by John Lutz
He ignored me, still grinning, and settled back in his seat with the gun still pointed at me.
We drove for almost an hour that way, without talking. When we reached the Route Twenty-two intersection I veered gently right and downshifted for a steep grade. Brogan didn't move beside me. He might have been sleeping, sitting the way he was with the back of his head against the upholstery. I got the impression maybe he wanted me to think he might be asleep so I'd try to get tricky.
Now that the sun was down the evening was cool, so I cut the air conditioner and rolled down a window. That caused Brogan to stir, nothing more.
The Highway Patrol weigh station was ahead on the right. As we approached I saw that the barrier arm was up and the station was open. There were two rigs waiting to drive onto the scale, where a trooper we called Rock Face Evans would be waiting to record their axle weights to make sure they weren't beyond the legal limits. I didn't slack speed as I went past.
We'd gone another four miles before I heard the siren.
Brogan sat up straight, swiveled his head. He couldn't see behind us from where he sat, but I could see the flashing red lights in my rearview mirror.
"State Patrol," I said. "Want me to stop?"
The gun barrel raked down my ribs. "I want you to drive," Brogan snarled, "like you never drove before!" He was some pumpkin.
I worked the gears and took us up to seventy. Wind screamed around the mirrors and diesel stacks and Brogan looked a little alarmed. I checked the mirror and saw that we were being pursued by two cars now. They were half a mile back and closing.
"No way to outrun 'em," I said. The sirens continued to wail behind us over the sound of the wind. I took us up to eighty. Brogan began to squirm in his seat.
"If you don't want to get caught," I told him, "there's only one thing to do."
I yanked on the wheel and we were off the pavement, bouncing across the wide grass median toward the other two lanes of the divided highway.
"Get us back on the road!" Brogan shouted. "The explosives!" He jabbed with the gun.
The truck hit a grassy rise, jounced to the side, wind and sirens still screaming at us. There were some small trees along the center of the median. Brogan's eyes were as wide as his gaping mouth as we mowed down the trees, picking up speed. Dust and a few leaves swirled inside the cab. "They can't follow us!" I yelled as the truck bounced back onto cement and we roared easy in the westbound lane with the right wheels on the shoulder. I took us up over ninety. The diesel howled.
"Gawdalmighty!" Brogan screamed.
Oncoming headlights flashed past us at a combined speed of a hundred and fifty. Brogan was staring straight ahead, sitting so stiffly pigeons might have lit on him. I looked over at him and spit on his gun hand, holding the wheel firm as the side of the truck shot sparks as we scraped the concrete rail of an overpass.
We both saw the roadblock ahead, two cars with flashing lights, parked to block the highway, distant small figures running in the shadowed red glare. On either side of the highway at that point the ground sloped up at close to a forty-five degree angle.
"We can go around 'em!" I called over the wind and the roar of the diesel.
Brogan was shaking now, the gun forgotten. I laughed at him. The world's Brogans don't like being laughed at, but who does?
"It's a roadblock!" he screamed. "You're crazy!"
"Let's crash it!"
His eyes were wide and straining, his mouth working so that his beard bobbled up and down as if his teeth were chattering. Maybe they were.
"Don't worry about flippin' on that hill!" I shouted. "We'll turn over! Stop this thing!"
I paid no attention to him and swept to the side of the v'd Highway Patrol cars. We heard shots.
"Please!" Brogan screamed.
I stamped on the accelerator. The trailer was whipping behind us and I wrestled the wheel as we jolted and tilted to the left so far that Brogan's limp body slammed against me, then back to the right so he flew to the other side of the cab and slumped against the door.
I braked the rig to a slow, hissing stop.
They were coming on foot and by car behind me. I sat and watched them in the mirror. The passenger-side door was yanked open and Brogan would have fallen out if two troopers hadn't caught him and lowered him to the ground. One of them eased the revolver from his hand.
My door was pulled open. More guns.
"Hey, crazy man!" Rock Face yelled at me. "What in the hell was this all about?"
"He had a gun on me," I said, climbing down on rubbery legs, "made me drive him where he wanted to go."
"This is Dennison!" one of the troopers said as a handcuffed and staggering Brogan was led around the side of the truck. "He's wanted for three drug murders in Saint Louis!"
I stared. "He told me his name was Brogan. I picked him up hitchhiking."
"You should have known better," Rock Face said.
"I should have," I agreed.
Rock Face squinted at Brogan-Dennison from under the wide brim of his trooper's hat. "What did you do to him?"
"I told him I was hauling explosives. Guess it wore on his nerves. And all I've got is a load of foam insulation."
Rock Face shook his head, then chuckled.
I chuckled along with him. Then he laughed aloud and I laughed.
More patrol cars arrived. The questions and answers began.
They didn't hold me long, and soon I was back on the road, feeling the numbing heat of the wind through the rolled-down window. When I looked at my watch I saw that I wasn't too far off schedule.
There was a steep grade ahead and I built up speed so the weight I was hauling wouldn't slow me too much as the truck climbed. Cement and blasting powder was what I was hauling, not foam insulation. But I couldn't tell that to Rock Face.
I was overweight on both axles. I couldn't have stopped for that scale.
Games for Adults
It was seven P.M., and a fine, cool drizzle was settling outside the cozy Twelfth Avenue apartment building when the Darsts' telephone rang. Bill Darst got up from where he'd been half reclining on the sofa reading the paper and moved to answer it. His wife Della had been in the kitchenette preparing supper and he beat her to the phone in the hall by three steps. A medium-sized, pretty brunette, she smiled at her husband and stood gracefully with a serving fork in her hand, waiting to see if the call was for her.
Apparently it wasn't, but she stood listening anyway.
Bill watched her at a slightly sideways angle as he talked. "Oh, yes, sure I do. Yes," he said. ". . . Well, sort of short notice, but I'll see." He held the receiver away from his face and spoke to Della.
"Is supper so far along you can't hold it up? We have an invitation for this evening from the Tinkys."
"The what?"
"He's on the phone," Bill said impatiently. "Quick, yes or no." He smiled knowingly, aware that she hated to cook and seldom turned down an opportunity to escape the chore.
"Sure," she said, shrugging. "Why not?"
As Bill accepted the invitation and hung up, he watched her walk back into the kitchen, untying the apron strings from around her slender waist. They had been married only two years, and he still sometimes experienced that feeling of possessive wonderment at what he considered his incomprehensible and undeserving luck.
"They'll pick us up here in about twenty minutes," he called after Della. "Said the directions were too complicated to understand over the phone."
"Fine." Her voice came from the bedroom now, where she was changing clothes.
Della appeared shortly, wearing the form-fitting but modest green dress that he liked on her. "Now, just where are we going?" she asked. "Who on earth are the Tinkys?"
Bill grinned at her. "Cal and Emma Tinky," he said. "Remember, we met them in that lounge on Fourteenth Street when we went there to escape the rain last week."
Recognition widened her eyes. "The toy manufacturer and his wife! I'd forgotten about them completely."
"Games?" Della asked, raising an artistically penciled eyebrow.
"Tinky's the president and owner of Master Games, Incorporated," Bill reminded her, "and they're not toy manufacturers. They make games, mostly for adults. You know, three-dimensional checkers, word games, party games. They're the ones who make crossword roulette."
"We played that once," Della said, "at the Grahams'."
"Right," Bill said. "Anyway, the Tinkys live outside of town and Cal Tinky happened to be in this neighborhood, so he invited us out to his place."
"I hope his wife knows about it."
"He said she does." Bill picked up the paper again and began idly going over the football scores that he'd read before, but he didn't really concentrate on them. He thought back on the evening he and Della had met the Tinkys. Both couples had gone into the tiny lounge to escape the sudden deluge, and they had naturally fallen into an easy conversation that had lasted as long as the rain, well over an hour. Cal Tinky was a large-boned beefy man with a ruddy complexion and a wide, toothy smile. His wife, Emma, was a stout woman in her early forties. While friendly, she seemed to be rather withdrawn at times, the line of her mouth arcing downward beneath the suggestion of a fine mustache.
Only fifteen minutes had passed since the phone call when the doorbell rang and Bill went to answer it.
Cal Tinky stood in the hall, wearing an amiable grin and a tweed sportcoat and red tie that brought out the floridness of his complexion. "You folks ready? Emma's waiting down in the car."
"Sure," Bill said. "Come on in a minute and we can go."
"Evening, Mrs. Darst," Tinky said as he stepped inside.
Della said hello and they chatted while Bill went into the bedroom and put on a coat and tie. He could hear Della's laughter and Tinky's booming, enthusiastic voice as he stood before the mirror and ran a brush over his thick dark hair. He noted his regular-featured, commonplace appearance marred by a slightly large, slightly crooked nose and again counted his good fortune for having Della.
"We'll just take my car," Tinky said as Bill crossed the living room and got the coats from the hall closet. "You're apt to lose me in the fog, and it's not so far I can't drive you back later on."
"You don't have to go to all that trouble, Mr. Tinky," Della said, backing into the raincoat that Bill held for her.
"No trouble," Tinky said reassuringly. "And call me Cal — never did like that name Tinky."
Bill put on his topcoat, and they left and took the elevator to the lobby, then crossed the Street to where Emma Tinky was waiting in a rain-glistening gray sedan.
The ride to the Tinkys' home took almost an hour through the misting, foggy night. They wound for miles on a series of smooth blacktop roads surrounded by woods, listening to the steady muffled rhythm of the sweeping wiper blades. Cal Tinky kept up an easy conversation of good-natured little stories as he drove, while Emma sat silently, gazing out the side window at the cold rain.
"I hope you won't go to too much trouble," Della said from the rear seat.
Bill watched Emma Tinky start from her silent thoughts and smile. "Oh, no, I put a roast in the oven before we came into the city. It's cooking now."
The big car took another turn, this time onto a steep gravel road. Bill caught a glimpse through the trees of the distant city lights far below them. He hadn't realized they'd driven so far into the hills.
"I don't suppose you have much in the way of neighbors," he said, "living way up here."
"You're right there, Bill," Cal Tinky said. "Nearest is over two miles. Folks up here value their privacy. You know how it is when you work hard half your life and manage to become moderately wealthy — always somebody wanting to take it away from you. Up here we're not pestered by people like that."
By the looks of the Tinkys' home they were more than moderately wealthy. As the car turned into the long driveway bordered by woods, Bill gazed through the rain-streaked windshield at a huge house that seemed in the dark to be built something like a horizontal wheel. Its rounded brick walls curved away into the night in perfect symmetry on either side of the ornate lighted entrance. Off to the left of the car Bill saw a small beach house beside a swimming pool.
"Like it?" Cal Tinky asked. "I can tell you it cost more than a pretty penny, but we sure enjoy it, Emma and I."
"What I can see of it looks great," Bill said.
"You shouldn't brag," Emma said to her husband.
"Just giving them the facts," Tinky said heartily as he neared the house and a basement garage door opened automatically.
For just a moment the sound of the car's engine was loud and echoing in the spacious garage, then Cal Tinky turned the key and they sat in silence. Bill saw a small red foreign convertible parked near some stacks of large cartons.
"No fun sitting here," Cal Tinky said. "Let's go upstairs."
They got out of the car and the Tinkys led them up some stairs to a large utility room of some sort. After passing through that room they entered a large room containing some chairs, a sofa, and a grand piano.
"Come on in here," Cal Tinky said, "into our recreation room."
Bill thought the recreation room was fantastic. It was a spacious room, about thirty feet square, with a red-and-white checkerboard tiled floor and walls hung with large decorative dominoes and ornate numerals. At strategic spots on the gleaming tile, four-foot-tall wood chessmen stood on some of the large red squares. Several tables were situated about the room, with various games spread out on them — chess, dominoes, and several complex games that were manufactured by Master Games, Incorporated. A smoldering fire glowed in the fireplace, over which hung a huge dart board.
"Let's sit down," Cal Tinky invited. "Dinner'll be ready soon."
Bill removed his coat and crossed an area rug designed to resemble the six-dotted plane of a huge die. We He sat down next to Cal Tinky on a sofa embroidered with tic-tac-toe symbols.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Della asked Emma Tinky as the heavyset woman took her coat.
"No, no," Emma said, "you are a guest."
Bill watched Emma remove her own bulky coat and saw that she was wearing slacks and a black sweater covered with a heavy corduroy vest. There was something that suggested hidden physical power in her walk as she left the recreation room to hang up the coats and prepare dinner.
Della sat opposite Bill and Cal on a chair that matched the sofa. "Quite a decorating job."
Cal Tinky beamed. "Thanks. Designed most of it ourselves. After we eat we can make use of it."
"A house this big," Bill said, "do you have any servants?"
Cal Tinky stood and walked to an L-shaped bar in a corner. "No," he said, "we mostly take care of it all ourselves, fifteen rooms. Had servants, but they stole on us. Now we have someone come in from the city twice a week to clean. Course, most of the rooms we don't even use." He reached for a top-brand bottle of Scotch and held it up. "Good enough?"
Bill nodded.
"Make mine with water," Della said.
Cal Tinky mixed the drinks expertly. When he'd given the Darsts their glasses he settled down on the couch and took a long sip of his straight Scotch.
Emma Tinky came back into the room then, picked up the drink that her husband had left for her on the bar, and sat in a chair near the sofa.
"You certainly must be fond of games," Bill said, looking around him again in something like awe at the recreation room.
Cal Tinky smiled. "Games are our life. Life is a game."
"I agree with that last part," Bill said, raising the excellent Scotch to his lips.
"There are winners and losers," Emma said, smiling at Della.
They sat for a moment in that awkwardness of silence that sometimes descends on people who don't really know one another. Bill heard a faint click
ing that he'd noticed in the car earlier. He saw that Emma was holding in her left hand one of those twisted metal two-part puzzles that separate and lock together only a certain way. With surprisingly nimble fingers she was absently separating and rejoining the two pieces expertly.
"Winners and losers," Della said to fill the void. "I suppose that's true."
"The basis of life," Cal Tinky said. "Have you folks ever stopped to think that our whole lives are spent trying to figure out bigger and better ways to amuse ourselves, bigger and better challenges? From the time we are infants we want to play the 'grown-up' games."
Bill didn't say anything. It was something about which he had never thought much.
"And business!" Cal Tinky laughed his booming laugh. "Why, business is nothing but a game!"
Now Bill laughed. "You appear to be a winner at that game." He motioned with his hand to take in the surroundings.
Emma joined in the laughter. She had a high, piercing laugh, long and lilting with a touch of. . . Of what? "Yes," she said then in a suddenly solemn voice, though a smile still played about her lips. "Material possessions are some of the prizes."
"Enough talk of games." Cal Tinky said. "I'm hungry."
Emma put the twisted pieces of shining metal into her vest pocket. "We can eat any time," she said, "unless you'd like another drink."
"No," Bill said, "not unless the food's so bad you don't want me to taste it."
Again came her high, lilting laugh, backgrounded by her husband's booming laughter.
At least she has a sense of humor, Bill thought, as they all rose and went into the large and well-furnished dining room.
The meal was simple but delicious; a well-done roast served with potatoes and carrots, a gelatin dessert with coffee, topped by an excellent brandy.
Throughout the meal they had kept up a running conversation, usually led by Cal Tinky, on the importance and celestial nature of games in general. Emma would join in now and then with a shrewd comment, a high and piercing laugh, and once, over the lime gelatin, Bill had seen her staring at Della with a strange intensity. Then she had looked away, spooning the quivering dessert into her mouth, and Bill heard again the soft, metallic, clicking sound.