1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  There’s a Hippie on the Highway

  James Hadley Chase

  1970

  Chapter One

  Take a look at that lot!’ the truck driver said, and he spat out of the window of the cab. ‘I’d rather give a ride to a leper than to those freaks!’

  Harry Mitchell rested his broad back against the throbbing leather of the cab’s seat. His eyes shifted from one side of the broad highway to the other, surveying the groups of hippies waiting with their bags, cardboard containers and guitars as the big truck roared towards them.

  ‘Scum!’ the truck driver said ‘The future people!’ he snorted. ‘That’s a laugh! Stinking junkies who’d cut their mother’s throats for a fix!’ The truck approached three girls in hipsters and shirts. They waved to the driver, making obscene gestures, ‘Little whores!’ Again he spat out of the window. ‘Am I glad I never had kids! My old lady wanted them, but I said no. My generation was bad enough, but this lot . . .’

  Harry Mitchell took a crumpled pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and offered it When the two men lit up, the truck driver said, ‘I bet you’re wondering why I gave you a ride.’ He looked sharply at Harry before swivelling his eyes back to the road. ‘I’ll tell you. You’re just out of the army. I can spot a guy who’s done service . . . done service like me. I was in the Korea box-up. When did you get back?’

  Harry squinted at the black ribbon of tarmac rushing towards him.

  ‘Ten days,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’ The truck driver nodded. ‘I can smell the army on you still. Takes time to wear off. How did you get on?’

  Harry shrugged.

  ‘Like the rest of them.’

  ‘Glad to be back?’

  ‘Oh, I guess.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The truck driver nodded understandingly. ‘Not sure, huh? Damn funny thing . . . the army. Kind of gets you, doesn’t it? When you’re in, you curse it like hell. When you’re out, you miss it . . . you get kind of lonely. I know. It happened to me when I got out.’ He sucked smoke into his lungs and let the smoke roll out of his widely spaced nostrils. ‘Was it as rough as

  these newspaper finks make it out to be?’

  Harry moved restlessly.

  ‘It was the boredom that was rough.’ He paused, his mind going back to the steamy heat of the rice fields, the jungle and the frightening ambushes. He decided he didn’t want to think about it. It was over for him. He had done his three years. It was now dirty water under the bridge.

  The truck driver sensed that this big, blond man was as bored with war as he had been himself when he had come home. It was disappointing as he would have liked to have exchanged stories and to have heard the true facts about the fighting, but if this guy didn’t want to talk about it, there was no point pushing it.

  The truck driver whose name was Sam Bentz had gone into a Quick-Snack bar outside Dayton Beach for a beer and a sandwich. He was heading for Orangeville to pick up a load of fruit to deliver to a northern market. It was a run he did twice a week: a run he had grown to hate because of the scum who infested the highway as they headed down to the sun and the sea and almost threw themselves under his wheels for a ride.

  At the bar, drinking a Coke and eating a three-decker sandwich was the big, blond man with pale, alert blue eyes, a nose that was slightly out of true as if someone in the past had pushed it to the left with a heavy fist: a man of around thirty years of age. By the way he held himself and by his leanness and his air of confidence, Bentz knew he was just out of the army.

  They got talking, and it was Bentz who had offered the ride when Harry Mitchell had said he was heading south. Bentz couldn’t remember when he had last offered a ride to anyone, but he liked the look of this guy, wanted to talk to him and was glad when he accepted.

  Well, Bentz thought, if the army is out, it doesn’t mean we have nothing to talk about.

  ‘Are you heading for Miami?’ he asked. ‘I can’t take you that far. My stop is Orangeville that’s a hundred and ten miles this side of Miami.’

  ‘I’m heading for Paradise City,’ Harry said. ‘You know it?’

  ‘Never been there, but I’ve heard enough about it. Maybe you would feel more at home in Miami. It’s a more democratic city. Paradise City is strictly for the rich. The cops there don’t take to folk like us. Maybe you have a job waiting for you there?’

  ‘No but I guess I’ll find one. I’m told when the season starts there’s plenty of casual work to be had,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not fussy what I do. I want some sun and sea air.’ He grinned. ‘You’d think I would have had plenty of that in Vietnam but I want the sun I can lie in and enjoy.’

  ‘Take my tip,’ Bentz said, his heavy face suddenly serious. ‘When I drop you off at Orangeville, move by the back roads, keep off the highway. You don’t want to get mixed up with the scum. Sure, you can look after yourself. We all think we can, but no one guy, no matter how good he is, can take on eight or nine scum . . . they all move in packs.’ He glanced down at the new rucksack wedged between Harry’s feet. ‘They see that and they’ll want it. That strap watch of yours would tempt them too, and believe me, when the scum want anything, they have it.’

  ‘I’ll watch it,’ Harry said a little impatiently. He spoke with the confidence of a man who knows how to look after himself.

  Bentz put a heavy hand on Harry’s knee.

  ‘A loner like you would be like a lame lion to a pack of jackals. This highway ain’t safe. The one thing that really eats me is the thought of having a breakdown. I’ve seen lots of action in my time and have had a lot of fights, but it scares me silly to think of being stuck on this highway with a dead engine. Those young bastards would be all over me and what I’ve got on this cab like white ants, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.’

  His expression and his tone of voice made Harry look sharply at him.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ he asked, impressed in spite of his confidence.

  ‘Yeah. This time of year is sheer poison when they are on the road in packs,’ Bentz said, shaking his head. ‘A buddy of mine got a broken axle and got stuck twenty miles out of Orangeville. He was carrying a load of oranges the way I do. The Cops found him with a broken leg, three busted ribs, his face kicked to a pulp and half a ton of fruit spoilt. They had taken his clothes and what money he had and they had even stripped parts of the engine out. My buddy spent ten weeks in hospital. When he came out, he quit trucking. His nerves were shot to hell. He has now some piddling job in a garage. I’m telling you: this highway is poison, so keep off it.’ He jerked his head. ‘Look, here’s another bunch of them.’ He increased his speed.

  Five youths with hair to their shoulders, some of them with straggly, dirty beards, wearing hipsters and loose dirty cotton coats were waving at the approaching truck.

  When they saw the truck wasn’t going to stop, one of them, younger than the rest, jumped off the grass verge onto the highway. For a heart stopping moment, Harry thought the fender of the truck was going to catch the boy, but Bentz swerved the truck expertly. Both men had a glimpse of a white, thin savage face, glittering eyes with enormous pupils and a fuzz of hair on the receding chin, then it was gone. Yells followed them, and a lump of rock banged down on the cab roof and bounced off onto the highway.

  ‘See what I mean? That little animal was hopped to the eyeballs . . . didn’t know what he was doing.’ Bentz spa
t out of the window. ‘If there had been another truck coming the other way, I’d have hit it.’

  ‘Don’t the police patrol this route?’

  ‘So what? This is a free country ain’t it? Nothing illegal in walking is there?’ Bentz grimaced. ‘They have only to wait for the cops to pass and they are back in business.’

  Harry shrugged. The journey ahead of him was beginning to lose some of its anticipated pleasure.

  ‘Paradise City is about a hundred miles from Miami, isn’t it?’

  ‘About that. That’ll give you around two hundred from Orangeville. You take the dirt roads. I’ve got a map you can have.’

  An hour later, Bentz, who had been talking most of the time about the Government, sport, his wife and the latest moon shot which he thought was one hell of a way to waste money, slowed the truck and turned off the highway onto a secondary road.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘A couple of miles more for me. Just ahead is your road.’ He indicated a narrow dirt road that led off the secondary road and went winding through forestland. He pulled up. ‘You’ll have some extra walking but you could pick up a ride. Farmers use this road, but watch out. Nowhere is really safe in this district.’ He took a map from a rack in front of him. ‘It’s nice country, a little swampy now and then, and there are snakes.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t imagine they’ll worry you after where you’ve been.’ He reached up again and took from the rack an Indian Club. ‘Take this. I’ve got its brother. It’s a mighty nice weapon . . . you never know; you might need it.’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘Thanks all the same. I won’t need it.’

  ‘Take it,’ Bentz urged. ‘You don’t know what you might need.’ He pushed the club into Harry’s hand. ‘Well, so long . . . have sun and fun.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘Thanks for the ride,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll look out for you on my way back. I don’t reckon to stay longer than a couple of months.’

  He swung himself to the ground. A little self-consciously, he pushed the club into his rucksack and then hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulders.

  ‘Do that,’ Bentz said, grinning. ‘I’m here Mondays and Thursdays all through the season. Ask anyone at Orangeville for Sam Bentz They’ll tell you where to find me. I’ll be glad to give you a ride back. Maybe we’ll have time to talk about your war . . . it kind of interests me.’

  Harry smiled.

  ‘That’s more than it does me. Well, see you, and thanks again.’

  As the truck started, he waved and then set off down the dirt road with long swinging strides.

  The dusty, winding road was deserted. Harry walked for five hot miles without seeing anyone or any car. Coming to a shady forest of eucalyptus trees, he left the road, sat down with his back to a tree and lit a cigarette. He studied the map Bentz had given him. The road he was on wound for some ten miles to a fork: the left branch led back to the highway; the other to a small town called Little Orangeville. The road beyond this town continued on through forestland to another town called Yellow Acres. Harry calculated he had about twenty miles to walk before he hit Yellow Acres. He decided to spend the night there.

  He set off again. After three hard fighting years in the Army, he was in first class trim and full of energy. He looked forward to the walk.

  Around 13.00 hours, he sat down under the shade of a tree on the roadside and ate an egg and tomato sandwich and drank a lukewarm Coke. He lit a cigarette, and as he was getting to his feet, he heard a car approaching. Looking to his right, he saw a police car turning the bend and heading towards him.

  Two massively built cops were in the car, and when the driver saw Harry, he accelerated and skidded the car to a standstill right beside him. The car doors slammed open and the two men slid out. The non-driver, over six foot in height, with a red fleshy face and small cop eyes planted himself in front of Harry. The driver, a younger man, but with a similar fleshy, red face and hard eyes, hung back, his hand on the butt of his holstered gun.

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ the older cop barked.

  Harry saw the sergeant’s stripes on the cop’s sleeve.

  ‘Just walking,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Yeah?’ The Sergeant’s eyes ran over Harry’s short-sleeved shirt, over his neat khaki drill slacks with the knife-edge crease, over his new, but dusty walking shoes. He relaxed a little.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Harry Mitchell.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘New York.’

  ‘Got any papers?’

  Harry unbuttoned his shirt pocket and took out his Army discharge papers, his driving license and his passport. He handed them over.

  The Sergeant examined the discharge papers, then squinted at Harry.

  ‘Just back, huh? Paratrooper, huh?’ He suddenly grinned in a friendly way. ‘I bet you had a little fun out there, Sergeant.’

  ‘You might call it that,’ Harry said quietly. ‘I don’t.’

  The Sergeant handed him back his papers.

  ‘Where are you heading for?’

  ‘Paradise City.’

  ‘That’s a step. Are you walking because you have to or because you like walking?’

  The good-natured expression on Harry’s face began to fade.

  He was getting bored by these questions.

  ‘Is that any of your business, Sergeant?’ he asked, looking directly into the hard cop eyes.

  ‘Yes, it’s my business. Anyone we find heading South without money, we haul in. You got any money?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got money: two hundred and ten dollars,’ Harry said, ‘and I like walking.’

  The Sergeant nodded.

  ‘Got a job waiting for you in Paradise City?’

  ‘No, but I’ll find one. I don’t reckon to stay more than two months: a job’s waiting for me in New York.’

  The Sergeant nodded.

  ‘You may not believe it,’ he said in a more relaxed conversational tone, ‘but this district is about as unhealthy and as dangerous as your paddy fields in Vietnam.’

  Harry shifted restlessly like a man restraining his impatience only out of politeness.

  ‘You think so? But then you haven’t been in my paddy fields as you call them while I’ve been on your roads for the past two days. I think there’s a little exaggeration going on about this

  district. Frankly, I’m not worried.’

  The Sergeant sighed and lifted his heavy shoulders.

  ‘A couple of hours back,’ he said, ‘five youngsters, one of them a girl, stopped at a farm about five miles back. They stole three chickens and a transistor radio. There were four grown men on the farm. They saw these kids take the chickens and they saw them walk into the farmhouse and take the radio. None of these four grown men did anything about it. They let the kids do what they did and when they had gone, they called us. I said they did right to have left these kids alone. If and when I catch up with them I’m going to talk to them with a gun in my fist. . . that’s the only way to talk to them. I guess the only way to talk to the Viet Cong is also to keep a gun in your fist. No, I wouldn’t say there’s any exaggeration in this district: that’s the last thing I would say.’

  Harry’s blue eyes suddenly flashed with anger.

  ‘Just what the hell is going on in this country since I’ve been away?’ he said half to himself. ‘What makes grown men scared of dirty, boneless kids?’

  The Sergeant cocked his head on one side as he regarded Harry.

  ‘Things change even in three years. What you’ve forgotten is we have a dope problem in this country which keeps escalating. Most of these kids heading south are hopheads. They really believe they are ten times larger than life. They will do things they wouldn’t dream of doing if they weren’t stoned. Folk around here know that. They don’t want to get maimed or cut or

  put in a hospital just when it is picking time. You remember that, Sergeant. Watch out for these kids, keep clear
of them and don’t try anything heroic. I wouldn’t like to think your first vacation after three years could get spoilt. You don’t want to spend the next two months in a hospital bed, do you?’ He turned to his companion. ‘Okay, Jackson, let’s go.’ Nodding to Harry, he got back into the police car.

  Harry watched them drive away. Then he picked up his rucksack, rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, shrugged his shoulders and started off down the long, dusty road.

  * * *

  A red neon light that spelt out GOOD EATS dominated the road that was the main street of Yellow Acres. Below the sign was a box-shaped, clapboard building with curtained windows and a veranda where customers could sit and drink and watch any activity there might be during the day. It was seldom used after dark.

  This building was the only restaurant-bar in the town and it was owned by Toni Morelli, a fat, jovial Italian. Some twenty years ago, Morelli had drifted into Yellow Acres, taken a look around and had decided this tiny farming town needed a restaurant. Because he was all things to all men, could produce substantial tasty and cheap food and was always willing to listen to any tale of woe, he prospered. When his wife died of a chest complaint the whole town turned out for the funeral.

  This turnout told Toni as nothing else could that he was not only a valuable member of the community, but that he was genuinely liked. The discovery did much to lessen his grief. His daughter, Maria, had stepped into her mother’s shoes and she took over the running of the bar and the restaurant while her father remained in the kitchen.

  Most of Morelli’s business was done between 11.00 hours and 15.00 hours. Farmers coming into Yellow Acres stopped at the restaurant for a drink and lunch. Around 20.00 hours trade fell off sharply. The folk of Yellow Acres believed in eating their dinners at home: one and all were rabid television addicts, but Morelli kept the restaurant open. He liked company, and if some passing stranger or some hungry trucker who didn’t want to wait until he reached Orangeville before he ate looked in, he received a welcome.

  Harry Mitchell came down the main street around 20.30 hours. He was slightly tired, extremely hungry and longing for a cold beer. The red neon sign made him quicken his pace and he climbed the four steps up to the veranda, pushed open the door and entered the restaurant. He paused to look around.