The crossroads came to life in the misty warmth of the June morning. Traffic climbed slowly toward the full rush and roar of daytime traffic. At the Crossroads Motor Hotel, Walter Merris, the lean, fastidious, ambitious resident manager, relieved the night man and handled the few remaining wake-up calls. The maids were starting on the rooms of those who had left early. Betsy Merris made up the deposit to take down to the main office of the corporation and checked the reservation file. During this process Walter found three good opportunities to hiss at her about her abysmal stupidity. She was a dumpy little woman with the eyes of a kicked dog and an air of nervous apology.
In Unit 17, a young bride and groom, still slightly damp from the shower they had shared, wedged the bathroom door at such an angle that they could, from the bed, watch themselves in the full-length mirror making morning love. Down in Unit 9 of the Midland Motel another bride and groom prepared for a day of travel. She lay weeping helplessly into the pillow while he shaved in such an angry way that he cut himself. When he cut himself he turned and called her a stupid bitch. She gave a wail of utter desolation.
In the busy Crossroads Pantry, at a table for two by the big front window, a mild and hung-over salesman for roller bearings, with a wife and two kids up in Camden, tried to conceal his distaste for the brassy dish he had picked up fifty miles west on 82 in a roadside bar at five the previous afternoon. The morning light was cruel to her. She was attacking her eggs like a man shoveling snow, waving bitten nails and calling him “sweetie” in a voice audible at thirty paces. He wished he knew more about the Mann Act. He wished he’d never stopped at that bar. He wished he wasn’t a salesman. He was certain everybody was aware of the relationship. He wished he was slightly dead.
A half mile north of the salesman, alone at a corner table in the main dining room of the Motor Hotel Restaurant, a thirty-six-year-old woman breakfasted on hot tea and dry toast, looked out at the traffic—drifting by in an unreal silence outside the hushed, air-conditioned room—and thought about death. She was unmarried, a doctor of medicine. She knew the implacability of the thing inside her which had gaunted her, given her face this special pallor, pushed her eyes back into her head. The clothes she wore, the convertible parked in front, seemed planned for a younger, gayer woman. She was never without pain any more. She knew that if she had waited much longer she wouldn’t have been able to drive herself home to die. She wanted a few days to lie in the hot sun of her childhood on that familiar Florida beach. When it became bad enough, she would take the pills. But it was hard for her to believe that she would never come this way again, that every dog and bird and shrub she saw would outlive her.
Directly opposite the restaurant, on the other side of the divided highway, was a row of small stores in a long building set back from the road. A sundries store, laundry and dry cleaning, a hardware store with a post office substation, a bakery, a little gift shop. An old man was sweeping the walk in front of the sundries store. She saw a gray Volkswagen drive in and disappear behind the block of stores. A few minutes later a tall girl came walking around from in back of the stores, walking light and lithe in morning health, sun on her fair hair. She wore a sand-colored sleeveless dress with a small formal aqua collar, and keys sparkled in her hand. She unlocked the door of the gift shop. The name in slanting gold script on the display window was Jeana Louise. The woman in the restaurant saw the girl smile and say something to the old man and go inside.
She thought, with a certain familiar and comfortable smugness, My eyesight is perfect. But then the realization came again. Like a bitter wind blowing against her heart. Undiminished. What good are my eyes? What good are all the well parts, the perfect parts?
She tipped extravagantly because the waitress had been pleasant, a plump young girl with an open face, and because money had become a wry thing to think about. She paid her check and walked slowly out to the convertible. As she touched the door handle the pain struck with maliciousness. Remember me? It doubled her slightly, making sweat that was icy in the sunshine. In a few moments she was able to straighten up. She got in and, on an impulse of bravado, put the top down, took a gay kerchief from the glove compartment and tied it around her lifeless hair.
There was a gap in the medial strip opposite the restaurant. When she paused there, waiting for a cluster of southbound cars to whir by, she looked over and saw the tall girl leaning into her display window, her pretty face serious and intent as she flicked at the window merchandise with a gay feather duster. Live in health, Jeana Louise, she thought gently. Live long and live well, my dear.
So then she could turn, and she turned south, accelerating. By noon on Saturday she would be home, back to the golden beach of her girlhood.
The man in the big gas station directly across from the Crossroads Motor Hotel saw her go by. He had stood there on the wide blue-gray expanse of asphalt, squinting in the sun, thumbs tucked in the bellyband of his trousers, watching her up there waiting to make the turn south, feeling the little automatic gut-tingle of excitement that came whenever he looked at a strange and potentially attractive woman. But when she went by he turned away with a little shrug of disgust. Sallow old bitch, trying to look like young stuff. Going around begging for it. Tired merchandise in a fancy package.
He turned and looked toward his car. It was still up on the rack. Soon as you get south of Washington, they take all day. He walked slowly past the service islands where uniformed attendants were feeding the tourist cars. Big damn operation. Station looks like an airport terminal. Should have come by air this time. Maybe more like some kind of shrine. Place of worship along the highway. Bigger share of consumer dollar every year into service operations. Food, clothing, cleaning, entertainment, automotive. New prop under the economy. Net increase of better than nine thousand damn fools every day. Three and a half million of them a year. All with their mouths open. Baby birds. Memo. Take a look at those baby food companies again.
He was fifty, a chunky restless domineering man, richer than he had ever hoped to be, walking nimbly along the very edge of legality, hungry for more—more of everything, money, food, women, power, now on his way down to make a personal investigation of a syndicate land-fill operation made possible only by the careful bribery of those public officials pledged to prevent further land fills on Florida’s west coast.
A too-handsome and powerfully built young man was working on his car, a big new Chrysler, arrogantly dirty. Fescher looked at the young man. Husky brute. Too much sideburn. Name embroidered over pocket. Glenn. Had his uniform tailored to show off that build. Vain son of a bitch. Kills the women. Wish I’d been built that good. Hell, I do all right.
“Think I should maybe take a room across the road, Glenn?”
He looked out from under the car. “About one more minute, sir. It wouldn’t take long to give it a wash job.”
“Don’t merchandise me, sonny boy. Just finish it up fast.”
For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes, recognized the same breed of animal, the same mocking assurance.
“Take it slow through Armette, sir. Radar area.”
“How you figure I’m going south?”
“Saw you pull in.”
“Watch everything, sonny boy. Sometimes it’s money.”
“All done, sir.” Glenn eased the rack down, backed the big car out deftly, whisked his protective tarp off the car seat, wiped the steering wheel with a rag, took Fescher’s credit card, hustled back with the clipboard for his signature.
Fescher put a dollar on the board when he handed it back. “That’s for the radar that isn’t there, sonny boy.”
Glenn looked startled and angry, and then grinned. “Sometimes it’s there, sir. Thanks.”
Glenn stood for a moment with his brown fists on lean hips, staring after the haughty fins of the Chrysler as it slid out into the traffic flow. Maybe if you try hard, you can roll it over, buddy. Nineteen times. He felt as if the man had reached out, tipped up his mask and looked underneath. Laug
hed at him. There was something about him that reminded Glenn Lawrenz of those smart old tough cops. The ones who looked at you and kidded you and didn’t pay a damn bit of attention to the eager, earnest, confused bit. They were the kind who liked to beef you around, and kept smiling. Like in New Orleans that time. He shrugged off the highly unpleasant memory of New Orleans and took a shrewd look at the flow of business. Six months on this deal and he knew angles these gas jockeys never thought of before. And Marty, the stupid manager, thought he was the best man on the early shift. You just had to keep moving all the time when Marty was around, and goof off when he wasn’t.
Two cars swung in. He moved fast but took short steps until Gus had committed himself to the old Buick full of luggage and little kids, then lengthened his stride and picked up the two women in the new Ford, adjusting his earnest, honest, practiced smile as he approached the car. One was cute, a brunette, but nothing like Sylvia. My God, that Sylvia! It made his heart jump like a bass every time he thought of her. If these other monkeys ever got wise to what was going on …
“Fill it up with the special this morning?” he said, keeping his voice low and slow, the way Sylvia Drovek liked it.
In the second of the four pleasant houses out behind the Motor Hotel, Leo Drovek was finishing his second cup of coffee at quarter to nine. He always finished his second cup of coffee at quarter to nine. It was such a nice morning Betty had served breakfast on the patio overlooking the woods and the creek.
Leo, the second son, was two years younger than Charles. Except that his hair was darker, he very much resembled his brother. But on the inside there was no similarity. Leo was vice-president of the Crossroads Corporation. He considered himself a wise, sober, cautious man, and felt that, with his head for business, he was a good balance wheel, keeping Charles from expanding too recklessly and dangerously.
Each morning he arrived at the corporation office at nine. It was a small building out behind the small row of leased shops across from the Motor Hotel Restaurant. Except for lunch at the restaurant, he spent all day in the office. He felt uncomfortable going around and looking at things the way Charles did. He felt good at his desk, compiling the statistics of operations, making comparisons. Even though he could seldom get Charles to pay much attention to his figures, he felt they were most valuable. The office staff was small. There was Myra Miles, the book-keeper. Leo could never understand how anybody who chewed gum so constantly and avidly, and giggled at the most asinine remark, could keep books so accurately. The Walterburg firm of Kimball and Kimball who did the auditing and the tax statements never found an error. Myra handled the payrolls too. Joe Varadi, whom Leo considered to be a very sour-acting man with very little personality, handled the consolidated purchasing for all the corporate-managed facilities, assisted by Elena Hessecker, a rather pretty girl who acted as sour as Joe. But sometimes they would laugh themselves practically helpless over something which, to Leo, didn’t seem the least bit funny. Then there were the two secretaries. Ginger Daley wasn’t a secretary. She ran the switchboard and did typing. Gloria Quinn took shorthand and did typing, and was supposed to be the secretary for the Drovek brothers. But Leo had complained often to Charles about her. She always seemed to be busy helping Joe or Myra, and it took her forever to get his tabulations typed. She even acted as if they weren’t important.
The three managers, of course, reported directly to Charles. Marty Simmons managed the two gas stations and the automotive end of the business at Truck Haven. Walter Merris managed the two motels. John Clear managed the restaurant part. John really had the biggest job. The Motor Hotel Restaurant, and the Crossroads Pantry and the food end at Truck Haven, as well as the big bar and cocktail lounge in the new wing on the north side of the Motor Hotel Restaurant, the Starlight Club. It didn’t open until 11:30 A.M., and closed at two, three hours after the restaurant itself closed. John had his own office and staff over on the top floor of the Motor Hotel Restaurant and was the only manager who did any appreciable part of his own buying.
Leo reminded himself to speak to Charles again about John Clear. He had sent memos to John telling him exactly what additional operating figures he needed, but John was not co-operating. Certainly the man could easily compile separate figures on pilferage and breakage instead of lumping them together the way he did. But he would have to talk to Charles when he was in a good mood. Sometimes Charles became unreasonable and yelled at him in front of the staff. It would be better to talk to him after this automobile agency thing had been settled.
He realized Betty had been saying something to him.
“What, dear?” he said, looking across the small table at her. She was a small, somewhat scrawny woman with graying hair. Her wide blue eyes were her prettiest feature. He loved her dearly. It often seemed to him that she was the only person able to comprehend the real value of his contribution to the Crossroads Corporation.
“Martha May’s cold is worse today. Thank goodness Roger and Bunny haven’t caught it yet. I’m going to keep her in bed.”
“Good idea.”
“You don’t have a cold, do you? You were coughing in the night.”
“No. I feel all right.”
“Are you worried about something, dear?”
“I think that Charles is going off the deep end on this automobile agency thing.”
“Really?”
“I’m going to have to have a serious talk with him. I think we have enough leased operations right now. It’s time to consolidate instead of expand. First we had the six little shops across from the restaurant. Then the drive-in movie and then the bowladrome and then that enormous shopping center. I don’t think we should borrow more money at this time.”
“I’m sure he’ll listen to you, dear.”
Leo wished he could be as sure as Betty was. For one moment he had the dispiriting memory of having objected to every structure they had built for lease, and having Charles go ahead anyway. And having it work out well.
He stood up and patted his firm mouth with his napkin, went over to Betty, bent and kissed her trusting lips, and left for the office a half mile away, walking briskly. He arrived exactly at nine.
The other half of the small office building was occupied by the Paris Realty Corporation. It had its own entrance. As Leo approached the office he saw Charles’s red Vespa parked in front. It always irritated him to see it. He felt that Charles should have more dignity than to run around on a silly red motor scooter. And wearing those sports shirts, without a tie or jacket. It didn’t become the president of such a large enterprise.
And it irritated him further to realize that Charles was in talking to Joan. It made him jealous. Charles always seemed to have time to talk to Joan, and no time to listen to sound suggestions backed up by careful statistics.
Charles Drovek was in Joan Paris’ small private office. Joan was thirty-five, the third Drovek child. She was, on a scale so majestic as to make the average man uncomfortable in her presence, a truly beautiful woman. She had an oval face with a hint of the oriental in its structuring, pale shining hair, a flawless complexion. She was big. Big bones, big shoulders, high firm hips. She stood five-eleven in her stocking feet, only an inch shorter than her two elder brothers. She weighed one sixty, and she was completely firm, gracefully built. She wore tailored clothes. On her, frills and flounces would have been grotesque. She could not make an ungraceful, unwomanly movement. Behind a mask of sleepy and almost sensuous amiability, her mind was as quick and sharp as Charles’s. They were the close ones. At ease with each other, aware of the same problems, the same triumphs.
On the advice of attorneys and accountants, Charles had set up the Paris Realty Corporation. Joan and Jack Paris, Charles and Papa Drovek were the only shareholders. This arrangement was resented by Leo and Pete, the youngest Drovek, particularly after the arrangement became increasingly more important to the Crossroad Corporation. They knew, however, that when Papa died, his shares would be divided equally among the two now left
out.
The Paris Realty Corporation managed all leases, collected all rentals, arranged for all necessary repairs and maintenance on leased properties, subtracted the maintenance expenses and realty fees and turned the balance over to the Crossroads Corporation.
They had finished talking about the automobile agency deal. It would go through. The papers would be signed on Monday at the Walterburg Bank and Trust Company.
“Where’s Jack?” Charles asked, almost too casually.
“Out sharpening up his game for the tournament, Chip.”
Their eyes met. He saw the little sour shadow in her odd gray-green eyes and looked away uneasily. Certain fictions must be maintained. You do not tell your sister her handsome husband is a lazy bum. She knows that all too well. And you do not ask her why she doesn’t dump him over the side. She happens to love him. And you haven’t got the best marriage in the world yourself.
“I had breakfast down at the Pantry this morning,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Dingy chrome. Dirty uniforms. Smeary windows. Lousy coffee. Lipstick on the water glass. It was an experience. Our Mr. Clear has stopped covering for Pete.”
She frowned, shrugged her big shoulders. “You can’t blame John. After all, brother Pete, damn his eyes, is a shareholder. He makes more than John Clear does. If John put his own boy in there, it would be neat as a zipper. You put Pete in there. And he covered for him for a year, Chip. Now he’s letting you see for yourself.”
“But, damn it, his job is to manage the food end, all of it. Keep it up.”
“But he isn’t supposed to be managing the Pantry too. It’s too much. And he’s good, Chip. We know it and he knows it. You can lean on him when he slips and he’ll take it. But not for this.”
“So I lean on Pete? What the hell good will that do? He’ll take off again. And Papa will be upset. If it wasn’t for Papa I’d be glad to see Pete leave for good.”
“Would you? Really?”
The Crossroads Page 2