Whom Gods Destroy (8 page)

“Why don't I start out with several lugs to begin with?”

“Hijackers,” Sid said. “Don't get caught with a big roll or a big load. Bootleggers are fair game for every south-side punk in town, and we can't go crying to the police about it if we get knocked off. Not even in Big Prairie.”

“How does this other retailer, Kingkade, fit into it?”

“He has his own customers and I have mine. We cut it up like Big Prairie was two towns. What kind of car did you get?”

“A '46 Ford.”

He nodded. “That's all right. A runner doesn't want anything fancy, it attracts too much attention. Well, we'll go down to the warehouse and I'll show you how it goes.”

Sid had his warehouse in a little run-down grocery store near the south edge of town. The store, of course, was just a front, and the back end of the place was stacked high with cardboard cases of every kind of liquor you could think of. We parked the Ford in the alley behind the place and went in the back door. There was a kid about nineteen sitting on a case of Belmont, reading a comic book. A twelve-gauge shotgun leaned against the wall within easy reach.

“Hello, Sid,” the kid said.

“Burt,” Sid said, “This is Roy Foley. He's starting today as a runner.” I shook hands with the kid, and Sid went on, “Either Burt or his brother will check the stuff out to you. They keep the records and run the grocery store for me; one of them will be here all the time.” Sid stood there, his face sagging. After a minute he went over to a case of Yellowstone, tore the top back, and took out a pint. He took a long drink, then another, then he capped the pint and put it in his pocket.

“Is there anything else to know before I go to work?” I asked.

“I guess not.” He looked at a phone on the wall. “You can call the office and see if they've got anything for you.”

I went over and began dialing 2-2222, and Sid said, “Not that number, for God's sake. A customer may be trying to get it and you'll have the line tied up. Try 3-8627, that's the office phone all the runners use when they call in.” So I dialed it and a voice said, “Yeah?” Sid took the phone out of my hand.

“Morgan? This is Sid. I'm starting a new runner going under the name of Curly. He'll handle north of Twenty-third Street, on the west side. Have you got anything out there?” He waited a minute and said, “218 Willow Drive. You'd better write that down, Roy.”

Sid hung up, still looking pretty wrung out. “Well, there it is. You're in business, Roy. You've-got your first customer.”

“What do they want?”

“Two pints of Old Quaker. That'll be nine dollars.” He took out his bottle, looked at it, and then hit it. “Burt, you get him straight on the prices, will you? I'm going back to the office and try to lose this head.”

After Sid was gone the kid straightened me out on the prices; then he checked me out and loaded me up, putting the stuff under the front seat of the Ford. He stood in the back door grinning as I turned the car around with one hand to pull out of the alley.

Well, this is the first step, Foley, I thought. You've got the wedge in. All you have to do now is find a hammer and split the thing wide open. And by God, I'd do it! I could feel it.

It took me about a week to find out that I could make money on the side in bootlegging, as in most other things. When I got a call to a party I could sell them red-stamp stuff for green-stamp prices and, if they were drunk enough, they would never know the difference. And some of the customers would have the runners bring other things out with the whisky—cigarettes, sandwiches, whatever they wanted—and that would always mean a tip.

But being a runner for a bootlegger was like scrambling for pennies just outside a gold mine. There was no telling how much Seaward was making out of his operations, but it was plenty. I didn't intend to scramble for pennies any longer than I had to, but I couldn't rush into the thing. I had to wait and take my time, and then one day I'd find an angle and work it for all it was worth. In the meantime, there was Lola. There was no way of getting away from her, so I tried to forget her and concentrate on my job. I kept telling myself to take it one thing at a time. After I discovered a way to move in on Seaward's bootlegging business, then there would be plenty of time for other things.

Then there was Vida. I thought it was all over with Vida after that one night, but I learned pretty soon that Vida wasn't a girl you could think about or not think about, the way you would switch a light off and on. I kept reminding myself that she was Sid's wife, and right now, Sid was a man I couldn't do without. Keep out of her way—was about all I could do.

I moved into a rooming house on Fourth Street and began to work on the million small details that had to be taken care of before I could make a push against a guy like Seaward. I learned that Seaward and Kingkade were pretty sore about the way I'd taken seven hundred dollars off them in the poker game, especially when they found out that I had hired on with Sid as a common runner. But it didn't bother me. As long as I attended to business and kept my mind off Lola and Vida, I was all right.

I'd had my hand out of the cast for about two days when I made a routine call to the downtown office and they gave me an order out on West Twenty-first. The place was a tourist court and I had made deliveries there before, so I figured it was just another traveling salesman letting off steam. But when I got there I saw that red convertible of Sid's parked in the garage next to the cabin.

Well, I figured, maybe Sid's gone to solitary drinking. The order was for Scotch so I got a bottle of Ballentines from under the front seat and went up to the door. I didn't get an answer at first, but I could hear water running inside and I guessed that somebody was taking a shower. Then the water was shut off and I knocked again.

“Come in.”

I would have recognized that voice anywhere. It was Vida. When she opened the door and stood there smiling at me, I knew what was going to happen.

“Come in, Roy.”

“Are you crazy?” I said. “That red convertible can be spotted clear to the highway!”

“There are a lot of red convertibles. But I'll come in a cab the next time, if it bothers you.”

She wore a long white terry-cloth robe that covered her completely from her throat to the floor. Her hair hung even straighter than I remembered it, and the ends were damp where she had missed getting it inside her shower cap.

“While I waited for you to get here,” she said, “I took a cold shower. I've taken a lot of cold showers, Roy. They're overrated.”

She came toward me, floating almost, inside the loose folds of the robe. I reached out for her and only then did I realize how much I wanted her. How much I had missed her. I put my mouth on hers and we stood there for a long time. Finally she said, “Roy?”

“Yes?” I touched her hair. It was amazingly soft.

“You're not mixed up this time, are you?”

“No. I'm not mixed up at all.”

A strange thing happened then. I began pulling at the robe and it loosened. I put my hand inside and caressed the cool curve of her back, still damp from the shower, and I felt a kind of gentleness that I had never felt before. I pressed her close, but not hard. When I kissed her again, the fire was still there but the savageness was gone.

“Roy, is anything wrong?”

“No.”

Her eyes were puzzled when I released her and the folds of her robe fell back into place. I couldn't explain it to her because I wasn't sure what was happening myself.

There was a wall phone near the head of the bed, so I used it to call the office and tell them I had car trouble and they would have to give my orders to another runner. Then I went into the two-by-four kitchenette and made two drinks with plain water. I came back in with the drinks and Vida was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me with those silent eyes.

“Did you ever think what would happen,” I said, “if Sid found out a thing like this was going on? Sid can be a tough boy. He could kill you if he got mad enough.”

She shrugged faintly.

“It doesn't matter to you?” I asked.

“Not much.”

I sat down beside her and looked at my drink. Two or three minutes went by before I said, “It looks like we'd better get ourselves straight, Vida. A thing like this isn't very smart for either of us. You've got Sid, and I've got plans.”

“I think I already know what they are. You mean to move in on Sid, don't you?” I almost dropped my drink at that, but she went on before I could say anything. “And that means you'll have to move against Seaward, too. That will be dangerous, Roy.”

I tried to sound surprised. “Now that's a hell of an idea! What makes you think I'd try to shove around a man like Seaward?”

She looked at me and then at her drink. “I don't know exactly. I think it's Lola Keating. Are you still in love with her, Roy?” But she didn't wait for an answer. “I think you are,” she said flatly. “You think you hate her —still, you're willing to fight men like Seaward for her special benefit. What are you trying to prove?”

“I'm not trying to prove anything. I hate her guts.”

“Love and hate are very close sometimes,” she said. “What do you feel with me, Roy?”

She put her drink down and lay back on the bed. The robe fell open.

“Come here,” she said softly.

Those white arms came up and went around my neck and pulled me down. “Don't talk. We can talk later. Don't talk,” she kept crooning. And I didn't.

There was no way of knowing how much time had passed. I lay in the soft circle of her arms, thinking nothing, drinking in a great feeling of peace. It was strange, the way I felt about her. For that moment it was almost as if we were the only two people in the world.'

“Did you like it?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

She laughed soundlessly. “What do you think of me, Roy? Do you think I'm bad?”

“No—but you scare me.”

She lifted her face from my shoulder and looked at me. “I think I can see what is going on in your mind,” she said finally. “You think I do this all the time, don't you? Because my husband is a lush, and he's no good in bed, then it makes sense for his wife to take her loving where she finds it. You wouldn't believe me if I told you there had been nobody else before you, would you?”

“I believe you.”

“Then what is it?”

“I'm afraid I'm falling in love with you.”

I hadn't meant to say it—but there it was. A minute passed, or an hour, and there in the quiet of the room I could feel my insides winding up tighter and tighter. I think I prayed then, the first time I'd ever tried it. God, don't let her laugh! I pleaded.

She didn't laugh. She said, “Hold me close, Roy. Hold me as close as you can.”

The worst was over. The terrible sickness that had been closing in on me began to retreat.

She said softly, “When did you decide, Roy?”

“Just a little while ago. When I first came in, I guess.”

“What was it like?”

“I—I don't know. When I kissed you, I wanted you but I was afraid of hurting you. I've never been very particular about hurting people before. And you were cool and clean and alive. I don't know how to say it, but I knew you were what I wanted.”

“Did I remind you of—someone else?”

“No. It wasn't that.”

But that wasn't the truth; I realized it the moment I said it. Somewhere in the cellar of my mind I could see Lola—cool, clean, alive, as she had been that night so long ago. I began to wind up again and I think Vida felt it. But if she did, she said nothing about it. After a while the feeling went away and Vida was saying, “I think I'll take that drink now.”

But before I could get dressed she said, “I've got a confession to make, Roy. Until now I wasn't sure why I came here and tricked you into meeting me. But I know now. I'm afraid I'm falling in love with you, too.”

It was an awkward thing for both of us. I looked at her, then finished tying my shoes and went into the kitchenette to get the drinks. When I came back, Vida was sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, the white robe draped over her shoulders like a cape. Her figure was almost perfect, wasp-like at the waist, flaring at the hips, and tapering into long, smooth legs.

“Do you want to talk?” she said.

“Not unless you do something to that robe.”

She laughed softly and pulled the robe about her like a tent. Most women would have started right in with “What are we going to do now?” But all Vida said was, “Do you want to tell me about your plans, Roy?”

I knew she didn't mean about us. And I wasn't sure how much I ought to tell her about the other business. At last I said, “Do you know much about how Seaward runs things?”

“No,” she said evenly. “But I imagine I could find out from Sid.”

“Could you find out when he's bringing a shipment into the state? I'll need to know just what kind of truck he's using, who's driving, who's riding guard. I'll also have to know what route he takes and approximately the time he hits the state line.”

She didn't even blink. “I can find out from Sid, but I'll have to do it a little at a time and it may take several days. Men have been killed hijacking whisky trucks. Don't underrate Seaward. He can be hard.” Then she smiled. “You told Sid you could raise the money when you needed it. You can't, can you?”