot at the edge of town.

  I found the baggage smashers working on another shipment, a hand-loading job that was slow going and it was obvious that they wouldn’t get around to me for some time. So I drifted across the street to a small café for coffee, but before it cooled off enough to drink an odd inconsistency began to wash over me.

  The average person, when his car has had a breakdown, is anxious to give you all the facts. Boring details, at times, like what he did and didn’t do and how the car acted and just where she bucked first and at which point she finally gave up the ghost. But not Ken Miller! It was a breakdown but he didn’t want me to look under the hood. He didn’t need any help at all, he just wanted to get into the truck and go.

  And I had been easy when it came to letting him get the feel of the rig. He’d worked into it smoothly and I had taken the bait all down the line, but now I wasn’t quite sold. There was one way I could check; if it was a legitimate car failure he should be rolling past any moment now in the yellow repair truck, along with the company mechanic. I picked up my coffee, shifted to a seat around the corner of the L-shaped counter, and watched Main Street as I sipped the hot brown liquid. There wouldn’t be any other logical route between the taxi outfit and his stalled cab.

  My coffee grew cold and I ordered a refill, dawdled away another ten minutes, and saw no sign of Ken or the repair wagon. I’d seen him start toward the cab company; I hadn’t seen him go there, naturally, but I could check. I paid for the coffee, went to the phone booth, dropped a dime into the slot, and dialed the number I found in the book.

  “River City Cab Company,” the voice said crisply.

  “Dispatch,” I said. And when they made the connection, “Is Ken Miller around?”

  “Miller? He’s out on the hack.”

  “You sure? I thought he was in a while ago.”

  “Naw, he ain’t been in. Just a minute.” Then I heard his voice yelling off to the side. “Hey, any of you guys seen Miller?” If there was an answer I couldn’t hear it but when he spoke into the mouthpiece again he said, “He’s on the day shift and won’t be in until after four. You want he should call you?”

  “No, never mind; I’ll call him at the house later. And thanks for your trouble.”

  “Welcome.”

  I left the café and walked slowly toward my truck at the freight dock. What did it mean? Why had Miller been waiting there on the highway; what was he trying to achieve? And the big song and dance leading into his driving my rig—where was the ball going on that play?

  Chapter 15

  The prefab house turned out to be slow loading on both ends and it was after eight when I backed the big rig into its stall at Tyler Trucking. I switched on the overhead lights and made a quick check of the motor. Gail stood near the front of my truck, looking very feminine and domestic in blue skirt and snugly fitting white sweater, and her smiling eyes were enough to sweep away the fatigue of a long day’s work.

  “What’s the good word?” I asked, as I poured oil into the pipe. “How’s business look for next week?”

  “Next week? Real good, and even on the week end if you can see your way clear, Mac.” Gail leaned her elbows on the big fender of the truck and looked across at me.

  “Such as?” I asked.

  “Long haul
. A load of plastics going down below Evansville. I hate to ask you on top of an eleven-hour day, but it will mean lots of overtime for you and we can certainly use the business.”

  “Sure. When do I leave?”

  “Well, they said eight tons and you can pick it up any time after eight Saturday morning. At Kimball Manufacturing. You’d have to run south on Saturday, catch some sleep, and drive back Sunday. Sound all right?”

  “Sounds good,” I said, and put the oil cap back on. I didn’t mind leaving town for a while; I wanted time to think things through because there was a lot on my mind. Getting away from River City for two days would be a real break.

  I closed the hood, put the copper can back on the oil rack, and walked along the driveway with Gail. When we came to my Ford I swung the door and climbed in.

  “I’ll be back in the morning. See you,” I said

  By midmorning on Saturday I was on my way south, the more than eight tons of pay load riding smoothly in the van behind. Tyler Trucking would be stuck for expenses this trip and there was no point in piling it on. I hit the warehouse about six, had dinner while they got me unloaded, swept out the van, locked the doors, and about eight I headed back.

  Both common sense and reasonable safety precautions were against trying to wheel on in without rest. When the hours get long the chances for accident increase; so I found a truck stop, filled the tanks, then pulled over behind the ramp and stretched out in the seat for a little shut-eye. I closed my eyes and heard the rumble of traffic on the highway, the crunch of tires pulling off and on from the station, the sounds of the night. Then the noises faded and there was the nothingness of peaceful sleep.