The Walkaway Page 9

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “You’re the only waitress who touches the customers.”

  “I don’t touch all the customers. Just my regulars.” Barbara was forty-five years old and working her way slowly through a community college business degree, and Sidney had been nursing a mild crush on her since she first started working lunches. She led him to a booth in the nonsmoking half of the dining room, chatting merrily at him over her shoulder on the way. “You know people actually keel over and die walking in heat like this, don’t you?”

  He didn’t even watch her behind, swaying in off-orange polyester as she headed for the coffee station. She was back a minute later with a glass of water and a pitcher of coffee.

  “Drink the water and I’ll give you some coffee.”

  “I don’t want any,” he said. He was thirsty as hell, but he couldn’t stand being told what to do.

  “I’m not kidding, you’re sweating like a whore in church and I’m not serving you anything until you drink this. You’re gonna get dehydrated if you don’t.”

  Sheepishly he drank; it felt good going down and he knew she was right. Once the glass was drained she poured some coffee into his mug and set the plastic carafe down on the table. “Atta boy. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  She took off again and he looked out the window at the parking lot, at a man and a woman arguing in front of the Sure Foods. She was wearing a Sure Foods apron, and whatever their conflict was it appeared to be escalating. They were both about thirty and he guessed they were a couple because it looked serious, more serious anyway than an argument between strangers over a cash register error or a dent in a station wagon from a grocery cart. The guy looked like a grad student, short hair and glasses and a short-sleeved button-down shirt, and he was big. People were watching from their cars, stopping their carts to listen, and the couple seemed oblivious to them.

  “You know what you want, Sidney?”

  Sidney kept staring at the couple, surly at having acquiesced to Barbara’s bossiness. “Short stack and scrambled eggs.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. The couple had begun yelling so loud he could hear them through the plate glass, though the words were indistinct.

  “You don’t look okay.”

  “I’m fine,” he repeated, aware that if she said one more thing not directly related to the ordering or preparation or serving of his food, he would snap something at her that he would feel sorry about later.

  “Boy, look at those two. Wonder what’s the matter.” She slipped into the booth and pressed herself into his side, leaning across his chest to get a better look. “I bet she’s sleeping around. Check out the look on her face. She’s yelling, too, but you can tell she’s on the defensive.” She put her hand around Sidney’s shoulders and gave the right one a pat. “Sometimes a gal just isn’t getting what she needs at home, Sidney. Sad but true.”

  He turned to look at her, halfway thinking he’d heard it wrong, but she was already sliding out of the booth and speeding away with his order. This time he watched her rear until it disappeared into the kitchen.

  A yell from the grad student brought his attention back to the story unfolding in the parking lot. He now had the woman’s wrist in his hand, his teeth bared. She wrenched her arm, yelling back at him with equal vehemence and disgust, and by the time the man raised his fist Sidney was out of the booth and heading for the door.

  The moist noontime heat radiated upward from the lot’s asphalt like steam, burning his face as he strode toward the continuing conflict, its participants oblivious to him. The man’s fist was wavering under her chin.

  “Go ahead and hit me, big man. Tough guy. Prove what a fuckin’ hardass you are. Stubdick.” Droplets of spit flew from her lips, shimmering, and she didn’t seem to take any notice as Sidney came up directly behind the grad student.

  “Throw that punch and it’ll be the last thing you do with that arm for about a year,” he said quietly, his mouth two inches from the man’s ear.

  He turned to look at Sidney, amazed and infuriated at the intrusion into what he obviously still considered a private matter, and in the confusion he let go of the woman’s arm, at which point she ran back into the safety of Sure Foods. He stared after her, then back at Sidney, unsure of whom to hate more.

  Sidney’s bouncer days were ten years behind him, but from time to time he liked to step in and throw a belligerent drunk out of one of the clubs himself, just for old times’ sake, and as the guy raised both fists in a pathetic attempt at a boxer’s opening stance Sidney started getting that good, electric feeling in his belly.

  “You wanna dance, man?” the grad student said, going into what he probably thought was a pretty convincing bob and weave, and Sidney laughed despite himself at the movie-tough-guy line.

  The laugh, more derisive than Sidney had meant it to be, spurred the man to take a swing, which failed to connect as Sidney took a single step back. He was mentally preparing his left and starting to weave in when the icy cascade hit his head and shoulders from behind, tiny freezing projectiles and cold liquid, the shock knocking the wind out of him with an audible huff, and he struggled for a moment to regain control of his chest muscles and refill his lungs. He looked across at his opponent and saw that he, too, was wet and standing there dumbfounded.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling your name?” He turned to face Barbara, an empty water pitcher in her right hand. The small crowd that had gathered began applauding her. Sensing motion from his sparring partner, he pivoted in time to see the grad student dive for an old Datsun, get in, and drive away.

  “Come on inside, he-man, you got a short stack and scrambled eggs waiting.”

  He followed her as though in a trance, the water cool on his shirt and beginning to evaporate even before they got back inside.

  Ed sat across from Janice, his jacket folded across his arm. His sweaty shirt embarrassed him but not to the point where he was willing to put the jacket back on.

  “He’s having lunch over at Harold’s. Shouldn’t be much longer if you want to wait.”

  “Don’t think I will. Just wanted to touch base with him.”

  “You have a number where he can call you when he gets back?”

  “I’m over at the Highlander Seven.”

  “Ew. Out on Kellogg? You know there was a drug murder there last year?”

  “Hadn’t heard that.”

  “Cocaine buy gone wrong,” she said knowingly, leaning forward a little. “You want something to drink?” She opened a half-sized refrigerator without leaving her chair.

  “Pepsi’d be fine.” She tossed a can to him and he opened it slowly to control the spray, then reached out for a flyer from a stack on the corner of her desk. “Twelve grand, huh? Didn’t know Sidney thought that highly of the old man.”

  “He certainly does,” Janice said, taking offense.

  “Sidney put the reward up himself?”

  “Him and Mitch together. It’s what Gunther gave them for the down.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “After Sidney’s boss passed away ten years ago—”

  “He didn’t pass away, honey, he was blown away.”

  “Well, after whatever you want to call it, Gunther gave Sidney some money for the down payment on the Sweet Cage.”

  “Gunther gave him twelve thousand dollars?”

  She nodded. “There’s a lot more love between those two than you’d think.”

  He examined the strangely cheerful image on the flyer, less concerned about the amount of love involved than about the source of the money Gunther had provided Sidney. He saw no way, then or now, that Gunther could have had twelve grand in cash lying around. He had a thought, then rejected it as absurd, shaking his head. “No,” he said aloud.

  “No, what?” Janice asked.

  “Nothing. I just thought something stupid.” He stood up and headed for the door.

  “You got a message for Sidney?”
>
  “Just let him know I’m in town. I’ll catch up with him.”

  Dot sat in Gunther’s old living room chair, drinking a big glass of iced tea and wondering how the carpet had managed to get so ratty in such a short time, with a path worn into it from the front door to the kitchen and back into the bedroom, too. They’d put it in the same time as the air-conditioning, about six months after they came into the money. Jesus, that’s ten years, she thought, and it seemed like a long time after all: almost a decade of not worrying about money. The house was paid for and the RV, too, though they’d ended up selling that for a fraction of what it would have fetched if Gunther had only taken better care of it mechanically; they’d taken trips and bought things for the grandkids, and when Gunther’s medical troubles had come along they’d been able to put him into a seemingly quality facility like Lake Vista instead of the Veteran’s Hospital. Now that her lifelong money worries were back they were worse than ever, as though her short span of prosperity had worn away all the toughness she’d acquired from the Depression and the war and close to thirty years married to Fred McCallum.

  So she’d broken down in front of Gunther; she hadn’t meant to say anything, but it was one of those mornings when he seemed just like his old self, and before she knew it she was crying and saying she was goddamned if she was going to put him in the fucking Veteran’s Hospital. He was quiet after that, even after she regained her composure and tried to reassure him that nothing was wrong, and it seemed to her now that his thoughtful demeanor for the rest of the visit should have served as a warning.

  Once he came back she’d just have to swallow her pride and ask Sidney to lend a hand. She’d get a settlement out of Lake Vista, too, at least enough to finance a couple of years of double occupancy in another nursing home, one that wasn’t run by jackasses. They by God owed her a couple more years of peace of mind.

  8

  ED DIETERLE

  June 18–19, 1952

  Daisy didn’t mind me working late now that I’d been promoted, but if she knew I was running around on my own time trying to help Gunther out I’d be sleeping on the goddamn lawn. She used to like him, and in her day she was a little bit wild herself, but she’d started getting religious since our boy was born. These days, unless I could find a good excuse, I found myself staring at the back of a pew every Sunday, squirming like my three-year-old son did; the way Daisy saw it, Sally and Gunther had gone from free spirits to sinners without much of a transition.

  Funny thing is, it was her idea to fix the two of them up in the first place. When Gunther finally had enough of his crazy third wife we had a little party and invited him and Sally both, intending to throw them together if necessary; it wasn’t. They left the party together a few minutes after Gunther’s arrival, and at the time Daisy was elated. Now I was standing in the lobby of the nicest hotel in town at nearly midnight, trying to keep the two of them out of trouble.

  Gunther wasn’t taking Sally’s husband seriously, so I had to. The cabbie that picked Ogden up at the hospital reported dropping him off at the Bellingham, and I determined that he’d checked in, still using the name Thomas McCowan. I hadn’t been out to the Hitching Post yet; if he had friends there I didn’t want him to find out anybody was interested in what he did.

  The staff at the Bellingham didn’t like him. He was a big spender and a flashy dresser, one of those guys who demands a certain amount of brownnosing from those he considers his inferiors; compensation, maybe, for kissing all those officers’ asses all those years. Whatever the reason was, he had alienated the night manager, Mr. Reynolds, to the point where he didn’t need to be coaxed or threatened to cooperate with me. He described Ogden’s car and predicted he’d be taking it out before long.

  “Sounds like he’s still on Jap time. Any idea why?”

  “None.”

  “Any idea where he goes?”

  “No. Although when you see him you’ll notice he’s got a shiner. My daytime counterpart found it pretty alluring.”

  While we were talking the phone rang and Reynolds picked it up.

  “Yes sir, Sergeant McCowan. I’ll see to it. I’m sorry about the eggs, I’ll leave word for the day manager to speak to the cook personally.” He hung up. “Eggs weren’t runny enough. He’s coming down shortly, he just asked for his car to be made ready.”

  I waited outside in my own car half a block east, hoping he wasn’t going to buck the traffic and head in my direction; turning around would be easy, but the traffic was so light he’d know he was being followed. He turned right instead, and I waited a minute for him to get into the flow before merging. I stayed a few cars back and watched him. He drove like an idiot for a couple of blocks, cutting off other drivers, accelerating suddenly, refusing to let anybody change lanes in front of him. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight.

  He turned north onto Broadway, and I thought he might be headed for the Hitching Post again, but he turned right again, headed east on Twenty-first. Traffic was so thin I didn’t dare follow, but I played a hunch and continued on three more blocks and beat him to Washington headed north. The traffic was heavier here, but I could see the Plymouth three cars behind me on the left, driving more or less normally, and sure enough when we got to the Comanche he turned into the parking lot. I continued on for a block and then doubled back.

  He was going in the front door just as I pulled into the lot. I drove slowly across it, gravel crunching underneath, and parked at the far end next to a tree.

  The Comanche was still hopping, but only for a couple more hours. It was past twelve, and if the city was prepared to allow it to flout the liquor laws provided the right palms got crossed, the two A.M. closing time was still rigorously enforced. City government liked to give the impression it had things under control at these roadhouses, which it didn’t. You could buy a little reefer here if you wanted, and various other drugs could be procured off the premises with a discreet word to the bartender. There were striptease acts on the weekends, brought in from as far away as Chicago and New Orleans, that consistently crossed the line from raunchy to obscene. Naturally there were whores, and if you were looking for a poker game, high or low stakes, the Comanche was a good place to start asking. There was a guy at the bar all weekend and most weekdays making book on sports, and he’d sell you a deck of pornographic playing cards if you asked. None of this was any of my business, since I didn’t work vice, and the guys that did were well taken care of.

  I went inside and sat at the bar. The bartender wasn’t particularly glad to see me, but happier than he would have been if I’d pulled out my badge for all and sundry to see. I ordered a beer and looked around. For a weeknight it was pretty crowded, I thought. I didn’t spot Ogden right away and didn’t want to be too obvious about looking, so I took a sip. Almost immediately I was joined by a pretty, full-figured girl with a pouty little smile.

  “What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?” she asked. The bartender shook his head at her but I waved him off and let her order a Bloody Mary. I didn’t know if she was a B-girl or a hustler, and I didn’t care; this way it looked like I was there to pick up a girl and not to spy on anybody. Her name was Lena, or so she said, twenty-two years old and a student at the university. She wanted to be a lawyer, and I laughed when she said it. She got her nose a little out of joint over it, and for the first time it occurred to me she might not be working for the house.

  “Sorry about that, you just caught me kind of off-guard.” She looked away from me, and I noticed she was tugging at her bare ring finger. “First night out on the town without hubby?” She snapped her head around at the accusation, but she took pains to keep her cool.

  “He works midnight to nine. Why should I have to stay around the house listening to the goddamn radio all night?”

  “You have a point there, miss.”

  “It’s not what I got married for, if you know what I mean.” She leaned over toward me, arching both eyebrows meaningfully. “Spending the n
ight alone.”

  In the corner of the room I finally spotted Ogden, sitting and talking to a couple of drunks in coveralls. One of them was so far gone that even sitting down he was weaving, looking from his buddy to Ogden and then around the room and back to his buddy again, all the while with a big goofy smile on his face, and my guess was it wasn’t just alcohol producing the euphoric grin. Before Lena could elaborate any further on the injustice of her husband’s third-shift job and the hardships of sleeping solo I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Ed Dieterle, you old hound dog.” It was Frank Elting, and he must have sensed I was working, because he didn’t bellow out “Hey, flatfoot” the way he usually did. “Stepping out on the old lady, huh?”

  “Just out for a drink and a little conversation. Lena, I need to talk to Frank, here. Why don’t you take your drink over to a table.”

  “I don’t want to. I want to talk to you.”

  “No you don’t, because if you do you’ll just hear what I think about married women who go trotting around behind their husband’s backs. There’s a word for ’em where I come from.”

  She got down off her stool, more annoyed than wounded. “Thanks for the drink, Reverend.”

  Elting watched her go, shaking his head. “Pretty sweet caboose on her. You got kind of rough there, didn’t you? Somebody told me you got religion.”

  “I just wanted to get rid of her. How come you’re by yourself?” Elting almost always had a girl with him, unless he was working.

  “Gal I came with ran into somebody she knew and took off. She’ll be back in an hour or so, probably a little more bowlegged than before. So what brings you here? No shit.”

  Elting might be helpful, but he might just as easily fuck things up. “Just having a drink.”

  “Horseshit, it’s after midnight and you’re not much of a drinker, and you don’t chase skirt. Unless your marriage is busting up, you’re not here for fun.”