Wait For The Wagon

by Mary Lasswell

  “Who the hell’s comin’—an’ when?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Chief Connolly. He said he sensed at once that we had merely stumbled into this thing and he would be glad to interview us with an eye to picking up any information he could. I invited him to come out at once. I also suggested that he take a taxi and drive around to the back. Doctor Freemartin would certainly view with alarm any pooling of resources that might take place.”

  “Gawd, that was usin’ what you got between your ears!”

  Miss Tinkham beckoned her friends closer. “When he comes, we shall tell him that Freemartin is determined to drive to California with us. It may give him a clue of some kind.”

  “Maybe give us one, too. Sure some reason he don’t want to go on the train or bus.” Mrs. Rasmussen helped herself to a handful of olives. “We don’t need to dirty no plates?”

  “A Roman contempt for the superfluities.” Miss Tinkham pulled a wing off the chicken.

  “I’ll keep that lug outa here while we’re havin’ the powwow,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Tell him that we have reconsidered and have decided to stay and talk things over with him. Make it convincing. Say that we are resting for the evening. We can increase the volume of the television set so that he won’t hear the Chief’s voice.”

  “We gotta stall for time,” Mrs. Feeley agreed. “You leave him to me.”

  A discreet tap sounded at the back door. Miss Tinkham went to open it. Chief Connolly looked much less full of business than he did the night before.

  “I am a beaten man,” he said.

  “You ain’t et,” Mrs. Rasmussen took one look at him and snapped the cap off a beer. “Start in on this.”

  “Do you know that there are thousands of juvenile dope addicts in this country—youngsters of high-school age and less?” The tired man looked at Miss Tinkham.

  “Deliberate perverting of children in order to make sure of customers in the future,” she said. “To me, that is the true meaning of vice.”

  “They have had to organize a group on the order of Alcoholics Anonymous to help these youngsters, but the percentage of cures is pathetically low. They begin with the mild stuff and gradually build up an addiction. I am sure this dump handles it some way. I think I know where they get it, but I can’t prove it. The protection pay-off is big and steady. They run this psychoanalytical racket as a cover. I have an idea that they deal in blackmail, abortions, as well as narcotics of every description. If we could get to the source of supply…”

  “But the federal men could clean out a thing like that overnight,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “If they had the time—and the men,” Chief Connolly said. “They’re busy on the big-time stuff. It’s like this in every state in the Union—almost more than they can cope with now. This thing is just small stuff. And parents are a hard breed to convince. I ought to know; I never want to believe the truth about my two. Until we can make the parents understand that their sprouts aren’t little angels, we’ll get nowhere.”

  “Try this.” Mrs. Rasmussen handed the inspector a plate with some sliced chicken, ham and two of her good Welsh rarebit sandwiches on it.

  “Thanks, ma’am.” He wolfed the food.

  “We are defeated by taboo and hush-hush,” Miss Tinkham said. “Even the best of parents want to keep everything covered up, to avoid disgrace. Until they accept the fact that there is no more stigma attached to the result of vice than there is to being bitten by a mad dog, we’ll get nowhere.”

  Chief Connolly nodded.

  “They won’t admit that it can happen to anybody.

  I’ll probably be out of a job by tomorrow morning. Freemartin was as insolent as you please. In five minutes the word came down: lay off.”

  “Is he,” Miss Tinkham said, “the source of supply?”

  “I wish I knew. I know he’s in it up to his…”

  “Acid indigestion is what you’re gonna get if you don’t chew your food a little bit,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s not an M.D., but he has access to lots of valuable stuff. If I could only catch him with some of it on him! Any kind. But he’s slippery as an eel.”

  “He’s more knave than fool,” Mrs. Feeley said. “All that chatter an’ goosiness don’t fool me. He’d sell his mother for a dime.”

  “His companion, Uremia?” Miss Tinkham said.

  “We got no file on her; just one of the drifters,” he said.

  “A victim of circumstances, always looking for the easy way,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “The world owes me a living,” Chief Connolly agreed. “The minute I hear those words, or see that expression on a face, I know we got another malcontent to deal with, and, believe me, they make as much trouble as the criminals.”

  “This charlatan,” Miss Tinkham said, “is driving us mad with his insistent demand that we take him as a passenger to San Diego.”

  “We’re gonna haul out an’ leave him, fast; we don’t want nothin’ to do with him,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  The Chief put his glass down.

  “My God,” he said. “So that’s his pitch! He wants to haul out!”

  “She is awful anxious to get him away, too,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “For ten years, Ladies,” Chief Connolly said, “I’ve watched this louse on the body politic, and finally…”

  “Most likely he wants to set up for himself, not divide with nobody,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Finally,” Miss Tinkham said, “he is making a move in your favor. He has some mad story about not being able to ride on trains and buses like other people. It seems to me that he wishes to use our eminent respectability to cloak some nefarious transaction of his own.”

  Chief Connolly stood up. “I could have hauled you off in the paddy wagon last night, but I didn’t. Now here’s your sentence: Take him!”

  Mrs. Feeley and her friends stared silently.

  “You heard it. You will be able to catch him with the goods. You have sized him up well. Somewhere on the road, he will spill the beans, one way or another.”

  “We don’t wanna get mixed up with nothin’ like that,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We live an’ let live, but we never mix with no crooks.”

  “This time it’s with better than police protection,” the Chief said. “I’ll guarantee you the best.”

  “The best is good enough for us,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Some tangible bit of evidence?” Miss Tinkham said.

  The Chief nodded. “I can deal right around the people who are being paid off locally,” he said.

  “We don’t know how to find out nothin’ like that,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Give him enough rope,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Will he not become suspicious if we change our attitude toward him?” Miss Tinkham said.

  “You have to let him talk you into it,” the Chief said.

  “Much against our better judgment and with loud protestations against the inconvenience and crowding.” Miss Tinkham’s eyes narrowed.

  “An’ if he ever knew you was in on it, that would sure tear it,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Don’t see how we could take him an’ her, if we wanted to. They’s four of us—not countin’ Aphrodite…”

  “Our almost life-size alabaster statue, electrically illuminated,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Them two little seats…” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “We gotta put our feet up on them,” Mrs. Feeley said, “’cause I don’t figger we’ll be stoppin’ much between here an’ Island Avenue; get into too damn much trouble when we stop.”

  “When you take them as passengers,” Connolly said, “you have to stop in a lot of places. You must see who he is meeting and take note of all the contacts he makes. It seems to me he is either going to deliver something or pick something up. The racket reaches out like the spokes of a wheel and I know they have confederates right across country.”

  Mrs. Feeley studied it over for a while.

  Chief C
onnolly broke the silence. “There won’t be a thing in it for you,” he said, “nothing but headaches and annoyance. But when the Feds catch him, they’ll make an example out of him, I can promise you that.”

  “There would be the satisfaction of seeing you restored to your position and perhaps ousting those corrupt officials and their outstretched palms,” Miss Tinkham said.

  A methodical pounding on the front door prevented anyone from replying.

  “Gawd!” Mrs. Feeley whispered. “That’s him an’ her again! Bang on a pot or somethin’! Run in an’ turn the radio on loud, Mrs. Rasmussen. Stop knockin’ the house down, you silly son of a bitch, I’m comin’!”

  Miss Tinkham, Mrs. Rasmussen and the Chief went into the back room. Old-Timer stood ready with the broom in case Dr. Freemartin tried to force an entry.

  “What’s the matter with you mad maggots? Can’t you let decent people rest?” Mrs. Feeley yelled through the locked door.

  “Open up!” a male voice shouted.

  “Like hell! You can wait till we get washed an’ dressed. We’re comin’ over there to have a talk with you, but not before we’re damn well ready! You better have some supper for us; we might have a surprise for you.” Mrs. Feeley winked at her friends in the door to the back room.

  “I had it,” the voice shouted. “Open up, Mrs. Feeley! It’s me.” Mrs. Feeley gasped at the sound of her name.

  “Goddlemighty!” she cried. “It sounds like Dave.” She opened the door a crack.

  “Come on in, boy! Where the hell’d you drop from?”

  “Just drove in from Columbus. I unloaded the cars, had a good night’s sleep, and came right back. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the blue Caddy standing right where we left her Saturday night. Thought you’d be halfway to San Diego by now.”

  “All hell broke loose after you left,” Mrs. Feeley said. “See anythin’ of the head-shrinker an’ her around?”

  “Not a soul in sight. Looked to me like the place had been raided,” Dave laughed.

  “It has,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We was eyeball witnesses,” she said proudly.

  “Indecent show?” Dave said.

  “Somethin’ about minors,” she said.

  “Did you hang it on ’em?” Dave said.

  “They fixed it,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Freemartin.”

  “We are going to take him with us as a passenger to California,” Miss Tinkham said as she entered the room. “His baggage goes with him.”

  “It don’t smell good, does it?” Dave said. “I knew there was more to this joint than meets the eye, but I never figured out just what.”

  “Have a beer.” Mrs. Rasmussen came in and opened one for him. “How’d you make it back here so fast?”

  “Less than four hundred miles?” Dave looked at his wrist watch. “That’s slow for me.”

  “That’s why I was fresh through the door,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “We thought it was him an’ her comin’ to give us some more harangue.”

  “I’m surprised at you taking them,” Dave said.

  “We have decided on the best course,” Miss Tinkham said. “The easiest way would be to fold our tents like the Arab and silently steal away. But the easy way is seldom the ethical way.”

  “I figure they used us haulers as a cover for the…” Dave paused. “Excuse me, ma’am, snake ranch.”

  “They got tourist camps in California.” Mrs. Feeley put him at ease.

  “This is all delightful,” Miss Tinkham said, “but the showdown, I believe it is called, is approaching.”

  “I was just sitting here thinking,” Dave said. “I got my orders by phone. Got a new manifest that goes to the Coast. My vacation’s delayed a month now.”

  “Gawd, ain’t that lovely?” Mrs. Feeley shouted, opening the fresh beer. “Where’s the load? How long will it take you? Must we wait here for you?” Dave laughed.

  “It’s not quite that easy,” he said. “I gotta go back with the empty hauler. I won’t go over the Turnpike this time. The firm wants me to take the hauler up to Erie over Route Nineteen. Then I catch a ride to Buffalo and pick up my Great Dane.”

  “Gawd! That’s to Canada, ain’t it?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Not quite,” Dave said. “It’s a hundred and thirty-one miles from here to Erie and then another ninety to Buffalo. If I’m to haul the load alone, it’ll take me a little longer to get back. If there’s two drivers, one’ll sleep in the bunk back of the seat while the other one drives. If it’s a perishable load, under refrigeration, I’d have to pour the coal to it; but if it’s furniture or the like, I might be able to go along with you. The way he drives”—he grinned at Old-Timer—”I’ll need somebody to whip the mules while I drive.”

  “It would be a great adventure,” Miss Tinkham said. “What about the route to the Coast? Would your company insist on a fixed course?”

  Dave shook his head.

  “Long as I keep calling back in every so often, they let me have my head pretty much. You going from here to St. Louis, then Oklahoma City?” Miss Tinkham nodded. “It’s not the way most trucks take,” he said, “but it’s a fast route. Generally, their loads go to Dallas or El Paso, places like that.”

  “The attendant at the Gulf Station in Newark assured us it was the quickest way home,” Miss Tinkham said as she took the map from her purse. “We avoid the congestion of the cities to a great extent.”

  “It looks okay to me,” Dave said.

  “Well, the way I see it,” Mrs. Feeley said, “we stand pat here till Dave gets back and don’t even start till we know he’s gonna go every inch o’ the way with us.”

  “Now, Mrs. Feeley, you know I’m dying to go with you. Seems like you ladies just naturally attract trouble and I’d like to be in on it. But this hauling business is my living and I’ve got an awful good record. My job’s got a lot of responsibility to it; the Smash-M Trucking Company has been mighty good to me, paying fines and getting me out of jams more than once.”

  Miss Tinkham cast a weather eye in the direction of Chief Connolly, whom she felt sure was listening at the keyhole.

  “Suppose, Dave, we arrange to rendez-vous with you at a point along the road? Can you figure out the meeting time? Do you know when you can meet us, say—for example—outside of St. Louis?”

  Mrs. Feeley looked from one to the other.

  “What’s this here rondy-voo?”

  “Meet up,” Dave said. “Good idea. I could figure it out in a few minutes—if it was quiet.”

  “I suggest”—Miss Tinkham winked almost imperceptibly at Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen—”that you accompany David to the main building for some refreshment. At the same time, you can say ‘how do you do’ to Doctor Freemartin and Miss De Brie…ah, engage them in conversation while Old-Timer and I remain here to wind the clock…and…put out the cat.”

  “What’s it Danny says?” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Roger Wilco?”

  Mrs. Rasmussen, Dave and Mrs. Feeley went out the door. Miss Tinkham closed it after them and went into the bedroom where she found Chief Connolly waiting.

  “You’d a made a good cop, miss.”

  “Too many cooks,” she said. “It was only common sense to cover your retreat.”

  “This is my address—I’ll probably have nothing better to do than cultivate my garden.” The Chief smiled. “Don’t be afraid to telephone if you are in difficulties. Reverse the charges.” He gave Miss Tinkham his card with a telephone number on it.

  “I think we cannot afford to wait here for David,” Miss Tinkham said. “It might startle the quarry. There is one fine point I wish to discuss with you: the matter of remuneration.”

  “You have to let him pay his share, or a little more,” the Chief said. “He’d wise-up right now if you didn’t. You’re smart to shove off without the truck driver. I’ll just take the number of his truck as I go out. Freemartin would get suspicious with so many watching him. Try to keep him in sight every minute. Pump his girl-friend
all you can.”

  Miss Tinkham nodded. “We hope to meet David somewhere near St. Louis, but it’s not settled yet. Suppose we see nothing out of the way, discover no evidence between here and San Diego? What then?”

  “It’s a chance you have to take. There will be a big shakedown at Yuma. They’ll go over you with a fine-tooth comb. I may be all wrong. He may not tip his hand at all. But somehow I think he will. I’ve got to get out of here. If he knows I’m around, he’ll never get in the buggy.” Miss Tinkham shook hands.

  “You have our names and the address? I think he’ll crack,” she said. “I really must be getting over to the bar. They’ll be wondering about that cat!”

  “Don’t be afraid to phone, day or night. I’ll not leave the house without telling my wife where to reach me. Don’t forget, I’m sitting by the phone waiting for that call—and rooting for you. I’ll never forget that you’re all doing this for me.”

  “Don’t give it a thought.” Miss Tinkham patted the Chief on the back as he went out the back door. “‘Into the Valley of Death rode the Four Hundred’! Oh dear, I’m getting it confused with Newport!”

  “Ain’t it awful how rat races like this looks when they ain’t lit up?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Worse’n a carnival in the daytime,” Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.

  “Long as they don’t turn on the neon signs,” Dave said, “no tourist trade will come in. And the word spreads fast among the lokies, if there’s been a raid.”

  The El Casablanca suggested the morgue on visiting day.

  “Hi!” Mrs. Feeley shouted to Dr. Freemartin and Uremia huddled in a booth. “Look who’s here.”

  “You made a quick trip,” Dr. Freemartin said.

  “Same as usual,” Dave said. “Where’re the girls? No bartender?”

  “We had a little brush with the law.” Dr. Freemartin got up. “Some sorehead society trying to put the finger on us. Nothing to it, but it confuses the help. Crusher’s such a sensitive fellow, too. He goes to bed with a case of gin every time this happens. Escape mechanism. Pardon me for a moment.”

  “If he’s drinkin’ in bed, you’ll never get him up,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Easiest way to get drunk: just lie there and kick it down with your feet.”