The Walkaway

by Scott Phillips

  But once in charge he’d modernized, offering edible food and getting a full liquor license when the club laws finally changed, even wincingly adding the laughably ambitious phrase “A Gentleman’s Club” to the marquee. In the end he’d succeeded in attracting the crowd he’d aimed for, young executives who couldn’t stop whooping and high-fiving one another and generally behaved like a beer commercial brought to life.

  He hated them, but they brought in a lot of money; between improvements to his other club and moving the Sweet Cage out to a new facility west of town his overhead had increased considerably. He had also stopped hiring the druggy, dowdy, inexpensive, hard-luck-case dancers who had long been the mainstay of both clubs, bringing in instead the kind of sleek, hard-muscled dancers he’d seen at clubs elsewhere. His account books proved that he was in the minority on this score, but how these skinny, silicone-injected hardbodies with the cold looks, artificially enhanced cheekbones, and big spiky hair could make anybody horny was beyond Sidney. He found he couldn’t bring himself to fire any of the old dancers, and it took attrition nearly eight years before Francie, the last and oldest of the old girls, quit to marry Mitch Cherkas.

  The phone rang again and a moment later Janice stuck her head in the door. “For you. Some lady, says she saw Gunther.”

  He punched line two. “Sidney McCallum.”

  “Mr. McCallum? My name’s Loretta Gandy. I just spoke with a Captain Howells and he gave me your number.”

  He stared out the window at some kids in the backyard of one of the houses behind the building. They sat listless in the shade, the sun already too hot for play, waiting to be brought inside. The house next door to it had a flagstone back patio with a glass-topped table, at which an old man sat in a checkered bathrobe reading the paper and drinking from a mug. As he listened to the woman talk about picking Gunther up and taking him for a haircut Sidney spotted Gunther’s picture on the man’s newspaper.

  “I gave him some money when he got out,” she said.

  “And he took it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Gunther.”

  “It was him all right. I thought he was the nicest man when I was little. He took me and my friend Sandra to the Shrine Circus when I was about five. I threw up my lime Coke all over him as we were leaving and he was so sweet about it. My mom would have smacked me.”

  Sidney leaned back in his chair and watched the kids’ mother trooping them back inside their house like a vanquished, retreating army, listening to the woman rattle on. Another gal who thought sullen old Gunther was the greatest guy she’d ever met. “Yeah, he’s got his good points.”

  “Could you do me a favor and call me when you find him?”

  “Sure.”

  He took her number and hung up, and despite himself the picture of the little girl throwing up on Gunther made him laugh. That was one thing about the old man, it took a hell of a lot to get a rise out of him.

  6

  WAYNE OGDEN

  June 16–17, 1952

  The sheriff ’s deputies had questioned me and the bartender and Beulah and the other two whores for half an hour or so to no effect, and when I left with the deputies I knew I had redeemed myself in the eyes of the Hitching Post staff. I would be welcomed back, and I intended to return as soon as possible. No hillbilly moron and his peers would get the better of Wayne Ogden for long.

  The deputies had insisted on a stop at the emergency ward to make sure I hadn’t broken any bones or ruptured anything crucial, and to give them a chance to grill me a little bit more. When they saw I wasn’t going to get any more specific about who’d licked me they let me go. A taxi drove me by the station to collect my duffel bag and then dropped me off here at the Bellingham. I had only stayed at the Bellingham once before, on my wedding night in 1940, when it had seemed to me and my bride the height of luxury and elegance. Having kicked around a little more in the years since, I still had to admit that for a town this size it was a pretty nice place to hang my hat for a few nights.

  A couple of days with an ice pack on my face had made it presentable again, if not an object of beauty. My eye was still purple with black and yellow striations, but the swelling was mostly gone and I could make jokes about walking into a door without getting the horrified or nauseated looks that had kept me mostly sequestered in the room since my arrival. It was noon, and I went downstairs to the lobby, where I found the day manager, Mr. Nash, taking a reservation over the phone. When he was done he looked up at me and gave the eye a quick once-over.

  “Well, Sergeant. I see you’re healing nicely. Going to take some air?”

  “I need to buy a suit. What’s the best haberdasher in town?”

  “There’s the Thistle Men’s Store, downtown. Much better than any of the department stores, and it’s walking distance, too.”

  “I remember it. Thanks.”

  “It is expensive, of course, but one’s paying for the best.”

  “Only the best,” I said, ignoring the implication that it might be too pricey for a noncom.

  “It’s a beautiful day for a stroll, I almost wish I could go with you.”

  I’ll bet he did, too. “Thanks for the tip.”

  It was indeed beautiful out, in the upper seventies with a few clouds that made the sky seem an even deeper blue, and a very slight breeze that cooled my face as I walked east over the bridge to downtown proper. I stopped halfway across to watch the river flow past for a minute, muddy brown and wide and slow as ever. I had a vivid memory of a drowned man being pulled from it when I was a kid, of the muffled excitement of the crowd that had gathered waiting to see who it was. I seemed to recall a vendor selling popcorn and candy apples, but that might have been a nostalgic embellishment. When they got the body out of the water he was nobody anyone knew; a bum, judging by his clothes.

  The Thistle was a few blocks east, and before going in I checked my reflection in the mirrored glass of a nearby building. I’d never allowed myself the indulgence of buying clothes there before, not even when I was a young man on the rise at Collins and took care to look prosperous, and I wanted to be treated with respect when I walked in now. It was lunchtime, and the sidewalks were bristling with office workers heading for cafeterias and restaurants and sandwich stands; once I’d satisfied myself with my own image I watched them in the glass, marching and shuffling and trotting in different directions at different speeds, all of them after the same quick bite to eat before heading back for an afternoon just like the morning.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a stationary reflection in the glass next to mine. I turned to face a chubby, red-faced man about my own age, grinning to beat the band.

  “Holy cow. Wayne Ogden. What do you know?” He held out his hand for me to shake, and I took it.

  “How’ve you been, Stanley?”

  “Oh, just great. I’m working for Donner Peatman Hapner now. I’m a vice president as of last month.” He seemed delighted at the prospect.

  “Very impressive,” I said, though I had no idea who or what Donner Peatman Hapner were, what they sold or did or brokered or baked. Stan and I had played football and baseball together in high school, and we’d been partners on the debate squad. He wasn’t a bad guy, and he wasn’t stupid, but one look at his face and I saw that he didn’t know the score any more than he had when we were kids.

  “I married Louise Neville, remember her?”

  “Sure. Nice gal.” I wondered if he knew about Louise blowing me behind a barn on a high school class picnic in 1937, while unbeknownst to us six or eight guys watched from the hayloft. She really seemed to enjoy sex, not like some girls who cheerlessly accommodated you just because you were captain of this team or president of that club; Louise had in fact provided me with an initial glimpse of the female orgasm one night that same year in her parents’ bedroom during my very first session of cunnilingus, an experience I found unexpectedly arousing. If she was half as sexually enthusiastic as she’d been back then, Stan w
as either a lucky fellow indeed or a cuckold many times over.

  “Got three kids, a fourth on the way.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  “You finally muster out, or are you just on leave?”

  “Mustered out.” Why not?

  “My Louise tells me she sees your wife, Sally, once in a while, and your little girl. I bet they’re glad to have you home.”

  My stomach turned. This grinning imbecile was ready to fuck up my whole operation; I should have thought about the possibility of running into someone I used to know before I decided to take a leisurely stroll downtown. “Listen, Stan.” I looked at him sideways. “They don’t know I’m here yet. I’m trying to get a day or two in as a civilian before I let them know, get back on a stateside schedule. So do me a favor and don’t tell anybody you saw me, all right?”

  “I get it. Sally’s got a surprise coming.”

  “That’s it exactly,” I said, and he waddled off to his midday meal, happy to have a secret to keep.

  In the Thistle they treated me like the king of goddamn England. I’d brought along a pretty good roll and I ended up spending most of it on a suit with two pairs of pants, a houndstooth sport jacket, a pile of casual shirts and pants, and a couple of neckties, one conservative and one loud, and two hats. The clerk, a tall, prematurely bald man of about thirty, marked the clothes for alteration and seemed very pleased as he wrote up the sale. When I asked if the alterations on at least the casual pants could be done by that evening he brought the tailor out to meet me. He was a small man and looked far too old to be working.

  “Mr. Chancellor, this is Sergeant McCowan. He was wondering if he could get some of his alterations done in advance of the usual schedule.”

  He looked me up and down. “Your uniform fits better than most.”

  “I’m in the Quartermaster Corps, so I know some of the tailors personally. I also know good tailoring when I see it.”

  “Okay, I’ll move you to the front of the line. I got a boy just got back from Korea myself. Made PFC when he was over there.” That he could have a son young enough to be a private seemed incredible, but I was grateful for his indulgence.

  “Can I show you something an army tailor who’s a buddy of mine did?” I showed him the pocket inside the back of my trousers. “It’s a good place to hold bills, safer than a wallet or a sock. If I came back later do you think you could alter these that way?”

  “No need to bring them later, I’ll do it when I do the hems.”

  I thanked him and arranged to have at least one pair of pants delivered to the hotel that evening and asked the clerk to call me a cab. When it came I asked the cabbie where he thought was the best place in town to buy a cheap car.

  “Welker Brothers’ Used Cars. They won’t cheat you too bad.” He was missing his top left canine and whistled a little when he talked. “Long as you look like you know what you’re doing.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  The Welker Brothers’ lot was one of six or seven along the same stretch of East Douglas, none of which were fighting off crowds today. It was done up like a carnival with bunting and balloons and little red, white, and blue triangular flags, and like its neighbors it was empty when I got out of the cab and walked onto it, glad for the chance to nose around a little and see what was on offer. I examined a black ’47 Packard at $795 and a green ’49 Chevy Fleetline with “$995!!! RADIO + HEATER” soaped on its windshield. I had a vague notion that I wanted a Ford but I didn’t see any, and now I wanted a salesman so I could get an idea of how much leeway there was in the pricing.

  “Howdy,” a voice called out from the sales office. “Bill Crenshaw, Welker Brothers’ assistant manager. Sorry, I was just closing a deal over the phone.” He was about my age and had on a brown suit that hadn’t been pressed recently. He held out his hand, and we shook; his was slightly wet and cold, as though just washed and not quite dried enough.

  “You’re off to a bad start, Bill. You weren’t on the phone, you were in the crapper.” I said this with a hint of a smile.

  He managed a chuckle. “You got me there, friend.” I noticed sweat stains on his hatband and thought maybe I could make a good deal after all.

  “Thomas McCowan, Master Sergeant, U.S. Army.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He was uncomfortable around a man in uniform, and my guess was he’d sat out the war for one reason or another. Whether it was his own choosing or not, that could work to my advantage. “How can I help you this afternoon?”

  “Well, Bill, I’m looking for something serviceable I could drive for a few months around the country while I’m on furlough, then turn around and sell when it’s time to go back on duty.”

  “Furlough, huh?”

  “Something with some resale value. No sawdust in the transmission and an odometer that hasn’t been messed with. I’m sure you don’t have anything like that on the lot anyway, but if you do you can save it for the shit shovelers.”

  He chuckled again, a little more uncomfortably. “Well, how’s about this forty-six Plymouth?” He showed me over to a red four-door. “Six forty-five and she’s all yours.”

  “Six even, more like,” I said.

  “I could go as low as six thirty.”

  “How about the two-door?” Right next to the red Plymouth was a black one, another ’46.

  “Five ninety-five.”

  “Five fifty.”

  “It’s got a radio and a heater.”

  “I’m not going to be driving it come winter time. Five fifty.”

  Half an hour later I drove a two-door 1946 Plymouth off the lot and over to a garage downtown where I asked the mechanic to give it the old once-over. An employee of the garage would drive it to the hotel for me while I slept, and if the mechanic’s report was unsatisfactory I would personally take my $550 out of Mr. Bill Crenshaw’s hide. I called another cab and took it back to the hotel, where I ate my supper at four P.M., pulled the curtains in my room, and settled in for a good night’s sleep.

  I’d asked Mr. Nash to leave word with the hotel staff not to bother me or enter my room for any reason between the hours of four and eleven P.M., and I woke up at ten-thirty feeling rested and recovered. My eye looked a little better still, and I was looking forward to the evening’s entertainment.

  Outside my door was the breakfast I’d ordered: bacon, eggs over easy, link sausage, and coffee in a thermos, and I set the tray down on the desk. My room overlooked the river, and as I ate I watched the headlights of the cars going over the bridge below. There weren’t many of them this time of night, but in less than an hour second shift would end at several of the plants and the roads coming and going would be jammed.

  After breakfast I phoned the front desk and asked the bellhop to bring up the clothes. I was pleased to see that it was all ready except for the suit. I showered and put on a new pair of pants, a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, and the houndstooth sport jacket, then headed downstairs to find out about the Plymouth.

  “Good evening, Sergeant McCowan,” the night manager said. I didn’t know his name; he was a great deal more reserved than Mr. Nash, and didn’t seem any more interested in me than in any other guest. The mechanic’s report on my Plymouth was waiting for me; he gave it a passing grade, and in the envelope were the keys to the car.

  The night was as lovely as the day had been, warm but with traces of the afternoon’s breeze, the sky clear except for an enormous vertical bank of clouds in the distance illuminated by the moon. It might have meant a storm, but the wind didn’t feel right for it. The Plymouth sat there in the guest’s lot, looking as anonymous as I’d hoped it would among the cars of all the weary salesmen, vacationing families, and furtive adulterers staying at the Bellingham. I handed the keys to the attendant, and when he brought her over I gave him a quarter and slid in behind the wheel.

  I rolled down the window, turned the engine over, and pulled out of the lot. Rather than wait for a chance to make a le
ft I merged into the flow of traffic, swinging in and out of lanes, sailing through the Hudsons and Pontiacs and Buicks and Chevys. A middle-aged man in a late-model Ford, driving with the dome light on, snarled something incomprehensible but unmistakably nasty at me through his open window, and I accelerated past and in front of him, making a U-turn at the first intersection and heading back downtown, where I made a left at Broadway and headed north all the way to Forty-ninth.

  There were five cars at the Hitching Post, all of them parked along the row of trees that marked the edge of the property, and I assumed they belonged to the bartender, maybe one or two to the whores, and the rest to the early customers of the evening. I parked next to a light blue convertible and waited. After a few minutes the thick-bodied brunette from my previous visit emerged laughing, hanging on to the ham-thick arm of a gigantic, balding man who wasn’t too steady on his feet. She was leaning on him so hard she almost knocked him down before they got to his car, but they both managed to get in and after a couple of failed attempts he turned the engine over, and the car moved off the lot and headed south toward downtown. It was twelve midnight on the dot.

  I was a little surprised when less than fifteen minutes later they returned and went back inside, the big man looking dejected and the harlot making plainly unwelcome consoling gestures. I doubted he’d be staying much longer. In the meantime a half dozen cars had parked between me and the front door of the club. If I didn’t get what I wanted in another half hour I’d move on to the Comanche for the night’s second order of business; I’d have to work fast in any case, and if the lot got much more crowded the risk would be too great.

  I only had to wait another five minutes. A late-thirties model Oldsmobile chugged in off the street and parked nearer to the neon hillbilly than I would have liked. Out stepped Elishah, instantly recognizable but looking quite different from how he did the night we met. In the hazy multicolored light of the sign his motionless facial features suggested despair rather than anger, and the bitter thinness of his face looked like years of bad luck and hard work instead of just backcountry meanness. It didn’t make the slightest difference to me, though.