“Who said I was trying to get him?” Dr. Freemartin snapped. “I am merely going to wash my hands.”
“He’s always washing his hands,” Uremia said proudly, “even if he so much as touches a doorknob.”
Miss Tinkham came up in time to hear Mrs. Feeley say: “Regular Punches Pilate, ain’t he?”
“You know what’s the matter with him?” Miss Tinkham smiled as she slid into the booth. “He was put to potty too early.”
“Have some gin,” Uremia said as she pushed the almost empty bottle across the table. She moved as Old-Timer sat down beside her.
“Ain’t they no beer?” Mrs. Feeley shuddered.
“I guess so,” Uremia said. “All of ’em took it on the lam. Nobody seems like they have any loyalty any more.”
“Perhaps if you and Old-Timer went on a small foraging expedition,” Miss Tinkham suggested. “We are completely desiccated at this point.” Uremia looked askance at Old-Timer. “He really has a beautiful soul,” Miss Tinkham assured her. Uremia got up reluctantly, Old-Timer right behind her.
“Any little snippets o’ this an’ that would be appreciated,” Mrs. Rasmussen caught on instantly. “Dave ain’t et.”
“Well…” Uremia looked doubtful. “Act just like you was home.” She kept a nervous eye trained on Old-Timer.
“Let’s get down to cases.” Mrs. Feeley put her elbows on the table and drew Miss Tinkham, Dave and Mrs. Rasmussen into a huddle. “We ain’t got but a minute. One or the other of ’em will be back. What’d you decide?”
“Where do I meet you and when?” Dave said.
“If we leave here in the wee small hours of the night—tonight, Sunday, or rather, Monday morning,” Miss Tinkham said, “with twenty-four hours continuous driving, we should be in St. Louis or environs about two o’clock Tuesday morning.”
“You never made mention o’ goin’ to Environs,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Outskirts,” Miss Tinkham said. “You agree, David?”
“Six hundred miles? You’ll do better than thirty miles an hour with him driving. You oughta make it easy, with quite some stops for grub. With luck, you could pull in about midnight.”
“But how shall we put in the time between our arrival and yours?” Miss Tinkham said. “You have to go to Buffalo. It’s past seven now. We don’t know when we can leave here. You won’t start for St. Louis before Monday noon. We cannot wait for you too long without arousing suspicion.”
“Listen,” Dave said. “It’ll pay you to change the route just a little bit. You’re on Forty as far as Indianapolis, right?”
Miss Tinkham consulted her map and nodded.
“Okay. Instead of going across to Decatur on Thirty-six, turn south at Indianapolis, stay on Forty. It’s just two hundred and forty miles to St. Louis that way. Got it?”
Miss Tinkham got out her pencil and marked the change.
“From there?” she said.
“Keep right on Forty till you come to the junction of Forty and Fifty, right outside St. Louis. You can’t miss it. There’s a big bypass taking you in from East St. Louis and you don’t have to waste time on city traffic. Now, be sure you get on Fifty. Drive about ten miles south on it and you’ll hit Bloom’s Blue Grotto. Nice place. Good cabins and swell eats. I’ll meet you there. At the latest, you oughta be there about one o’clock Tuesday morning. Make some excuse for a good layover. By not coming back here, I’ll save lots of time. I’ll be there for sure in the early hours of Wednesday. If there’s another fellow along, I’ll make it sooner. I’ll look for the Cadillac parked; that’s all the landmark I need. Got the name?”
Miss Tinkham looked up from her notes.
“I have it all down. David, if anything should happen to delay you, we cannot wait later than Wednesday night. You understand our position?”
“Sure. The sooner you get under way the better. In any case, I’ve got your address here and I’ll come straight to you in San Diego if we get separated. Is it a date?”
“Sure thing,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Ain’t you gonna eat?”
“The quicker I fade out of this picture the better,” Dave said.
“If anything should happen to us,” Miss Tinkham said, “don’t wait beyond Wednesday at the Blue Grotto. You’ll know we are detained somewhere.”
“I understand,” Dave said. “I’ll be seeing you before Wednesday, I’m pretty sure, no matter what the hour! I’ll go from Buffalo to Cleveland, then follow your trail from Indianapolis right to the Blue Grotto. It’s a nice place and you’re headed right onto Sixty-six—no looking for highways when you do start. Say good-bye to the other folks for me. Lots of luck—and you’ll need it with that cargo!”
“Thank God that’s settled,” Miss Tinkham said. “We must be off immediately. I do hope there is not too much of a delay with our…” She broke off as Uremia approached carrying a bottle of gin. Old-Timer followed her carrying a tray full of beer bottles.
“He’s went!” Uremia said.
Miss Tinkham nodded. “You shall soon lose all your boon-companions. We, too, must mount and ride.”
“Oh, you can’t do that! Lee and me has been briefing up on how we’ll set up the clinic. With the analytical treatments and body-massage on the side, we can rake in the dough and not get mixed in with no cheap crooks. Lee says it looks like Crusher’s been playin’ too close to the edge. Lee don’t think he’s what you could call ethical. Lee’s death on ethics.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Miss Tinkham said.
“I’m glad you’re coming round.” Uremia smiled. “Nobody can’t hold out against Lee’s charm. You won’t be sorry you took him.”
“If we only can!” Mrs. Feeley rolled her eyes piously. “How about a drop o’ that brew?”
“We had to hunt for some more bottles,” Uremia said. “We don’t use bottled stuff much. The big profit is in the dymies. The glasses don’t hold hardly nothin’ and you can fill them up good with foam.”
“The management has not overlooked any of the angles,” Miss Tinkham said.
“There isn’t hardly a thing you can’t get done right on the place.” Uremia beamed. “We even had our own turf-counselors till the heat went on awhile back.”
“Turf-counselors?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Bookies. Bet on horses. You know.”
“The very word makes me sick,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“And no page ninety-five!” Miss Tinkham smiled.
“I don’t get it,” Uremia said.
“You probably get it in larger quantities than anyone in this county,” Miss Tinkham said. “You are obviously unfamiliar with Ernest Hemingway’s classic Death In The Afternoon. On page ninety-five he defines a certain by-product of the horse highly esteemed by gardeners.”
Dr. Freemartin hurried across the floor, smiling his rubbery smile.
“Those hands should be minus the squamous epithelium after all that scrubbing,” Miss Tinkham said.
“I hate those germs, don’t you?” Dr. Freemartin said.
“Does the proprietor of this establishment plan to open up this evening?” Miss Tinkham said. “We have subsisted on sandwiches long enough.”
“I want somethin’ hot an’ bubbly,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “like my veal-kidney stew or maybe chicken gumbo.”
“Yeh. Play ball or get outa the square,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We gotta get hoppin’; if we can’t get a meal here, we’ll go where we can. At the rate we’re travelin’, they’ll be callin’ me Poop-Along Feeley.”
“You cannot go.” Dr. Freemartin took Mrs. Feeley’s hand. “Nothing is arranged. I have not gotten my things together. I…I…I…”
“We learned to sing that at night school, in Spanish!” Miss Tinkham said. “We are leaving at once. Your establishment is badly conducted, Doctor Freemartin. I did not see a man at the gasoline pumps when I came in.”
Dr. Freemartin was hopping up and down, first on one foot and then on the other.
“You can’t go!
You can’t go off and leave me. It’s my one chance! We don’t need to have any unpleasantry about this…”
“Goddamit,” Mrs. Feeley shouted, “you already caused us to lose a night an’ a day. C’mon, Miss Tinkham, let’s get our traps together…” She got up and started around the table.
Miss Tinkham picked up her cue.
“We have idled quite long enough—and, I might add, a more unrewarding twenty-four hours we have never spent.”
“We owe you anythin’?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Now don’t go off like that,” Dr. Freemartin pleaded. “I admire you ladies like anything; we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
“I can quite understand your admiration,” Miss Tinkham said. “It is simple wish-strangulation. You admire what you can’t get.”
“Now look, can any of you cook? Surely one of you…” Dr. Freemartin looked at the three ladies.
“Where you been all your life?” Mrs. Feeley said. “Mrs. Rasmussen’s the best cook in the New Nitey States. Don’t you know nothin’?”
“I’m sure she is—no need to get assaultive about it. I thought one of you could whip up something out of the well-stocked kitchen while Uremia and I get our things together; we can start right away. I’ll just run down and check on the clinic—have a patient or two with minor maladjustments—I’ll turn them over to an osteopath. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for me. Believe me, I appreciate it.”
“What we gonna cook?” Mrs. Rasmussen grumbled.
“Cook anything you can find in the kitchen,” Dr. Freemartin said. “It’s free. All yours. Anything at all. I could eat something myself. I’ll be back in thirty minutes. I gotta look into a congealed situation down there and pick up a few odds and ends…”
“The trouble with you,” Mrs. Feeley said, “is you’re always goin’ off on a transient!”
“He’s determined,” Uremia said. “You might’s well give in. I’ll just skip out and pack my things. My cabin’s right out back. Unless you want me to help you. I can make radish roses.”
Mrs. Rasmussen waved her off with a contemptuous hand. “The only thing I’d eat that you touched would be a hard-boiled egg and a coconut.”
“Hook, line and sinker,” Mrs. Feeley whispered.
“Our good psychiatrist has never heard of the Brer Rabbit technique: ‘Don’ throw me in de briar-patch.’ See what you can stir up, Mrs. Rasmussen. When they return, we’ll capitulate. We mustn’t emulate Shakespeare’s lady and protest too much.”
“Our traps all packed?” Mrs. Feeley finished her beer.
Miss Tinkham nodded. “After the Chief’s visit, we don’t have to bother packing the food; he ate it all.”
“We’d oughta load the beer can,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Can’t get poor takin’ things.” Old-Timer rose at once. Mrs. Rasmussen was already banging pots in the kitchen. Miss Tinkham looked in on her as she went to the cabin for the bags.
“French onion soup,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “He’s sure got everything here. First pressure cooker built like a fryin’ pan I ever seen.” Mrs. Rasmussen stroked the handle lovingly. “I got Swiss steak in it—be done in ten minutes, an’ oh—the gravy!”
When Miss Tinkham reached the Cadillac, Old-Timer and Mrs. Feeley were stowing beer into the big can.
“Nothin’ but quart bottles,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We won’t have hardly no room for the ice. Cans is neater, but we got near two cases free.”
“Ice is cheap. We can pick that up anywhere,” Miss Tinkham said. “Where shall we put their luggage?”
“They won’t take much, I’ll be bound,” Mrs. Feeley said. “They’s room in the trunk an’ we can let that rack down if we have to.” She removed some of the quarts and stowed them in the trunk along: with Mrs. Rasmussen’s treasured aluminum pots that Sadie Gutstein gave her in Newark. Miss Tinkham helped her.
“Dear me! Do you suppose our capacity is diminishing? There is a case of canned beer left untouched.”
“Better’n a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” Mrs. Feeley grunted. “Lock her up, Ol’-Timer. I’m ready to eat.”
Mrs. Rasmussen had six places neatly set on a table near the swinging door to the kitchen.
“I ain’t waitin’,” she said. “It’s on the back o’ the stove if they come.” The onion soup smelled heavenly. Big croutons of French bread swam in it and Mrs. Rasmussen lathered hers down with a large serving of grated Italian cheese.
“First today,” Mrs. Feeley laughed, raising her soup spoon. “Goddlemighty, born at mealtime.”
Uremia walked in the door carrying a fancy white leatherette suitcase and cosmetic kit to match. The ladies stared. She wore an Easter-egg purple dress topped by a lavender duster with short sleeves.
“Li-lack’s nice on blondes,” she said. “Oooh! You musta found a can of onion soup!” Mrs. Rasmussen turned a shade deeper than Uremia’s dress. Mrs. Feeley struggled for control.
“Count to a thousand…slowly,” Miss Tinkham said. “The distance is roughly two thousand five hundred miles. We must possess our souls in patience.”
“What do you call them fellas you told us about?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Yogurts? Sits on a platform of spikes.”
“Where there’s no sense, there’s no feelin’.” Mrs. Feeley started in on her Swiss steak and potatoes. “You ain’t lost your touch, Mrs. Rasmussen. What you reckon’s holding up the head-shrinker?”
Dr. Freemartin entered the door in great haste.
“You could play checkers on the tail of his coat,” Mrs. Feeley said. “What’s your hurry, Doc?”
Dr. Freemartin rubbed his hands. “A little gin and Seven-Up—just what I need.” He poured half a pint of gin into a tumbler and drank it off. Then he filled a jigger with Seven-Up. “Mustn’t bruise the gin.” He took a bottle from his coat pocket and tossed down a handful of white pills. “Long rugged night ahead. I agree perfectly with you about starting at once.” He picked up a small navy blue zipper-bag and placed it carefully between his feet.
“Got the loot in that?” Mrs. Feeley laughed.
“Loot? Loot? Just the tools of my trade.” He attacked the steak ravenously, bolting great mouthfuls without chewing. He stuffed bread into his mouth in huge hunks and washed the mass down with large swigs of gin. He kept both elbows on the table and used his knife and fork in a perfect rotary motion.
“Never missed a stroke,” Mrs. Rasmussen muttered.
“Care for a benzedrine?” He passed the bottle as though it were full of soda-mints.
“Where’s your friend Crusher?” Mrs. Feeley said. “You haulin’ out without turnin’ the keys over to him or nothin’?”
“The keys? The keys? Why are you interested in the keys?” Dr. Freemartin shrieked. “Very Freudian of you!”
“Shut up! You’re nothin’ but a goddam fraud yourself! Miss Tinkham, I say it ain’t worth it! Whadda you say?”
“Noblesse oblige,” Miss Tinkham said softly.
“What’s that? What’s that?” Dr. Freemartin sputtered through his gin.
“How would a pheasant like you know what them words mean?” Mrs. Feeley said. “You’re right, Miss Tinkham, but it’s sure goin’ to strain my patience to the limit. If we gotta do it, let’s not waste no time. Get it over with just that much quicker.”
“You’ll never regret it.” Dr. Freemartin began pumping her arm.
“Jeez! Leggo o’ my hand.” Mrs. Feeley shook it as though she expected water to drip off it. “Feels just like a ol’ rubber glove full o’ sand that was leftover in the icebox from Hallowe’en!”
Dr. Freemartin reached into his inside coat pocket and produced a fat wallet.
“This is but a slight contribution to help defer the expense.” He handed Miss Tinkham a stack of crisp bills. “Three hundred dollars,” he said. “Take it. I’ll give you a thousand more if you get me to San Diego safely—no wrecks, I mean. I’ll pay the motor courts on the way, although it’d be better if we don’t stop much. I can drive pa
rt of the way.”
“You couldn’t even drive a honey-cart that belonged to us,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Ol’-Timer’ll beat you to death with a hammer if you so much as touch his Caddy.” Miss Tinkham had her hands behind her back.
“We cannot accept that amount,” she said.
“Take it! Take it! Plenty more where that came from. Won’t even cover the gas and oil. It’d cost me ten times that to hire a car and driver.”
“You put it away, Mrs. Rasmussen,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’ll put your share in the daily kitty an’ what’s left when we get home, you’ll get back. Now there’s one thing we want made clear: we ain’t takin’ you for the fun of it, an’ we want you to shut that chatter when we tell you to! Makes us nervous. When we feel like stoppin’ for somethin’, we’re stoppin’ and don’t expect to take no guff from you. The minute you get on our nerves too much, either one o’ you, out you go—hot or cold!”
“Fair enough. Fair enough. Let’s get away from here.” He picked up the zipper-bag and a portable radio.
“Not so fast. Buster. How do we know you ain’t transportin’ her for evil purposes?” Mrs. Feeley pointed to Uremia.
“Who? Her? She’s my associate, Madam. Nothing but my associate, I assure you. Nothing but the most Platonic relationship.”
“Ain’t play, an’ it ain’t tonic,” Mrs. Feeley said. “But one thing you gotta understand: we don’t want no trouble with the law.”
“Lady, you have researched my heart and expressed my most profound wish; you are rather psychic yourself. May I help you into the car?”
“Take your flippers off me! We got everything?” Mrs. Feeley took a last look around and saw Uremia tuck a full bottle of gin under each arm before picking up her luggage.
“I think so,” Miss Tinkham said. “We should leave a tip for Gloria. Where is Mrs. Rasmussen?”
She came out of the kitchen.
“Just wanted to take another look at that pressure cooker like a skillet,” she said. “I aim to get us one o’ them even if I have to work for it.”
Dr. Freemartin was trying to open the doors of the sedan. “I’m locked out! I’m locked out!”
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