Solomon's Vineyard

by Jonathan Latimer

  “That stuff's no good,” I said, kicking the bailing wire.

  “You don't know what it's for,” Pug said.

  “Oh, don't I? You're going to bind me and the rocks up in it, and then dump us in the lake.”

  “The guy's bright,” the driver said.

  “Only when my flesh rots,” I said, “it'll tear loose and I'll float to the surface.”

  “Not the way we do it,” Pug said. “It's not as good as cement.”

  “I ain't got cement.”

  “That shows you're a punk,” I said. I got ready for the blow. It didn't come. “Listen,” Pug said, “you're laying up a lot of trouble for yourself. You can go easy, or you can go hard. I kind of think it's going to be hard.”

  “Don't kid yourself. I'm not going at all.”

  “Jeese,” said the guy with the garlic breath, “I think he's crazy.”

  The car came to a stop. Pug said: “Now we take a nice little walk.”

  “First I want to talk to you,” I said. “Alone.”

  “Come on,” Pug said, opening the door. “Not until I talk to you.”

  “Go ahead,” Pug said. “I got no secrets.”

  “You scared to talk to me alone?”

  “Go ahead,” Pug said. “Talk.”

  His voice was different. He hadn't had anybody act this way on a ride. Mostly, I guess, they begged for their lives. I had him thinking, at least.

  “Before you bump me,” I said, “you'd better ask the Princess.”

  There was a silence. In the east I saw a faint light. In an hour it would be daylight. There was a noise of lapping water.

  “Why?” Pug said. “She's going to be sore.” Pug said: “What makes you think I care?”

  “You care.”

  I could almost hear the other guys listening. I was pretty sure Pug hadn't told them about his arrangement with the Vineyard. A guy like him wouldn't. He'd want to act like he was the big boss.

  Pug said: “Where'd you get that idea?”

  “Ask the Princess.” Pug was silent.

  “Listen,” I said. “Send those mugs away.” I tried to see his face. “You're going to need all the help you can get after tonight.” The car shook a little as somebody shifted his weight. One of the seats had a squeaky spring. A current of cool air came off the lake.

  “Do you know who you knocked off at Papas's?” I asked.

  “I wasn't at Papas,” Pug said. “I can prove I was somewhere else.”

  “Not if Gus talks.”

  “He won't.”

  “Don't be too sure.”

  “Who was knocked off?” Pug asked.

  “Did you ever hear of a guy named Caryle Waterman?”

  This hit him. He was silent for a minute. Then he said to the hoods: “You guys scram.”

  They climbed out of the car and went away. “I figured there was something funny about you,” Pug said.

  “Look,” I said. “The Vineyard will be sore as hell about what you've done tonight. You know how they feel about rough stuff.”

  “Do I?”

  I went right on. “There'll be plenty of heat tomorrow. And you'll need the Vineyard's help. But you won't get it if you knock me off.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The Princess, for one.”

  “Okay,” Pug said. “Maybe I'm in a jam. But why should I believe you?”

  I told him some of the things the black-haired girl, Carmel, told me. I told him about the ten thousand a month split, and how the Vineyard ran most of the joints in the county.

  “And if that doesn't convince you I'm in, ask the Princess.”

  “If you're lying,” Pug said, “I'm going to chop you up like a hamburger.”

  “Ask the Princess.”

  “Okay, pal.”

  I felt better. That gave me a little rime. Maybe I could get away before she came. Maybe something would happen. An earthquake, or a tidal wave. I wasn't particular. Pug called the others.

  “We're putting this guy in storage for a while,” he said.

  We drove back to the shack where they had got the wire and the rocks. The car stopped. “Get out.”

  I got out. Pug told the others to stay with me. They prodded me towards the shack. Pug got in the driver's seat. “Be back in half an hour.”

  We went in the shack. One of the toughs lit a lantern. It was the driver. The other one grinned at me. He had crooked teeth.

  “You must of talked fast,” he said. “I had to,” I said.

  He thought that was funny. He laughed. The driver was a dark man with a thin face. Something was wrong with his left eye. He didn't laugh. He watched me, keeping his pistol pointed at my stomach. He looked like an Armenian. “Sit down.”

  There were three chairs around a stove. I sat in one of them. The shack looked like a place fishermen and duck hunters used. I saw some rods and some old boxes of twelve-gauge shells on the floor. There was a cot in the corner, and over it was a window with a cracked glass. The toughs pulled their chairs away from me and sat down. They kept their pistols on their laps.

  I tried to figure an angle. If I could get one of them alone, I'd have a chance. “Is there any water?” I asked. “I'm thirsty.”

  “He wants water,” the driver said. “Think of that,” said the other.

  They didn't move. They weren't going to move. I shifted my legs and found I could reach the driver's chair. If I could hook my foot on the leg and pull the chair out from under him, I could make a play for his gun. That is, if the other guy didn't shoot me. I figured I'd have to take the chance. I was gone if I waited until Pug got back. I edged my foot nearer the chair. The driver cracked my shin with his pistol. “Don't get funny.”

  The shin hurt like hell. I rubbed it for a while. “You boys play rough, don't you?”

  “Shut up.” I could tell by their faces they would shoot if I made another move. It was a wonder the one with the garlic breath hadn't let go when his pal cracked me. I sat quietly in the chair. There wasn't a damned thing I could do. My mind went to all the times I'd seen it done in the movies. They did it fine there, and in books. The hero was always knocking hell out of three or four armed men. I even saw one movie where he took on eight at once. Franchot Tone, I think it was. I could lick hell out of eight Franchot Tones, armed or otherwise, but I couldn't do anything about the two toughs. Not without getting shot. I wanted to put off getting shot as long as possible. I closed my eyes. I thought, well, nobody will miss me, anyway.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I HEARD the car coming along the road. It was a few minutes I before sunrise and the sky was blue. I could sec the sky through the cracked window. There weren't any clouds. I had a funny feeling in my throat. I'd been close to death a lot of times before, but I'd never had so much time to think about it. I wished I'd made the break, shooting or no shooting. I would, anyway. The car came up in front of the shack. I heard the motor stop. I heard a woman's husky voice say: “Is he inside?”

  “Yeah,” Pug said.

  She came into the shack and stared at me, standing with a hand on her hip. The lantern and the cracked window made it light inside. Her hair was the colour of a bamboo fishpole, and she had on rouge and mascara, but underneath the paint her skin was good. She had on black slacks and a scarlet shirt and open sandals. She was beautiful. Pug scowled at me over her shoulder. Brother, I thought, this is the third-act curtain.

  “So it's you,” she said.

  I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.

  She turned to Pug. “What's the idea of beating him up?” That question was like a kick in the belly. It knocked my wind out; I could hear it rush through my throat. She was going to play along with me. Pug said: “He had it coming.”

  “You're going to have it coming,” she said. “He never told me he was a friend of yours until the last,” Pug said. The driver and the Armenian watched him. “You guys scram,” Pug said.

  They went out. The Princess said to Pug: “We'll get another guy if you keep k
nocking off everybody who makes a grab for that redhead.”

  “Get this,” Pug said. “Nobody grabs.”

  “You get this. Another murder or two from you and they'll clamp down on the county.”

  Pug looked thoughtful. I wondered if he'd told her about what happened at Papas's. “He's already done 'em,” I said. Pug scowled at me. She said “Yeah?” I told her about Caryle Waterman.

  “Did you have to pick the richest guy in town?” she asked Pug.

  “How'd I know he was in there?”

  “You dope!”

  “They won't pin it on me. I got an alibi.”

  “A lot of good that'll do. The Governor won't care about that. He'll start a grand jury investigation and we'll have to close down. Then who'll pay you your dough on the first of every month? Not us. You'll probably have to take up bank robbing, or kidnapping, and then the G-men will grab you.” She was plenty sore. Pug didn't answer her. He stood scowling at me. He was wishing he'd shot me long ago. She said to him: “Now beat it.”

  “All right.” He went to the door. “How'll you get back?”

  “We'll ride, you damn fool. The walk'll do you good. It's only a couple of miles.” Pug said: “It's three miles.”

  “All the more good it'll do you. Now beat it.”

  “No.”

  She slapped his face. It was a hard blow. His eyes got red with anger. Then he turned. “Okay.”

  She laughed as he went out. She had liked hitting him. She went to the window. I got up and went to her.

  “You shouldn't have done that,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Now he'll have to kill me.”

  “I don't get you.”

  “No guy like Pug is going to stand for another man seeing a woman hit him. The slap was all right, but not my seeing it.”

  “So what?”

  “So he'll try to knock me off as soon as he dares.”

  “Listen, honey,” she said. “You couldn't be in a worse spot than you were half an hour ago.”

  That was true. I should bellyache about Pug. I looked out the window. The sun had come up. It looked like an orange. Pug and the others were walking across the field. She laughed.

  “Those small time punks,” she said.

  I stared at her. She looked pale in the light. I could see the curves of her shoulders and the rise of her breasts under the scarlet shirt. Her skin was white and soft-looking. She turned and looked at me. “Well...”

  “Thanks.”

  “I like big men,” she said.

  Her voice was raspy, like she had a cold. She came up to me and grabbed my arm. Her fingers hurt the muscles. I could smell her perfume. She came close to me. I thought I knew what she wanted. I tried to kiss her. She jerked away.

  “No.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  She slapped me. She was strong; my cheek stung. She moved in, swinging both arms. Now she had her fists closed. She hit my arms and my chest. I tried to hold her.

  “Hit me!” she said.

  It was goddam queer. I held her arms, but she got loose. She struck my chest.

  She said: “Hit me.”

  I hit her easy on the ribs. “That's right I That's right!” She hit me a couple of hard blows. Her eyes were wild. She hit me a hard punch on the neck. I hit her in the belly. I heard the breath go out: ouf! It didn't stop her. She kept coming in, punching hard.

  I gave her one over the kidneys. She grunted and clinched with me. She bit my arm until the blood came. I slapped her. She put her knee in my groin. It hurt. I lost my balance, grabbed for her, and we both went down. We rolled around on the dirty floor of the shack, both panting. She was hard to hold, and every time she got loose she'd hit or kick or bite me. I got over her, holding her down on the floor. She looked beautiful and wild. She bit my arm again and I slugged her in the ribs. She moaned, and then struggled free. My hand caught in the scarlet shirt. The silk tore to her navel.

  “Yes,” she said.

  I got the idea. I ripped the shirt off her, she fighting all the time and liking it. I ripped at her clothes, not caring how much I hurt her. She squirmed on the dirty floor, panting. There was blood on her mouth. I don't know if it was mine or hers. It tasted sweet. Suddenly she stopped moving.

  “Now,” she said. “Now, goddam you. Now!”

  Later we lay on the floor.

  “I don't understand you,” I said.

  “It's fun, isn't it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what do you care?”

  We had a time getting the clothes to cover her. I had torn them all to pieces. We didn't have any pins. I found some fish-hooks and fastened the black pants to the shirt. She helped me. Then I put the hooks through the worst tears in the shirt. I backed away to look at her. There was a bad rip over her right shoulder. I fastened it and then I kissed her neck. I would have kissed her mouth, but she wouldn't lei me.

  “What's the matter?”

  “I don't want you to.”

  “All right.”

  I backed away again. From a distance you wouldn't have known anything was wrong.

  “I should take up dressmaking,” I said.

  “You should take up wrestling,” she said. “I feel as though I'd been through a mangle.”

  “You asked for it, baby.”

  “Sure. I love it.”

  “I love it too.”

  It was bright outside. The sun was well up in the sky. There was no wind; the lake looked like dark glass. Some reeds grew near the shore. We walked to the car.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “The Vineyard.”

  I started the engine and backed around so I would be heading for the road. The tyres bumped over something. I saw it was the pile of bailing wire and the rocks. That gave me a shock. I'd forgotten how close I'd been to the lake. I wondered how many other guys lay under that slick water, bound with wire and held down by rocks. I drove to the road.

  “To the right,” she said.

  She settled down in the front seat, watching me through half-closed eyes. She smiled a little. Suddenly I felt scared of her. I don't know why, but I got a feeling. There was no sense to it. She couldn't do anything to me. But there it was.

  I drove along the road, passing a few cars. The electric clock in the car said it was seven o'clock. I saw the Vineyard on the hill to the left, the sunlight strong on the big red buildings. From here I saw how big it was, the vines and the fields stretching out for miles. The dark green vines looked cool.

  We came to the big gate of the Vineyard. I started to turn in. “No,” she said. “Straight ahead.” We went on, to a small lane. She told me to turn up that. A hundred yards up from the road, in a clump of bushes, the lane ended. She got out.

  “Come on.”

  I followed her. We went through the bushes. I saw a path that led to the back of one of the big buildings. She halted.

  “This is my entrance.”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you be able to find it when you come tonight?”

  “Am I coming tonight?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “You're not only coming,” she said, “but you're going to work for me.”

  “Hell,” I said. “I've got a job.”

  “How would you feel if I told Pug you didn't work for the Vineyard?”

  “I'd feel bad.”

  “Well,” she said; “drop around tonight.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I DROVE through town to the Arkady and parked Pug's car. Some tourists were loading a sedan in front of the hotel. I was so tired I could hardly walk. I went down a stairway with a sign over it: Turkish Bath. A Finn with a square face was sorting out towels in the office. I told him I wanted to steam out. He opened a locker for me.

  “Get me a paper.”

  “Yes, sir.” He started out.

  “Hey I Get that Negro, Charles, too.”

  I undressed and picked up a towel
and went in the steam room. The air was full of white steam that smelled of menthol. It made my eyes smart. I put the towel on a bench and sat on it. My body was already wet from the steam. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. I felt my muscles begin to go soft.