by Al Fray
“You’re quite a boy, Marty,” I said. “Any time you need a hand with anything and I can help, pass the word. And you know I mean that, I guess.”
“Thanks, Swede.”
“Be seein’ you,” I called, as I turned away.
The next stop was a phone booth and took only three minutes, and then I went back to the apartment, climbed into the Ford, and drove out to Tyler’s. Gail wasn’t in the office so I walked on around to the truck yard. Bub’s ball glove and cap lay on the step and he looked up from the rag he was using to polish down my semi. I glanced up at the small welded patch covering the hole they’d burned in her to drop in that tear gas, then looked back to Bub. He stood back to admire the shine he’d given the cab.
“You ain’t going back into the bank, are you, Mac?” he asked.
“Swede. And who mentioned a bank?”
“Newspapers. But with a nice clean truck like this to drive, I don’t see how a guy could want to work in a smelly old bank.”
“I think you’ve got something there,” I said, grinning, and then Gail came out on the back porch. She was dressed in a blue knit outfit that wasn’t trying very hard to hide the curves underneath. Since I’d been caged with the boys in the police department for three days and had taken no time out except for a couple of cat naps on a cot in a back room, I hadn’t been around Tyler’s but Gail seemed to have all but memorized the running account that the newspapers carried. We sat on the cement steps and chatted as Bub coiled up the hose and put away his things.
“What about Doreen?” Gail asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know and neither do the police. If just one person, Vehon, say, arranged an ‘accident,’ Domms can’t prove it. Vehon wouldn’t admit anything, and there’d be no accomplice to crack up and turn state’s evidence. But there’s plenty of rap to go around. Pop Walters, Arno Walchek, Big Bob Doberman—Domms won’t have to pin Doreen’s death on anyone.”
“She—she was beautiful,” Gail said tentatively.
“She sure was,” I agreed, and when Gail frowned I added, “if you like redheads. I prefer ’em with long black hair, myself.”
Gail smiled and moved a little closer on the step. “Tell me more, Mac.”
Grinning, I bent my head and pressed the hair down near the part. “See those blond roots creeping out? Swede. Swede Anderson. You couldn’t have missed that in the papers. Now if you’ve got an opening here for a truck driver, I’m looking for work.”
Gail laughed. “We do need a man. Three days ago we lost the Irishman who drove that semi and he’ll be darn hard to replace. Did a lot of extra things like taking us on picnics and to ball games. I’m afraid it ran into a long day at times.”
“Well wait, now. I’ll be busy on Saturday afternoons because I’ve agreed to—”
“I know. Carl Bloomquist called to tell me you’re going to manage the team for the boys. I was just coming out to tell Bub when you came.”
“Gee,” Bub said excitedly, “you mean you’re taking over the Cubs?”
“Next week,” I said, “and it’s getting on toward game time so let’s drive out to the park. I’m going to be on the bench with you today and get to know the boys better, and next week when Joe Henley goes east I’ll step in.”
Bub opened his mouth to say something else but Gail beat him to the draw.
“Wait for us in the car, Bub,” she said quickly. “I want to check on something before we go.” Bub picked up his ball glove and went toward my Ford as I followed Gail into the house. When the door closed behind me she turned, stood on tiptoe, and put her arms around my neck. I looked down into her eyes for a moment, and then, very slowly, almost as if she’d been drugged, she closed them. Her lips parted imperceptibly, and I kissed her.
After a long moment, she pulled back from me and smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you’re qualified to replace our Mr. McCarthy in all departments,” she said.
Then we closed ranks again.