Which reminded me.
I couldn't afford to waste another minute.
Glancing through the letter to satisfy my curiosity, I discovered that it was some lighter clothes this time. New York was hot and she was running around in a fall suit. I ripped the letter up and flung the pieces into the trash-basket by the writing-desk. The next day was pay-day. I'd send her five dollars. Oh, I knew it was foolish. The chances were she'd drop half of it into the collection-plate.
“For the love of Pete,” Ewy groaned, “turnout the light and get into bed! Or go into the living-room.”
“All right. Good night, Ewy.”
“Good night hell! Good morning!”
I scooped up a nightie and went into the bathroom, locking the door after me. I had things to do and it would be a good half-hour before I was ready to hit the pillow. I undressed rapidly, at the same time looking at my face in the medicine chest mirror. My eyes were a little bloodshot from staying up so late, but still lovely. I had been told many times that my eyes are the nicest part of my anatomy—tie score with my breasts—because they are an unusual shade of green; not a jade green, a much darker color. I pressed my face as close as I could get it to the glass and examined them. There were tears glistening in them now as I thought of Alex. The gleam was an improvement because it covered up the redness. Where was Alex? Had he moved from the old apartment?
He must have; because unless he was working again , how could he pay the rent? That was probably why he had never answered the post card I sent him.
“I love you, Alex,” I whispered into the mirror—playing a little scene. “I'll always love you.”
It was a trifle overdone. In movie parlance, I was mugging it. I felt the emotion all right, only reality on the screen always photographs funny. To be any good you have to underplay everything. A casting director told me that. I tried it again, this time changing the inflection, expressing as much as I could just with my eyes and keeping my voice as flat as possible. “I love you, Alex. I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting.” Once more. God, I felt it surge all through me. At that moment I loved Alex more than ever. I did, I did. It was intense. It pulled at me and brought more tears into my eyes. Soon they were rolling down my cheeks. “I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting....”
It was great, a natural. Who said I couldn't act? Of course it wasn't all acting. I repeated the scene two or three times more, experimenting with tone, quality and diction. Then I ran hot water and looked around for the douche.
III. ALEXANDER ROTH
START your sermon. I'll listen to it. But I know what you're going to hand me even before you open your mouths. You're going to tell me that I'm nothing but a common tramp, a thief and a no-good grave-robber. You're going to say you don't believe my story of how Haskell met his death, and give me that don't-make-me laugh expression on your smug faces. You're going to say, “Roth, for God's sake, why not make a clean breast of it? You're not kidding anyone.” You're going to harp on that old gag about confession being good for the soul.
Or maybe you're going to break open the hymnal and tell me I should have waited for the police and had faith in the Lord? I'm not sacrilegious, but even if the Lord is my shield and my buckler, who the hell is going to be my attorney?
So if you can, just put yourself in my position before you let off steam and warn me for my own good that isn't the way to get to heaven. I wasn't trying to get to heaven. All I was trying to do was to get to Los Angeles, to see Sue, and, if possible, to ace myself into pictures. Now what I had aced myself into was a murder—or what looked like one—and I was the murderer in every respect, except that I didn't kill the guy. I had his car and his dough and his clothes, all right; but that was all. I didn't have his life. Maybe I'd never find out, but Haskell could have died of heart failure, of liver trouble, of cancer, of any of a million things. If that crack on the head was what killed him, I wasn't to blame. Nevertheless, as I drove away from the spot I kept telling myself over and over that I should have taken the northern route or stayed put in New York. I wish I had. Take it from me, it was a mighty queer feeling pulling into a service station and telling the fellow to fill her up. I'd only owned one car before in my life, and you can bet it wasn't a big beauty like the one I was driving. What I had in New York was a heap, if there ever was one. A still more uncomfortable feeling though, than driving around in a car that wasn't mine, was whipping out Haskell's roll and paying for the gas. I couldn't get accustomed to the idea that now the dough was mine, and I kept mental count of every penny I spent as if Haskell would show up any minute and ask for his change.
“Check your oil, sir?”
Check my oil. That was a hot one.
“No, that's all right. I changed it a while back. ”
I was afraid to stop too long. Maybe someone already had found the body and the cops were on my tail. I was hot and, boy, did I know it. I wouldn't feel safe until after I ditched the car.
“Here you are, sir. Thank you. Call again.”
“Sure, sure.”
I grabbed the change the attendant held out and stuffed it into my pocket. Without waiting to count it, I let in the clutch with a jerk that shot the Buick out into the middle of the road.
Distance, brother. That's what I wanted to put between me and the place on Route 70. I'll never be able to wipe off the slate. Even as I drove along I could see it before my eyes; ahead was a slight bend in the road to the left, with a white guard-railing and a SLOW sign; to the right, on the far side of the gully, was a tree, the only decent-sized tree around, only a few inches shorter than the telephone pole alongside it; behind was a dip in the highway where a shallow puddle had formed. Yes, every last detail of the road, the ruts in the shoulder and the formation of the brush was clear. If I had been an artist I could have painted that scene accurately with out going back. But more than just that, I could see what was hidden beneath the growth of brush down in the gully. I could see a twisted form in blue pants and a maroon polo-shirt with a ripped collar.
I gave the Buick everything. I rolled it up to eight-five, to ninety on the straight parts. On the curves the rear wheels skidded and screamed and this made me look in the mirror. I kept imagining I was being followed and that I could faintly hear sirens way back in the distance.
Of course I knew it was dangerous, speeding like that. I was more apt to tangle with the law that way than by simply riding along at a reasonable rate. But I couldn't help myself. In Arizona the cops don't care how fast you travel through the desert—you drive at your own risk. However, in the townships they really clamp the lid on. I did slow down going through them, but my foot was itching to stamp on the accelerator.
More dangerous than cops were my eyes. Fear kept them wide open, in spite of which I felt myself dropping off to sleep. I'd suddenly realize that things were getting a little out of focus and that the road was fading gradually away. I had to struggle to stay awake. All this at eighty and eighty-five miles an hour over wet pavement.
Just how long it took me to cover the sixty-odd miles to the California State Line, I don't know. It must have been under an hour, but I'd lost all track of time. The rain had stopped and the sun was feebly trying to come out from behind some clouds when I drew up to the inspection booth at Ehrenberg. The two motor-cycle cops who were chewing the fat with the inspectors didn't make me feel any too happy, you can imagine. I put the car in second, resolving if they made any suspicious moves I'd make a run for it.
One of the cops walked over to the car, slowly, which was a good sign. “May I see your registration certificate and driver's license, please?”
All my life, ever since as a kid a cop cuffed me for playing football on the grass in Central Park, I have been a little leery of brass buttons. I've learned it is healthier to give the police a wide berth, because once they've got you pegged and you're in the Bastille you're completely at their mercy. Cops, as a rule, are overbearing and bruta
l, swollen up with their own authority which they abuse. Instead of being public servants, they bully the public and treat ordinary citizens like criminals. In spite of the law to the contrary, in a station-house a man is guilty unless he can prove an alibi. Now, after my experiences with the law in Dallas, this gentlemanly treatment came as a surprise, until I remembered that I was sitting in an expensive automobile. Cops know dough and influence go hand in hand. For all this fellow knew, I was a friend of some big shot official who controlled the strings which transferred little shots on and off these gravy jobs.
I dug into the wallet and found the papers. The cop glanced at me and then at the description on the license, checked the registration with the plates, and handed them back with a nod. I took the car out of gear.
“Carrying any fruits or vegetables?”
“No.”
“Any livestock, poultry?”
I thought I'd play it funny and then maybe nobody would notice I was nervous and shaking to beat the band. “I don't think so, officer,” I said. “But if you should happen to find a couple of Maryland chickens back there, let me know.”
The copper smiled and went back to help one of the inspectors who was fooling around, trying to open the rumble. I pressed the button for him. He stuck his head in and pulled out a carton of canned goods, a blanket and a big alligator-skin traveling bag. He poked around for a minute in the carton and put it back where he had found it. The bag he took over to the booth to inspect.
Then I remembered and went cold. My heart began to pound like a trip-hammer. Suppose there was more of that marihuana in the bag? That would be poetic justice, wouldn't it? Me being nailed on a Federal narcotic ticket for what he had been carrying... But I guess Haskell wasn't that dumb. If there was any more stuff in the car, it wasn't in the bag. The inspector re-packed it, snapped it shut and tossed it back into the rumble. I knelt on the seat and banged it before he changed his mind and decided to take another look.
“Just visiting California, Mr. Haskell?”
“Yes, just visiting.”
God, it was funny being called Haskell.
“Well, remember, if you're employed and stay more than thirty days you have to get California plates.”
“All right, officer. But I'll only be in California a short time.”
“How are things back in New York, anyway? I haven't seen the place in over ten years.”
“Oh, the same as always. They've got a few more buildings up, that's all.”
“Well, I'd sure like to take a trip back, one of these days. I've got a brother there now. He's in the liquor business.”
“Is that so?” It seemed as though everybody had relatives in New York. New York was made up of brothers and sisters and cousins of people in Arizona and California.
“It's O.K. You can go ahead now.”
They slapped a sticker on the windshield and waved me on. I damned near stalled the car for the second time on account of my shaky knees which, for the life of me, I couldn't get under control. My heart didn't stop thumping until I'd covered the two and a half miles into Blythe.
I couldn't drive any farther without some sleep. I was completely pooped. Cops or no cops, I knew I had to hit the hay and hit it hard, even if they got me for it. I would have preferred driving on through as far as Mecca and sleeping there, because Blythe was too close to the Arizona border for comfort; but that would mean another ninety or a hundred miles, so I said to myself, nothing doing.
There was an auto-court on the left, half a block off the main stem, and I pulled into it. It was just a group of ten or twelve shacks with places to park cars alongside, but it spelled home sweet home in big letters. Actually, what it spelled was: The Morning Glory Tourist Rest—Day or Weekly Rates.
When I sounded the horn, a girl came running out of the shack marked OFFICE and hopped on the running-board. Even in my overwrought condition I couldn't help noticing that she wasn't bad at all; a little thin in the face, maybe, but her eyes were clear and she had nice shafts and a cute round keister. Of course, put her next to Sue and she'd look like thirty cents—but then most women would. “Hello,” she smiled. “Are you looking for a cabin?”
“That's right, baby.”
“Well, you've come to the right place Are you alone, sir?”
Tired as I was, I thought I'd kid with her a little. It's weakness of mine that when I see some pretty rural talent I play for the laughs.
“No, I'm not alone, sister,” I replied with a dead pan. “Can't you see my grandmother's ghost sitting right here beside me?”
She laughed, proving that her teeth were white and even, with no cavities. “Well, we won't charge you for your grandmother. If you'll drive straight back, I'll show you and the old lady a cabin.”
“Not too near the music.”
I crept down the line of bungalows until she signaled me to stop in front of one of them. I cut the switch, opened the rumble, pulled out Haskell's bag and followed her inside. It was the usual auto-camp shack, except that this one had a bathroom.
“See? Bath, shower, towels, soap. And a nice roomy double bed.”
“Not so roomy. Grandma tips the scales at two-fifty.”
“Oh, my!” She gave it one of those shocked, Zasu Pitts readings that evidently she thought was kind of clever. Then she dropped into a chair.
As soon as she did that, I had a hunch if I wanted her I could have her along with the cabin at no additional cost. People usually don't sit down when they're renting cabins, unless they're tired or want to get acquainted. This dame wasn't tired. But I didn't want her. Man, I was so worn out from worrying and driving that if the most beautiful woman in the world had climbed into my bed, I would have shoved her out and gone back to sleep. And this little number, not bad really, was certainly not the most beautiful woman in the world. Then, too, there was Sue to think about.
The two times I had been unfaithful to her were months ago. With luck I'd see her in a day or two and I didn't want this on my conscience.
“All right. No bed bugs, eh?”
She looked hurt.
“Then it'll do. How much?”
“Only three.”
“Come again?”
She was a little peeved that I wasn't following her lead on the chair angle. It showed all over her face. Her voice got flat.
“I said three dollars for the night.”
I shook my head. “You've got me wrong, sister. I don't want to buy the place.”
I turned to walk out. I know how those places are run. They charge you according to the car you're driving. If I had pulled in with an old wreck, probably she wouldn't have asked more than a deuce. Mileage isn't the only disadvantage in owning a big bus. However, I really had no intention of leaving The Morning Glory Tourist Rest. I decided if she didn't call me back before I reached the car, I'd pay her price, even if it was a fin. I was so tired, I doubt if I would have been able to turn the ignition switch.
“All right, then. Two and a half.”
“It's a deal.”
I put the suit-case back on the bed, peeled off two singles, fished out four-bits and she left without a word. I felt rather ashamed of myself then. She had only tried to be nice and I had treated her rotten. It might have been a different story if I hadn't been so dead....
But I was. And don't let any more of these novel-writers tell you that when a man is in trouble or has something on his mind he has nightmares or can't sleep and goes haywire and runs to the cops to confess. That's bunk. I slept like a top for almost eighteen hours and, as far as I know, I was too busy sleeping to dream about a thing.
When I awoke it was three the following morning. I had been too groggy the night before to unpack Haskell's grip, so I had piled into bed wearing my shorts. The first thing I did was rip them off and hop into the shower. The Morning Glory must have been run properly because even at that hour the water was hot and I enjoyed a good scrub. When I came out, massaging myself with a thick towel, I felt like a new man. I had been
so dirty before, that cleaning up seemed to change the whole complexion of things—which, of course, it did. I was glad and even a little surprised to see that I was a white man.
Whistling, I went back into the other room and opened Haskell's suit-case. There were two compartments in it: one contained some shirts, socks, underwear, toilet articles and a mess of papers—letters and things; while the other side held two suits of clothes, a pair of shoes, some ties, handkerchiefs, a bathrobe and a pair of slippers. I made a dive for his razor and, ten minutes later, I had left six days' growth of beard all over the sink. Haskell had some kind of after-shave lotion there, too. I slapped some of it on me. It stung for a minute but then it felt great.
Next came the problem of what to put on—or was it a problem? I took a pair of his silk shorts, a clean pair of socks, one of his shirts with the initials “C.J.H.” embroidered on the pocket, the least annoying of his ties and dressed myself in a different suit. It was a single-breasted blue herring-bone tweed, a honey of a tailoring job with patch-pockets in the coat and high-waisted trousers. The stuff I had on the day before was still in good shape, of course, but well... you know how you feel about wearing things a man's been dead in. I rolled up what I had been wearing and took it out to the car. Coming back in again, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bureau mirror and did a perfect double-take. I was a stranger to myself.
I was hungry as an unemployed actor. Remember, the last thing I put in my stomach was the steak Haskell bought me in Lordsburg. And don't forget where I lost it. However, I didn't want to leave the cabin before I had a look through his stuff. If I was going to be Mr. Haskell for a little while—at least until I crossed the desert—I'd better try to find out something about myself. That minute at the state line really scared me, to say nothing about the conversation with Trooper Hammersford. So I turned the suit-case upside down and began to go through every article systematically. I didn't miss a trick.
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