1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway Page 2

  There were about twenty tables, covered with red and white check plastic cloths. Each table was neatly set for four people. To his right was a bar and a long glittering mirror a big fan turned slowly in the ceiling moving the thick, hot air.

  A dark haired girl, plump with a creamy white skin was behind the bar, reading a newspaper. She looked up as Harry set down his rucksack, and after her eyes had swept over him with approval, she gave him a daring smile.

  ‘Welcome to Yellow Acres,’ she said. ‘What would you like to drink . . . I can see you need one.’

  Returning her smile and leaving his rucksack, Harry crossed to the bar.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Beer, please . . . lots and lots of cold beer.’

  She produced a bottle of beer beaded with icy condensation, snapped off the cap, poured and then pushed the glass towards him.

  He raised the glass, looking at her, then said, ‘To the light in your eyes and the sun in your smile.’ Then he drank.

  No one had ever said anything to Maria like that and she blushed a little, liking it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Harry set down the glass, ran his tongue over his froth covered lips, and drew in a long, slow breath.

  ‘When you need it . . . it sure hits the spot! Could I have another, please and is it too late to eat.’

  Maria laughed happily as she poured another beer.

  ‘It’s always eating time here. How about spaghetti, two pork chops with french fries and peas out of the garden and apple pie?’

  Harry’s eyes opened wide. He was expecting some kind of sandwich.

  ‘You mean I can have all that right now?’

  Maria turned and slid back the hatch behind her.

  ‘Dad, we have a hungry customer. The special as fast as you can fix it.’

  A fat, beaming face appeared in the hatchway. Morelli surveyed Harry, nodded his approval and said, ‘Spaghetti coming right up. Ten minutes for the chops. Do you like onions, mister?’

  Harry made a moaning sound and slapped his flat, muscular stomach.

  ‘I like everything, thank you.’

  Morelli’s beaming face vanished ‘Sit down,’ Maria said. ‘Take your beer.’ She pointed to a nearby table.

  Harry collected his rucksack and put it by the table, then sat down. He looked around the deserted restaurant.

  ‘Is this an off-night or is this normal?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty normal. We rely on our lunch trade, but we do get the odd one at night so we keep open. Have you come far?’

  ‘New York.’ Again Harry looked around. He was feeling relaxed now. ‘Nice place you have here. I wasn’t expecting anything this nice. Do you know any place here where I could get a bed for the night?’

  Maria smiled, She rested her chubby elbows on the counter and regarded Harry. She thought he was like some movie star she had once seen. Who was it? Paul Newman? Yes, of course, Paul Newman He had the same startling blue eyes and the same way of wearing his hair.

  ‘We have a room. Three dollars with breakfast and that means one of Dad’s specials . . . that work?’

  ‘You have a customer,’ Harry said.

  An enormous mound of spaghetti covered with Bolognese sauce was handed through the hatch, Maria brought it to him and set it before him. She paused at his side for a brief moment, watching him as he picked up a fork, then she hurried to a serving table to get bread.

  ‘Your father do all the cooking?’ Harry asked.

  ‘That’s right.’ Maria placed the bread by Harry’s side. She stared at him, fascinated. She hadn’t seen such a powerful, well-built, handsome man before except on the movie screen. ‘Believe it or not, Dad and I have been here twenty years. I was born here.’

  ‘Do you like it here?’ Harry asked as he expertly rolled the spaghetti around his fork and conveyed the roll to his mouth. The sudden smell of frying onions made his nose twitch.

  ‘Yes, I like it,’ Maria told him. ‘The evenings are a bit dull. Neither Dad nor me care for TV. But when the boys come in for lunch, it’s a lot of fun.’

  ‘Best spaghetti I’ve ever tasted,’ Harry said and meant it.

  ‘You enjoy it.’ Maria went around the bar and into the kitchen to tell her father what Harry had just said.

  Harry ate ravenously. When he had finished, he pushed his plate aside with a contented sigh. Then he drank the last of the beer as Maria came from the kitchen carrying a laden tray. This she set down on the serving table, whipped away his used plate, looked at the glass, then took it to the bar for a refill when he nodded.

  She served him with two pork chops that were two inches thick and smothered with crisp fried onions. There was a dish of fried potatoes and green peas to go with it.

  ‘Enjoy it,’ she said and took the used plate into the kitchen.

  Harry wished she would stay so he could talk to her. She was the type of natural, simple Italian girl he liked. On his way back from Saigon, he had spent a month in Naples and Capri. He had got to like the Italian girls. They seemed to him uncomplicated and kind: girls without problems. The girls he had briefly met during his week in New York had bothered him. They all seemed to have problems: if it wasn’t sex, it was money: if it wasn’t money, it was dieting: if it wasn’t dieting, it was their future. They seemed to have the weight of the world pressing down on them. They yakked and yakked about the Bomb, the Pill, Freedom, Politics and God knows what: things he hadn’t given a damn about when he had been their age: problems, he felt, that were spoiling their lives.

  He was just finishing the second chop, as tender and as succulent as the first, when he heard a sound that made him pause: his fork loaded with a piece of meat and chips half way to his mouth.

  Someone heavy footed was running down the street: shoe soles made a hurried, slapping sound on the tarmac: someone running with desperate speed: the sound made Harry lay down his fork.

  A moment later the runner came up the steps of the restaurant with two bounding thuds that shook the building. The restaurant door burst open.

  Even as Harry was staring at the man who had burst in, he became aware of pattering footfalls coming down the street: the sound of several people running They ran lightly, and there was something menacing in this lightness: the sound a wolf pack might make as it closed on its quarry.

  Harry’s quick eyes took in the man as he stood panting by the door. He was around twenty-six years of age, slightly below average height which made him a head shorter than Harry. His black hair reached to his collar and his thin, sharp face was burned to a mahogany colour. Blood ran down the side of his face from an ugly cut above his right eye, and there was a livid bruise on the side of his jaw. His narrow chest heaved with the effort to breathe, sweat plastered his hair to his skull. His red and white check shirt was torn and his white hipsters were streaked with dirt. In his left hand, he clutched a guitar in a canvas case. He had a small duffel bag over his shoulder. All this Harry took in with one quick glance.

  The man looked wildly around, like a hunted animal. He caught sight of Harry and he pointed a shaking finger to the street.

  ‘They are after me. Where can I hide?’

  The naked terror in the man s eyes brought Harry to his feet.

  ‘Get down behind the bar and stay there,’ he said.

  The man staggered to the bar, went behind it and disappeared from sight.

  Harry sat down. He pulled his rucksack to him, dipped his hand into it and his fingers closed around the Indian club Sam Bentz had given him.

  He waited, listening to the approaching footfalls of the hunters. At the moment when they were very close, Maria came out of the kitchen. She stopped short, catching her breath when she saw the man crouching down her side of the bar.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Harry said quietly. ‘Go back into the kitchen. There could be a little trouble, but leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.’

  Seeing the blood trickling down the man’s face and his look of terror, Maria re
treated hurriedly into the kitchen.

  There was a long pause, then the restaurant door swung slowly open.

  They came in one after the other as silently as ghosts: four youths and a girl carrying a transistor radio. Harry guessed at once that these were the five the police sergeant had told him about: the five who had stolen a radio and three chickens.

  He shifted the club so he held it between his knees, hidden by the tablecloth, and he put his hands on the table, resting them there, either side of his plate.

  The four youths were cut to a pattern: they were between the ages of seventeen and twenty, not older. All had greasy filthy long hair to their shoulders; three of them sprouted beards; all were indescribably dirty and the smell of their dirt advanced before them in a stomach-turning wave.

  The girl was about sixteen years of age: small, thin, vicious and shameless. She wore a black blouse and stained dirty red stretch pants. Harry decided she smelt even worse than the four boys.

  ‘He busted in here, Chuck,’ one of the boys said. ‘I saw him.’

  Apparently Chuck was the leader of the pack. He was the eldest, the tallest and the most vicious looking. He stared around the restaurant until his small, glittering eyes reached Harry. He stared for a long moment at Harry, his head on one side. Harry stared back woodenly.

  The other four, now aware of Harry, became motionless.

  There was a pause, then Harry’s wooden stare began to unsettle Chuck. The pale blue eyes were unwavering. There was no sign of fear. This was something Chuck wasn’t used to.

  ‘Seen a guy with a guitar, buster?’ he demanded.

  Harry edged his chair back slightly. He continued to stare at Chuck, remaining motionless and silent.

  Chuck shifted uneasily.

  ‘You deaf, dummy?’ he snarled.

  ‘I can hear you and I can smell you,’ Harry said quietly. ‘Take the kiddies out of here. You and they are stinking up the place.’

  Chuck reared back, making a hissing sound between his teeth. His thin vicious face drained white.

  ‘No one talks that way to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll . . .’

  ‘Oh, run away,’ Harry said. ‘Ask your Mum to give you a bath.’

  ‘Okay, creep,’ Chuck said, his dirty hands closing into fists, ‘you asked for it so you’ll get it. Just for that we’re going to wreck this joint and we’re going to wreck you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Harry said, shifting his chair back an inch or so more. He was now clear of the table and his hand dropped out of sight onto the club. ‘You’ll only get hurt. I don’t like hurting little boys . . .’

  He stopped short as Chuck caught hold of the nearest table and tipped it over. The glasses and cutlery slid to the floor. The glasses smashed.

  ‘Wreck the joint!’ he yelled. ‘Smash everything!’

  Harry slid out from behind his table and moved so swiftly he was within hitting range before Chuck realised he had left the table. The club smashed down on Chuck’s forearm. The bone snapped, making a sound like the breaking of dry wood. Chuck fell on his knees, screaming and yammering with agony.

  Harry sprang away from Chuck and faced the others. The savage, fighting expression on his face seemed to chill them for they all backed away.

  ‘Beat it!’ he shouted at them. ‘Out . . . fast!’

  As they hesitated, Harry moved again. He made a feinting move towards the youngest of the pack who squealed with fright and jumped back, then his club swished through the air and thudded down on the shoulder of the second eldest kid, driving him to his knees, howling with pain.

  ‘Out!’ Harry shouted again.

  The girl spat in Harry’s direction, then turned and ran. The two younger kids fought each other to get through the doorway. The second eldest kid got to his feet, clutching his shoulder and staggered to the door. As he reached it, Harry’s foot shot out and his heavy walking shoe caught the kid on the tip of his spine, propelling him forward so he crashed down the steps and rolled into the road.

  Harry went over to where Chuck was still kneeling, sobbing and moaning, holding his broken arm.

  ‘Out!’ he said. ‘Fast!’

  Cringing away from him, Chuck staggered to his feet and blundered into the night.

  Harry went out onto the stoop. He watched the pack running down the street. None of them stopped to help Chuck who staggered after them, moaning.

  Harry shut the restaurant door and crossed to the bar. He looked over at the crouching man.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ he said. “I guess you could use a drink.’

  The man rose to his feet. He was still shaking and his eyes were still scared.

  ‘I - I guess they would have killed me if they’d found me,’ he said, leaning against the bar.

  ‘Take it easy.’ To give him time to recover his nerve, Harry went over to the upset table and set it on its feet.

  Maria, followed by her father who was quaking a little, came out of the kitchen ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Harry said to Maria. ‘I shouldn’t have let him smash the glasses.’

  ‘You were wonderful! I saw everything!’ Maria looked adoringly at him. ‘If you hadn’t been here we wouldn’t have had a thing left.’

  Harry grinned.

  ‘Can you take care of our friend? He’s got a nasty cut.’

  Maria surveyed the cut, nodded and ran into the kitchen.

  Morelli caught hold of Harry’s hand and pumped it vigorously.

  ‘That was a fine thing you did! Everyone around here is scared of that trash. Thank you, mister. We need men like you.’

  Embarrassed, Harry said, ‘Let’s all have a drink.’ He turned to the man with the guitar. ‘How about a Scotch?’

  ‘I’m Randy Roache,’ the man said$ and thrust out his hand. ‘Yeah! I sure could use a Scotch.’

  ‘Harry Mitchell,’ Harry said and shook hands. ‘Let’s all have a Scotch.’

  Beaming, Morelli set up the drinks as Maria returned with a bowl of hot water, a towel and some adhesive plaster. She quickly stopped the bleeding and applied the plaster. Randy thanked her, then reached for his Scotch and waved the glass in Harry’s direction.

  ‘Thanks, pal. They were after my guitar. I ran into them a mile back. I got away. I was just that bit faster than they were. If it hadn’t been for you I’d have lost my guitar and my job.’

  Harry sipped his Scotch, then asked, ‘Where are you heading for?’

  ‘Paradise City. You on the road too?’

  ‘Yes and going the same way.’ Harry turned to Morelli. ‘How about that apple pie I was promised?’ He looked at Randy. ‘Have you eaten yet? The special here is tops.’

  Randy said he would have the special and the two men went over to Harry’s table and sat down while Morelli bustled into the kitchen. Maria began cutting up more bread.

  ‘If you are heading for Paradise City we could go together,’ Randy said, looking hopefully at Harry. ‘It’s safer for two than for one.’

  ‘Sure,’ Harry said. ‘Glad to.’

  Maria came over with a plate of spaghetti and a vast slice of apple pie topped with ice cream. She set the plates down.

  ‘Dad says it’s all on the house,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘And the room too.’

  ‘Oh, now . . . look . . .’ Harry began, embarrassed, but Maria shook her head.

  ‘That’s what Dad says and what Dad says goes.’

  She went back into the kitchen.

  Harry looked at Randy and lifted his shoulders.

  ‘Nice people . . . they didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘I don’t know I reckon you saved their restaurant. Those junkies were stoned. If there’s anything I can do to even the score just name it,’ Randy said earnestly. ‘If I had lost my guitar, I’d really be in a fix. I rely on it to make a living.’ He forked up some spaghetti then went on, ‘I’ve got a nice job waiting for me at Paradise City. This makes the third season I’ve worked there: a nice, high-class restaurant, lots of style, run by a Mex and his dau
ghter. A bit like this set up here, but much more style and the daughter . . . He rolled his eyes. ‘She has to be seen to be believed.’

  He ate for a moment. ‘Say! This is some spaghetti!’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Some pie too. When do you reckon to start work?’

  ‘As soon as I get there.’ Randy paused, swallowed, then asked, ‘Are you looking for a job?’

  ‘Yes. What chance do I have? I’m not fussy what I do.’

  Randy regarded him thoughtfully.

  ‘I might get you fixed up with Solo . . . he runs this restaurant: Solo Dominico. He will be hiring staff pretty soon. Can you swim?’

  ‘Swim?’ Harry grinned. ‘I guess that’s about the one thing I can do well. I was a winner of a bronze medal at the last Olympics for free style and diving.’

  Randy gaped at him.

  ‘The Olympics! For God’s sake I You’re not putting me on?’

  ‘No . . . straight.’

  Randy twiddled more spaghetti onto his fork.

  ‘When you were in the Army, did you get to Vietnam?’

  ‘Served my three years out there . . . what’s that to do with it?’

  Randy laughed and patted Harry’s arm.

  ‘Then I can guarantee you a job. Solo’s son is serving out there. The old man will flip his lid for the chance of talking first hand to a guy just back, and besides, he has to hire a lifeguard for his beach . . . it’s compulsory by law to have a qualified swimmer and he has a hell of a job finding anyone for the job. Those who can swim well don’t want to do the chores . . . setting up the umbrellas, keeping the beach clean, serving drinks: those who’ll do the chores can’t swim.’ Randy grinned. ‘Would a job like that be okay with you? He won’t pay much, but it’s dead easy and the food is terrific.’

  ‘It’d suit me fine. But maybe he’s already fixed up.’

  ‘It’s my bet he isn’t. The season doesn’t start for another week. Solo is careful with his money. He won’t look for anyone until the last moment.’

  ‘What’s your job with him?’