Detour (8 page)

Just how long it took me to cover the sixty-odd miles to the California State Line, I don't know. It must have been under an hour, but I'd lost all track of time. The rain had stopped and the sun was feebly trying to come out from behind some clouds when I drew up to the inspection booth at Ehrenberg. The two motor-cycle cops who were chewing the fat with the inspectors didn't make me feel any too happy, you can imagine. I put the car in second, resolving if they made any suspicious moves I'd make a run for it.

One of the cops walked over to the car, slowly, which was a good sign. “May I see your registration certificate and driver's license, please?”

All my life, ever since as a kid a cop cuffed me for playing football on the grass in Central Park, I have been a little leery of brass buttons. I've learned it is healthier to give the police a wide berth, because once they've got you pegged and you're in the Bastille you're completely at their mercy. Cops, as a rule, are overbearing and brutal, swollen up with their own authority which they abuse. Instead of being public servants, they bully the public and treat ordinary citizens like criminals. In spite of the law to the contrary, in a station-house a man is guilty unless he can prove an alibi. Now, after my experiences with the law in Dallas, this gentlemanly treatment came as a surprise, until I remembered that I was sitting in an expensive automobile. Cops know dough and influence go hand in hand. For all this fellow knew, I was a friend of some big shot official who controlled the strings which transferred little shots on and off these gravy jobs.

I dug into the wallet and found the papers. The cop glanced at me and then at the description on the license, checked the registration with the plates, and handed them back with a nod. I took the car out of gear.

“Carrying any fruits or vegetables?”

“No.”

“Any livestock, poultry?”

I thought I'd play it funny and then maybe nobody would notice I was nervous and shaking to beat the band. “I don't think so, officer,” I said. “But if you should happen to find a couple of Maryland chickens back there, let me know.”

The copper smiled and went back to help one of the inspectors who was fooling around, trying to open the rumble. I pressed the button for him. He stuck his head in and pulled out a carton of canned goods, a blanket and a big alligator-skin traveling bag. He poked around for a minute in the carton and put it back where he had found it. The bag he took over to the booth to inspect.

Then I remembered and went cold. My heart began to pound like a trip-hammer. Suppose there was more of that marihuana in the bag? That would be poetic justice, wouldn't it? Me being nailed on a Federal narcotic ticket for what he had been carrying... But I guess Haskell wasn't that dumb. If there was any more stuff in the car, it wasn't in the bag. The inspector re-packed it, snapped it shut and tossed it back into the rumble. I knelt on the seat and banged it before he changed his mind and decided to take another look.

“Just visiting California, Mr. Haskell?”

“Yes, just visiting.”

God, it was funny being called Haskell.

“Well, remember, if you're employed and stay more than thirty days you have to get California plates.”

“All right, officer. But I'll only be in California a short time.”

“How are things back in New York, anyway? I haven't seen the place in over ten years.”

“Oh, the same as always. They've got a few more buildings up, that's all.”

“Well, I'd sure like to take a trip back, one of these days. I've got a brother there now. He's in the liquor business.”

“Is that so?” It seemed as though everybody had relatives in New York. New York was made up of brothers and sisters and cousins of people in Arizona and California.

“It's O.K. You can go ahead now.”

They slapped a sticker on the windshield and waved me on. I damned near stalled the car for the second time on account of my shaky knees which, for the life of me, I couldn't get under control. My heart didn't stop thumping until I'd covered the two and a half miles into Blythe.

I couldn't drive any farther without some sleep. I was completely pooped. Cops or no cops, I knew I had to hit the hay and hit it hard, even if they got me for it. I would have preferred driving on through as far as Mecca and sleeping there, because Blythe was too close to the Arizona border for comfort; but that would mean another ninety or a hundred miles, so I said to myself, nothing doing.

There was an auto-court on the left, half a block off the main stem, and I pulled into it. It was just a group of ten or twelve shacks with places to park cars alongside, but it spelled home sweet home in big letters. Actually, what it spelled was: The Morning Glory Tourist Rest—Day or Weekly Rates.

When I sounded the horn, a girl came running out of the shack marked OFFICE and hopped on the running-board. Even in my overwrought condition I couldn't help noticing that she wasn't bad at all; a little thin in the face, maybe, but her eyes were clear and she had nice shafts and a cute round keister. Of course, put her next to Sue and she'd look like thirty cents—but then most women would. “Hello,” she smiled. “Are you looking for a cabin?”

“That's right, baby.”

“Well, you've come to the right place Are you alone, sir?”

Tired as I was, I thought I'd kid with her a little. It's weakness of mine that when I see some pretty rural talent I play for the laughs.

“No, I'm not alone, sister,” I replied with a dead pan. “Can't you see my grandmother's ghost sitting right here beside me?”

She laughed, proving that her teeth were white and even, with no cavities. “Well, we won't charge you for your grandmother. If you'll drive straight back, I'll show you and the old lady a cabin.”

“Not too near the music.”

I crept down the line of bungalows until she signaled me to stop in front of one of them. I cut the switch, opened the rumble, pulled out Haskell's bag and followed her inside. It was the usual auto-camp shack, except that this one had a bathroom.

“See? Bath, shower, towels, soap. And a nice roomy double bed.”

“Not so roomy. Grandma tips the scales at two-fifty.”

“Oh, my!” She gave it one of those shocked, Zasu Pitts readings that evidently she thought was kind of clever. Then she dropped into a chair.

As soon as she did that, I had a hunch if I wanted her I could have her along with the cabin at no additional cost. People usually don't sit down when they're renting cabins, unless they're tired or want to get acquainted. This dame wasn't tired. But I didn't want her. Man, I was so worn out from worrying and driving that if the most beautiful woman in the world had climbed into my bed, I would have shoved her out and gone back to sleep. And this little number, not bad really, was certainly not the most beautiful woman in the world. Then, too, there was Sue to think about.

The two times I had been unfaithful to her were months ago. With luck I'd see her in a day or two and I didn't want this on my conscience.

“All right. No bed bugs, eh?”

She looked hurt.

“Then it'll do. How much?”

“Only three.”

“Come again?”

She was a little peeved that I wasn't following her lead on the chair angle. It showed all over her face. Her voice got flat.

“I said three dollars for the night.”

I shook my head. “You've got me wrong, sister. I don't want to buy the place.”

I turned to walk out. I know how those places are run. They charge you according to the car you're driving. If I had pulled in with an old wreck, probably she wouldn't have asked more than a deuce. Mileage isn't the only disadvantage in owning a big bus. However, I really had no intention of leaving The Morning Glory Tourist Rest. I decided if she didn't call me back before I reached the car, I'd pay her price, even if it was a fin. I was so tired, I doubt if I would have been able to turn the ignition switch.

“All right, then. Two and a half.”

“It's a deal.”

I put the suit-case back on the bed, peeled off two singles, fished out four-bits and she left without a word. I felt rather ashamed of myself then. She had only tried to be nice and I had treated her rotten. It might have been a different story if I hadn't been so dead....

But I was. And don't let any more of these novel-writers tell you that when a man is in trouble or has something on his mind he has nightmares or can't sleep and goes haywire and runs to the cops to confess. That's bunk. I slept like a top for almost eighteen hours and, as far as I know, I was too busy sleeping to dream about a thing.

When I awoke it was three the following morning. I had been too groggy the night before to unpack Haskell's grip, so I had piled into bed wearing my shorts. The first thing I did was rip them off and hop into the shower. The Morning Glory must have been run properly because even at that hour the water was hot and I enjoyed a good scrub. When I came out, massaging myself with a thick towel, I felt like a new man. I had been so dirty before, that cleaning up seemed to change the whole complexion of things—which, of course, it did. I was glad and even a little surprised to see that I was a white man.

Whistling, I went back into the other room and opened Haskell's suit-case. There were two compartments in it: one contained some shirts, socks, underwear, toilet articles and a mess of papers—letters and things; while the other side held two suits of clothes, a pair of shoes, some ties, handkerchiefs, a bathrobe and a pair of slippers. I made a dive for his razor and, ten minutes later, I had left six days' growth of beard all over the sink. Haskell had some kind of after-shave lotion there, too. I slapped some of it on me. It stung for a minute but then it felt great.

Next came the problem of what to put on—or was it a problem? I took a pair of his silk shorts, a clean pair of socks, one of his shirts with the initials “C.J.H.” embroidered on the pocket, the least annoying of his ties and dressed myself in a different suit. It was a single-breasted blue herring-bone tweed, a honey of a tailoring job with patch-pockets in the coat and high-waisted trousers. The stuff I had on the day before was still in good shape, of course, but well... you know how you feel about wearing things a man's been dead in. I rolled up what I had been wearing and took it out to the car. Coming back in again, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bureau mirror and did a perfect double-take. I was a stranger to myself.

I was hungry as an unemployed actor. Remember, the last thing I put in my stomach was the steak Haskell bought me in Lordsburg. And don't forget where I lost it. However, I didn't want to leave the cabin before I had a look through his stuff. If I was going to be Mr. Haskell for a little while—at least until I crossed the desert—I'd better try to find out something about myself. That minute at the state line really scared me, to say nothing about the conversation with Trooper Hammersford. So I turned the suit-case upside down and began to go through every article systematically. I didn't miss a trick.

I didn't find out much from the wearing apparel. Whatever had a label in it had a New York label. His shirts and shorts were Lord and Taylor, his ties and pyjamas Finchley or Sulka, and the shoes he had packed were Florsheim. The bathrobe, a big woolly thing, had a J. Abercrombie label. I went through the pockets of everything and drew a blank. But the papers were a revelation. After reading through them, I began to see Mr. Haskell as I had never seen him before. It was evident from the stuff he was carting around in his own bag that he was not the open-handed, easy-going big-shot who threw away a dollar now and then and went around buying steak dinners for strange bums. Before I got done I saw him more as a chiseler and four-flusher. I could just picture the guy standing by his book at Empire, glad-handing the money and brushing off the down-and-outers. You've seen that kind by the hundreds, hanging around your club or your place of business.

One letter in particular told me all I needed to know. It was a letter addressed to Mr. Charles J. Haskell, Sr., Bellagio Road, Bel-Air Estates, Westwood, California. I guessed that this must be his father and Haskell had forgotten to mail it. But before I tore it open, I turned my attention to the wallet.

There were seven hundred and sixty-eight dollars in that billfold, in fifties, twenties, and tens! Imagine, almost eight Cs! It took me all of twenty minutes to catch my breath and get used to the idea I was rich. I sat there on the bed and counted the dough over and over to make sure I hadn't counted the same bills twice.

In a compartment of the wallet I also found a cancelled bank book. The account was in the name of Charles Hanson and showed entries of six, seven and eight hundred dollars in July, swelling the total to a neat sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred dollars and a few cents interest. Then, on the seventh of August, there was a withdrawal of thirteen thousand five hundred dollars, and on the twelfth the balance was withdrawn and the account closed. Jesus, I thought, what high finance. It looked like the war debt to me. Well, anyway I had seven hundred and sixty-eight bucks of it. It was chicken-feed alongside of those figures; nevertheless, to Alexander Roth it was a fortune. Besides; those others were only figures and they won't pay your fare on a tram-car.

In the opposite compartment of the wallet was another little book, like an address book. I leafed through it. He had four or five addresses and phone numbers written down in there, most of them women, but I caught on at once that this was his pound-of-flesh list. He had Louie—$39, O'Hanlan—$158, Mr. Pepperman—$40, A. H. Burnside—$90; stuff like that marked dawn. It ran into about thirty pages, with here and there a line drawn through a name, signifying that whoever had owed the money had paid off. Just for the hell of it, I added up all the sums. The total was a little over ninety-six hundred smackers. There was one page in there labeled: P.D. WITH N.G. CHECKS. Nineteen names and addresses were listed under that and not one of them, curiously, was anybody I knew. In the back of the book he had some other junk written down which I couldn't make out—mostly figures. I guess maybe he'd been trying to figure odds or something. But at the bottom of the list, marked off from the rest of the page, was what looked to me like a diet; no alcohol, fruit juices, plenty of water, salvarsan.... I got it.