by Alice Duncan
So pleased was I, in fact, that I virtually beamed at my students, most of whom beamed back at me. Gertrude still appeared kind of sulky. Well, pooh on her.
“As long as we’re here and so are all of our ingredients, ladies. . . .” I paused for a minute because several of them laughed. Either they were extremely polite, or I was funnier than I thought. “As long as everything’s here, why don’t we finish our dishes in the kitchen? What you need to do is place your bread croutes on your small serving platter, put a layer of peas in the bottom of the croutes, then put a layer of eggs and sauce on top of the peas. Continue layering until your croute is filled, ending with a layer of peas. Then you can artfully arrange some white sauce on top and sprinkle some peas around the base of the croute to add an air of festivity to the dish.” Well, it sounded good, anyway. I’m not sure how festive the finished products looked, but they were honestly kind of pretty.
“And there you have it!” I waved my arms in a flourish at all our nice, tidy little pea castles. It amazes me to this day to admit it, but I was impressed. We, a bunch of ladies of wildly disparate backgrounds, some of whom hardly spoke English, had actually created edible foodstuffs through my tutelage! The latter part of that scenario is what astonished me the most. Naturally, as I’ve said many times before, and will say many times again, my success was due entirely to my aunt Vi: without her, the dishes I tried to teach my class would have been toast. Literally. And probably the Salvation Army, too. I’ve never underestimated my ability to demolish things when I attempt cookery.
Johnny came into the classroom right before we were to disband for the final time. He made a lovely speech about how the Salvation Army’s goal is to rescue people in need, both spiritually and physically, and he hoped that in a small way, his particular church had helped this clutch of ladies. All the ladies assured him they had, indeed, been helped by him and his organization.
He then led us in prayer, said a fond farewell to the cooking ladies, and they all filed past Flossie, Johnny and yours truly, most of them smiling and with tears in their eyes. They all thanked us effusively for our help. Talk about feeling humbled. Boy, I’d just as soon not go through that again, primarily because I’d felt like a total fraud the whole time I was in that room attempting to impart the art of cooking to those poor women.
And that’s something else that’s kind of odd. Pretending to be a spiritualist doesn’t bother me the least little bit, but pretending to be an adept cook bothered me a whole lot. I suspect it has something to do with me being good at the one and abysmal at the other.
After hugs all around and fond farewells, Flossie and Johnny walked me out of fellowship hall. They’d probably have walked me to the Chevrolet, but I told them I could handle my accoutrements, which consisted of my pea castle, my handbag, my bouquet of flowers and my cook booklet, all by my lonesome.
As you’ve probably already guessed, I should have known better.
I had just about made it to the machine when I heard a soft “Mrs. Majesty?” behind me.
Turning, I beheld Gertrude Minneke. She no longer looked surly. She looked only kind of . . . well, bland, I guess is the best word to describe her expression. She stood there in her plain print frock with her hands clasped, or so I supposed, behind her back.
My heart was by then brimming with benevolence, primarily because I’d never have to see her or any of my other students again in this lifetime—well, except maybe Hilda, depending on how things worked out.
I smiled at Gertrude. “Yes, Miss Minneke?” I said in my sweetest voice.
She licked her lips nervously, although I’m sure I couldn’t figure out why she should be nervous. “Um . . . is your decision not to assist Eugene and me final? I mean . . . you haven’t had a change of heart or anything? You won’t help us leave Pasadena? The class is over now, after all.”
“True, but your obligation to the Salvation Army doesn’t end with the class, Miss Minneke. You know that. You still have your jobs to consider, and your eventual placement with companies that will hire you when you complete your training. I really don’t believe I could, in good conscience, assist you in breaking your promise to the organization. I do wish you well in all your future endeavors, however.”
“I see. And that’s your final answer on the matter?”
Strange way to put it, but I’d already decided Gertrude was strange. “Well . . . yes, it is. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
She heaved a big sigh. “Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to move along to our next option.”
And I’ll be hornswoggled (my father likes to say that) if she didn’t haul her hand out from behind her back. In it was probably the biggest gun I’d ever seen! Not that I’ve seen very many guns in my life, and I certainly don’t know one type of gun from another, but this one was either a pistol or a revolver. A big pistol or revolver. I know that much because it wasn’t a rifle or a shotgun, which are both a lot longer that Gertrude’s gun.
“Get in the car, lady,” ordered a masculine voice from behind me. In spite of Gertrude’s gun, I was so shocked, I whirled around, and who should be there but none other than Eugene Minneke! Also carrying a firearm! You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather.
Then, as if two people interfering with my well-being weren’t enough, yet another voice, high and piercing, shattered the afternoon air.
“Halt! Halt! Was tust du, Schwein? Nein, nein! Das geht nicht! Halt!”
And darned if Hilda, like a Valkyrie out of one of Wagner’s more dramatic operas, didn’t come charging at us from the side. I shrieked, “Hilda! They have guns! Be careful!” But either she didn’t understand my English or she didn’t give a care. She plowed into Gertrude much like I’ve seen football players plow into opposing players. Gertrude plowed into me, and we both hit the ground with a thump and Gertrude with an extremely profane curse. Undaunted, darn it, she leapt to her feet, grabbed poor Hilda by her hair, which was flying out of its normally tidy braids by that time, and pulled her off her feet. Hilda went sprawling, Eugene yanked me up by the arm, and with Gertrude shoving me on an indelicate portion of my anatomy, I plopped across the front seat of the Chevrolet.
Growling like a bear, Eugene leaped into the tonneau and said, “Get the hell over to the driver’s side and drive, dammit!” He jammed that cursed gun into my back, and I knew I’d have a bruise and a half if I got out of this alive.
“And hurry it up! We don’t have all day,” said Gertrude, shoving me as she, too, climbed into the front seat.
My heart gave a gigantic lurch when I saw Hilda grab for the door handle, because I feared Gertrude or her evil brother might shoot her. Instead, Gertrude whacked Hilda’s hand with the gun, prompting a loud Germanic expletive from her. I heard a wail from Hilda behind us, and then more German. “Halt! Halt! Wast tust du, Schwein!”
Oh, Lord, I didn’t want them to start shooting at poor Hilda, who was trying to help me. “But what about—”
“Damn it, go!” hollered Eugene. And he did as I feared he’d do, and fired a shot at Hilda. I couldn’t see if he’d hit her, but I prayed like mad that his aim was as lousy as his character.
So I did as they demanded. As the Chevrolet shrieked away from the curb, leaving skid marks that would probably remain until the street was repaved, I did manage to glance back to see if Hilda was still alive. Right before the Chevrolet screamed around the corner onto Fair Oaks Avenue, I thought I saw Johnny and Flossie racing toward the commotion. And I saw Hilda! Thank God, she was on her hands and knees, trying to rise, so I guess the evil duo didn’t kill her, at least.
We’d just have to wait and see about me, I reckoned.
Chapter Seventeen
“But I don’t understand,” said I, although I thought I did. I was all scratched up from my tumble on the asphalt, but I didn’t worry about my wounds at that point. Guns seemed ever so much more important then.
Evidently, Gertrude shared my opinion. “If you haven’t figured it o
ut by this time, you’re a lot stupider than I figured.”
“Keep driving, damn it,” growled Eugene, who didn’t want us to become sidetracked by irrelevancies.
“Drive where?” I asked. It sounded like a reasonable question to me, but he didn’t seem to share my opinion. From the tonneau he tapped me on the side of my head with the gun. Boy, did that hurt!
“Don’t hurt her yet, Gene. She has to drive us to San Diego first.”
Yet? San Diego? Oh, dear, although I guess that answered one of my questions. “Are you going to try to escape into Mexico?” It seemed as if all the crooks in my life so far had tried to escape to Mexico. Mr. Kincaid didn’t make it, and I hoped to heaven these two wouldn’t, either.
“That’s none of your damned business,” Eugene snarled. He certainly wasn’t a very polite young man, and he had an execrably good handle on profanity.
“Oh, hell, Gene, it doesn’t matter anymore,” said Gertrude. She continued, sneering at me, “If you’d helped us, you know, you could have stayed alive. But no. You had to be Miss Goody Two-shoes, didn’t you? You wouldn’t help us get the hell out of Pasadena, would you? Wouldn’t even buy the damned train tickets for us, would you? That would have saved you all of this damned bother.”
Gertrude did all right in the profanity game herself. I’d said it before, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to say it again. “Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham are my friends. I couldn’t very well assist you to run out on your contract with them, could I?”
“If you knew what was good for you, you would have,” Eugene said.
Right. This wasn’t the first time my basically honorable nature—if you discount my profession—got me into trouble.
“But I don’t want to listen to you whine. Just shut up and drive, damn you,” said the ever-sweet Eugene.
So I figured it was time I did as he commanded. No point in pushing things, after all. As we drove through Pasadena, there was quite a bit of traffic on the road. The farther south we went, the scarcer the automobiles became, and farming wagons and horses started showing up. This area was all over farms and orange groves.
After about an hour, we were well past Pasadena, and we were encountering no traffic at all, which I might have considered unusual had I been thinking about traffic. I wasn’t. What I was doing was coming up with and rejecting schemes to get me out of this pickle. Even if I drove the Chevrolet into a ditch, thereby ruining our lovely new car, there was no guarantee I’d survive the crash. Or that Gertrude and Eugene wouldn’t. Automobile accidents were unpredictable at best.
Not only that, but I was beginning to worry about gasoline. I couldn’t recall when I’d last refilled the fuel tank. Mind you, it might be best merely to let the machine run out of fuel. That would bring us to a definite halt. I got the impression, however, doing that would also bring me to a halt, since I couldn’t figure Gertrude and Eugene needing me any longer if I no longer had the use of an automobile.
Therefore, summoning my courage in both hands and sending a heartfelt prayer heavenward, I dared ask a question. “Um . . . I think we’re going to have to refuel pretty soon.”
“Huh,” said Eugene. “How much gasoline do you have in this thing?”
“I don’t know.”
I think, although I’m not positive, that Eugene made as if to hit me with his gun again, because Gertrude’s hand shot out, and my flinch proved unnecessary.
“Let her talk, Eugene. We don’t want to run dry.” She squinted at the innards of my lovely new auto. “How can you tell when you need gasoline? Is there a gauge in here somewhere?”
“I’ll have to stop the car and use the dipstick,” I told her. “It’s marked in gallons, but it’s been quite a while since I got gasoline.”
“Goddamned women,” said Eugene. “Why the devil didn’t you get a machine with a float and a marker?”
I didn’t even know what a float or a marker was, so I couldn’t answer that question. Not that I sensed he wanted an answer.
“Well, pull over to the side of the road,” he grumbled. “I’ll check the level of the gas. Where the devil are we, anyway?”
“Um . . . I’m not sure. I think we’re either in or near El Monte. Or maybe Monrovia.”
“Do they got gas stations in El Monte or Monrovia?”
As Eugene himself might say, How the devil should I know? Recalling my manners, not to mention my desire to cling to life a little bit longer, I said, “I’m not sure, but they use a lot of farm equipment, like trucks and stuff, so I imagine they do.”
“Shit. Well, pull over.”
I did as he requested. I kind of hoped the two Minnekes would allow me to get out and stretch my legs, but I didn’t expect such cooperation from them. I wasn’t disappointed. Gertrude said, “Just stay right there and don’t move. I’ve got my gun on you.”
Oh, goody.
I’m sure you’ve already figured out long since that I saw Billy’s best pal Sam Rotondo a good deal more often than I wanted to. That particular day, however, I would have given anything to have Sam show up with a squad of policemen. Unfortunately, the police are never around when you need them.
Eugene yanked the hood of the auto up, making me wince, since I didn’t want him to mark the lovely black finish. After all, the machine was less than a year old and, since we Gumms and Majestys weren’t rolling in wealth, it was going to have to last us a long time. I heard him snatch the dipstick from its little metal holder and unscrew the cap of the gasoline tank. Then we all heard a clink. Whoops. That didn’t sound like a good thing. Perhaps I waited a little too long to remember about fuel.
“God damn son of a bitch!” hollered Eugene, from which I gathered I was correct in my suspicion.
“Is it empty?” Gertrude asked, leaning out the window, her gun hand wavering in a way that made me quite nervous.
“No, it’s not empty, but it might as well be. Where the hell are we, anyhow?”
When I leaned out my own window—mainly because I didn’t like to see that gun waving at me—I discovered I still couldn’t enlighten him. We seemed to be on a paved road that was winding through a lovely grove of orange trees. Oranges were certainly not uncommon in Pasadena and the vicinity at the time. Heck, they were all over the place. But under Eugene’s stern, not to say nasty directions, I’d driven and not asked questions. As I’d already told the man, I thought we were maybe in Monrovia or El Monte, although I didn’t know for sure.
“You got any ideas?” he asked his sister, to whom he was no more polite than he was to me.
“How should I know?” asked Gertrude, sounding exasperated.
“And you?” Eugene said to me. He stomped to my side of the car. “What the devil were those towns you mentioned?”
I jerked my head inside, not wanting another tap from his gun. Oh, boy. If I said the wrong thing, I’d probably get more than tapped. Therefore, I sucked in a very deep breath and said, “I’m not sure, but we might be in El Monte. I saw some cows a ways back, and El Monte has some dairies. We’ve been driving for about an hour, haven’t we, or maybe a little more?”
Without answering my question, Eugene reached into an inner coat pocket and hauled out a watch, at which he squinted. “Yeah. It’s been about an hour and a quarter.” He stuffed the watch back into its pocket. “Why the devil didn’t you say something about gasoline before?”
Because he’d scared the words out of me, of course! What an idiot. Naturally, I didn’t say that. I shrugged, which was the wrong thing to do, as I might have known it would be. Anything at all would have been the wrong thing to do.
Eugene proceeded to stamp and stomp up and down the road. Gertrude said to me, “Wait here. Move, and I’ll shoot you,” and she got out, too.
If I’d had more courage—or more gasoline—I might well have gunned the engine and taken off, leaving the two miscreants in my dust. Of course, they’d certainly have shot at me, and I had no way of knowing if they were as proficient with their weapons as they were with pr
ofanity. Or I might have run off into the orange grove. Unfortunately, orange groves are planted in neat little rows, and I’d be very easy to spot and, as mentioned before, shot.
Therefore, I sat in the Chevrolet, trying my hardest to figure out what to do.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to figure out anything after all, which was a good thing, since my brain was abnormally empty at the time. The two Minneke siblings stormed back to the automobile, shouting at each other as if they hated one another’s guts. Mind you, I didn’t blame either one of them for their sentiments, but I sensed they might be going to have an uneasy alliance in their future criminal career together. I was sure glad I had my Billy. He might be grouchy a good deal of the time, but at least he wasn’t a Minneke.
As soon as Eugene got into the tonneau, he growled, “Start the damned car and drive slow. It’ll use less gas that way, and then stop at the nearest farmhouse or service station you see.”
That made sense, since lots of farmers kept stores of gasoline and oil and so forth in their barns to use with their equipment. I nodded my assent, pressed the self-starter, and let out the clutch. We inched along for a moment or two before Eugene snapped, “You can go faster than that, dammit! If we do run dry, we can push the damned car!”
Yes, sir. I sped up a bit, his previous words making me feel the tiniest bit optimistic. Surely, if we stopped at a farmhouse, I could somehow or other convey my distress to a resident there. I hoped.
And then, as if God were out to get me for my many sins, darned if one of my tires didn’t blow! It made a pow! sound as if somebody’d shot the silly thing with a bullet. Although we weren’t going fast, the automobile swerved like mad for a second or three before we ended up perilously close to one of those orange trees. And the right front wheel was sunk in a ditch.