by Monte Schulz
Promising himself not to bust anything, Alvin walked into the middle of the bedroom. The ceiling overhead was painted like the summer sky outdoors, fluffy clouds drifting about here and there, tiny swallows on the wing. A vine of stenciled ivy encircled the outer border. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought the lady who slept in here was a queen. On the dresser were Ivorette hairbrushes, and hair combs and tuck combs, nail files, lingerie clasps, perfume bottles, skin lotions, Pompeian night cream, a powder puff box, a pair of bevel glass bonnet mirrors, and a Mavis 3-piece set. How could anyone on earth ever use all that?
The dwarf came into the bedroom behind him, holding a cloudy glass of lemonade.
Alvin frowned. He hadn’t seen any lemons in the kitchen.
The dwarf asked, “Why didn’t you answer when I called?”
“I didn’t hear you,” Alvin lied, checking his look in the dresser mirror. His freckles were nearly hidden under the dust on his face. He felt hot and grimy and knew he needed a bath. Maybe Chester would hire a couple of rooms in a hotel later on after supper.
“Wasn’t the creek refreshing?” the dwarf asked, strolling across the rug, a dreamy look of contentment on his misshapen face. He sipped from his glass of lemonade.
“It ought to be,” the farm boy replied, as he sorted through a pearl button collection in a corner of the dresser top. “That water’s cold enough to freeze the whiskers off a brass monkey.” He stared at the dwarf’s drinking glass. “Say, how come you didn’t fix me up with a lemonade?”
“You didn’t wait for me,” Rascal said, walking over to the dresser.
He plucked a Japanese fan from a dry rosewater and glycerine bottle, and carefully unfolded it. “He’s a widower, you know.”
“Who?”
“The fellow who lives here.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read a note of bereavement downstairs,” the dwarf explained, replacing the fan. “His wife Annabelle passed away a year ago Christmas. Apparently it was quite unexpected.” He put down his lemonade and opened a top drawer, rummaged around a little, then took out a jewelry box and sprung the clasp, revealing a splendid assortment of scarf pins, rings, lavallieres, necklaces and silver thimbles.
“Don’t steal nothing,” Alvin warned, suddenly protective of the late woman’s possessions, though he had no idea why. He didn’t even know what she looked like.
“Do you think I’m a thief?” Rascal drew out a gold Daughters of Rebekah pin. “Why, I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I couldn’t imagine stooping so low.”
“Says you.”
The dwarf returned the enameled pin to the jewelry box. “What in the dickens are you talking about?”
Alvin found a matchstick in a silver child’s cup and stuck it in his mouth to chew on. He smirked at Rascal, and gave him the bad eye.
That prompted the dwarf to grouse, “I suppose this is what I deserve for traveling with a no-good like you.”
Alvin shut the jewelry box drawer. “Lay off the wisecracks.”
The dwarf picked up a brown bottle containing pure sweet spirits of nitre. “Here, try some of this. It’ll fix you up all right.”
Alvin scowled, sure this was a gag. He grabbed the bottle, anyhow. “What’s it good for?” Reading the label didn’t offer much instruction. He didn’t recognize half the words.
The dwarf giggled. “Whatever ails you, and if nothing ails you, it’s good for that, too.”
“Aw, cut that stuff,” Alvin growled, putting the bottle of nitre back on the dresser top. The heat upstairs had begun to irritate him. “If you weren’t so cuckoo, I’d take out my cast-iron knucks and knock you flat.”
Rascal smiled. “There’s no need to offer alibis. Why, I’m more than willing to rough it up a bit. Uncle Augustus taught me several nifty wrestling holds when I was younger. If I were you, I’d think twice about who you’d be scrapping with.”
Alvin heard a motorcar coming up from the county road. He went across the hall into the plain room to look out the window, and saw Chester’s tan Packard Six rolling to a stop by the front of the house. “He’s back.”
The dwarf darted out of the woman’s bedroom, and hurried off to the stairwell.
“Hey!” Alvin shouted, rushing after him.
The dwarf bounded down the stairs.
Alvin followed him to the first floor and went outside through the kitchen door, while Rascal left the house by the front porch. Wind kicked up in the driveway, sweeping leaves from the hackberry trees and stirring dust about the yard. Chester stood beside the automobile, his foot on the runningboard as he lit up a cigarette. The dwarf had engaged him in conversation before Alvin reached the plum tree on the side of the house. Chester flicked the burnt match away. His eyes were bright blue in the sunlight. Alvin guessed his pow-wow in Stantonsburg had come off all right. Maybe he’d even found another girl downtown to play post office with.
When Chester noticed the farm boy, he smiled and called across the wind, “Well, we made a ten-strike today, kid!”
“How’s that?”
“It’s like I’ve been telling you right along. Some fellows furnish the manure while others grow the flowers. They tried to cut in on us, but I wouldn’t let ’em because they’re all a lot of damn four flushers and they know it.” Alvin hadn’t any idea what Chester was talking about. He coughed into his fist.
“Well, they weren’t half through before I gave ’em the raspberry and put on my hat. That’s when one of them got the big idea that we were all set to throw everything over and go home unless they came around pretty damn quick.”
Chester opened the passenger door and took out a small black traveling bag. Then he slung it through the air over to Alvin. The cowhide bag skidded in the dirt at the farm boy’s feet. “Go on, see for yourself.”
Rascal scampered over as Alvin undid the latches. Inside, the bag looked stuffed with greenback bills.
Chester told the farm boy, “With what we got there, you could buy that whole hick town of yours and make yourself mayor.”
“Like Al Capone!” the dwarf enthused, reaching in and riffling through a handful of bills.
Chester frowned. “Don’t be a wiseacre.”
Alvin just stared at the dough. Chester had told them if he cashed-in downtown, they’d be able to settle some obligations. He hadn’t said anything about striking oil. Too scared to touch it, the farm boy stepped back from the bag.
Holding up a fistful of bills, the dwarf grinned. “This is quite a fortune!”
Chester tapped ash off his cigarette into the dirt. “It’ll make out all right.”
Rascal stuffed the cash back into the bag. “May I ask you a great favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I’d like to have a photograph taken of myself in bed with this money that I could mail to Auntie in Hadleyville.”
Chester shook his head. “Just bring the dough back over here.”
Alvin saw a small truck out on the county road coming from the east, lifting clouds of dust on the blue summer sky. Rascal closed the leather bag and lugged it over to the Packard where Chester stuck it into the rear seat once again. He told them, “Keep this under your hat. We need to beat it up to Des Moines without giving anyone the dope on how big we put it over. You get me?”
The dwarf nodded. “Of course.”
“You fellows stay out here. I need a drink.” Chester looked Alvin in the eye. “All right, kid?”
“Sure.”
Chester flicked his cigarette into the dirt and went inside by the front porch. After the door closed, Rascal walked down to the small barn where the farm tractor was parked.
Looking back out to the county road, Alvin noticed the small truck slow at the approach to the driveway. Butterflies churned in his belly. Every so often, he’d heard about trespassers getting shot in Illinois. He considered hurrying indoors to fetch Chester, but decided against it. Maybe he was expecting this fellow and just get sore that Alvin
had come into the house when he had already been told not to. On the other hand, maybe this fellow wasn’t expecting to find a pack of strangers at his door at all. Alvin had an idea.
He went over to the Packard and undid the radiator filler cap and raised the hood.
By then, the dwarf had noticed the truck, too, and gone to hide inside the barn. Alvin knelt behind the Packard until he heard a noisy truck motor drawing near and the crunching of tires on the dusty gravel. Chester still hadn’t come out of the house. When the truck rolled to a stop half a dozen yards away, Alvin rose from his hiding place, hands apart. A cloud of dust stirred up from the driveway swept over him. He coughed harshly and waved it out of his face as a tall scrawny man in work overalls and an army-style hat climbed out of the driver’s door. A small boy seated on the passenger side remained in the truck. The man said, “Who are you?”
Alvin shuffled his feet in the dirt, mute.
A wary frown on his brow, the man studied the farm boy up and down and gave the Packard a quick once-over, too. He asked, “You broke down?”
Alvin forced a nod.
“Radiator?”
He nodded again.
“There’s water in the pump and a iron pail.” The man gestured toward the other side of the house, well shaded in hackberry. He added, “It’ll pay you to use a spout. I got a can back over yonder in the barn by the feed cutter.”
Alvin mumbled a thank you, still scared enough to faint.
The man turned his attention to the boy seated quietly in the truck. “Arnie, get along into the house.”
The boy climbed out of the truck, holding a tiny jackknife. He was wearing a pair of denim trousers and a red-checkered shirt and black cowboy boots. His light hair was freshly combed with a well-oiled cowlick that resisted the wind. He stared at Alvin, eyes clear and curious.
“Go on now,” the man told him.
The boy walked past Alvin without a word, up the steps and into the house. Alvin guessed the kid was just as scared as he was. Then he remembered who was still indoors and his belly went cold. Why had Chester chosen this fellow’s house? It didn’t make sense.
“It’s my son’s birthday today,” the man told Alvin. “I just brought him into town for a haircut and a root beer.”
Urging himself to speak up, the farm boy said, “He’s a swell kid.”
“What’re you doing out here?”
His brain gone dead as wax, Alvin persisted with the same lie, “We’re broke down.”
The man fixed him hard with a stare.
He’s no dumbbell, Alvin thought. He knows I ain’t being square with him. If he had a shotgun handy, he’d probably knock me out of my shoes.
The man walked over toward the porch and found a stick in the dirt and brought it back to the Packard. Keeping an eye on Alvin, he poked the stick down into the radiator, then drew it out again. Wet.
He said, “Where’s the other fellow?”
Alvin didn’t know how to answer that. He felt like a dirty crook and knew he wasn’t smart enough to make up another lie. A warm gust of wind kicked up dust and left grit in his eyes. As he rubbed them clear with one hand, he heard the man hurry away toward the house where his boy was calling from indoors.
Alvin saw the dwarf emerge from the corner of the small barn and walk up as far as the tractor.
The front screen door swung shut with a bang.
He had no idea what to do now. He felt rotten as hell. He thought if he wasn’t such a coward, he’d probably run off down to the county road and hike back to Illinois. He heard voices briefly inside the house. Alvin closed the hood of the Packard and put the radiator filler cap back on.
Then he waited.
Several minutes went by. The dwarf left the farm tractor and crossed the yard to the side of the house near the plum tree. Dust swirled about. Then the screen door swung open and Chester walked out onto the porch carrying a box of glass canning jars. He paused at the top of the steps and called down to Alvin, “Do you like peach preserves? I just found these down in the cellar.”
Alvin shrugged. “I ain’t all that fond of ’em.”
“No?”
“Nope.”
Chester smiled. “Me neither.”
Then he threw the box off the porch upside down.
The din of glass shattering brought Rascal from around the side of the house.
Chester was already down the steps by then, striding toward the Packard. He motioned Alvin to get into the automobile, and slid in behind the wheel. When he started the engine, the dwarf rushed over and climbed into the backseat. Then Chester put the Packard into gear and quickly steered the motorcar around in a circle, aiming it back down the gravel drive. Just before mashing his foot on the gas pedal, he said, “Let me tell you, boys. Hospitality’s not what it used to be.”
Then they were hurtling down the road toward Stantonsburg, a great hot cloud of dust trailing in their wake. Part of Chester’s morning newspaper billowed up and out of the backseat of the Packard. It alighted once in the middle of the road, and flew off like a kite into the fields. Along the roadside, switchgrass stood taller than the Packard and swayed in the draft as the automobile sped by. Alvin saw dozens of sparrows perched on telegraph wires, crowding one another for room, hardly paying notice to the roaring motor. Only a few people were about anywhere he looked: a man on a tractor off in a cornfield to the east; three women standing under the porch eaves of a tall white farmhouse to the west; and outside a small house next to the road, a little girl with pigtails chasing a black Labrador through billowing laundry in a windy yard.
After driving about three miles, Chester spoke up again. “Listen up, kid, here’s how I’ve doped this out. I arranged a four o’clock appointment at the Union Bank over in Stantonsburg. We’ll be meeting a fellow there named Jerome. When I telephoned this morning, I told him about a young pal of mine whose uncle just kicked off and left him a load of dough and that he’d like to start up a bank account.”
“Who’s that?” Alvin said, somewhat desultorily. He felt thoroughly demoralized over what had just happened back at the farmhouse, and thought if he weren’t such a yellow-bellied coward, he’d jump out of the auto right now and kill himself. That’d cure his cough for good and all, and who’d miss him, anyhow? Nobody, that’s who.
“You.”
“Huh?”
“Your name’s Buddy McCoy and you just inherited a bag of money from your dear old Uncle Homer. You’re rich now, see, you’re getting up in the world, and you want your dough in a safe place, so you asked me to set you up with a bank downtown. You heard they’re a fine lot at Union, and you’re sure they’ll give you a square deal, but you want it to be confidential. That’s why you came up with the big idea of running in after hours. If they want to take charge of your money, it’ll have to be at your convenience. When I had him on the wire, Jerome told me he’d be delighted to have you call today at four if that’d make you happy. He seems like a swell fellow. Of course, once he lets us in, we’ll clean ’em out. Swell gag, isn’t it?”
“It’s a wonderful plan,” the dwarf acknowledged from behind a Texaco road map he was studying. Alvin glared at him. Chester drove faster, bouncing across the dips in the road, swerving here and there to avoid sinkholes. A quarter mile farther on, he ran the Packard straight over a dead fox.
The whole idea scared the hell out of Alvin. He didn’t want to go inside another bank at all. If he were lucky, he’d get shot and it’d be over and done with. Hanging his arm out the window into the hot draft, he said, “Maybe I ain’t made for this sort of thing. I hate lying and I ain’t very good at it, neither.”
“Nobody lies better than I do,” the dwarf remarked.
The farm boy agreed. “You’re a bag of wind, all right.”
“Perhaps I ought to play the role of the wealthy nephew,” Rascal argued, ignoring the jibe. “All you’d need to do is give me my lines. I’m a whiz at memorization, and I can be utterly convincing.”
Che
ster shook his head. “Not on your life. We couldn’t put that over in a bughouse. Who’d leave his fortune to a midget?”
The Packard struck a sharp dip in the dusty road, jolting the dwarf off-balance, bouncing him backward into the seat.
“I’d rather stay with the car,” Alvin persisted, worried like the devil now. “I ain’t cut out for selling this stuff. It gives me a big bellyache and I ain’t ashamed to tell you.”
“I don’t need you in the car,” Chester barked. “I need you in the bank acting like a lucky plowboy whose rich uncle just fell down a well. So stop squawking. You can put it over, all right. Just don’t act nervous. Remember, they got to listen when they know who you are.”
Stantonsburg was shady and quiet in the afternoon, sidewalks mostly empty, shops all closing up in the four o’clock hour, both roads leading out of town clear of traffic.
“They’re having a rutabaga festival today over at a fairgrounds across town,” Chester said, as they rolled through the center of Stantonsburg. “What the hell’s a rutabaga?”
“The rutabaga is a large turnip with an edible yellow root,” the dwarf explained. “Auntie and I once grew them in our garden. One year, we even won a blue ribbon at the Hadleyville Fair for best of show. Rutabagas are quite tasty if you know how to prepare them.”
“Momma used to cook them on Sundays after church whenever Reverend Tyler’d come for dinner,” Alvin added.
“Aren’t they swell?” said the dwarf, smiling.
“No,” Alvin replied. “They taste like boiled shoes.”