Get a Load of This Read online

  He pushed open the off door of the cab. “Sure,” he said, “come on up.”

  She climbed in beside him and he started the cab rolling. He was very big and the shadowy outline of his face gave him the appearance of an ape. He, too, was regarding her under the broken peak of his cap.

  “Where you come from, baby?” he asked in a hoarse, snuffling voice.

  “Daytona Beach,” Gerda returned, rubbing her arms and shivering. “Got caught in the hurricane, sheltered for some time and then decided to walk on.”

  “Huh,” the man said, spitting out of the cab. “Saw a house on fire way back. I guess it must have been the lightning.”

  Gerda didn’t say anything. She was feeling tired and would have liked to have gone to sleep.

  “Ain’t you scared being around in a spot like this on your own?” he asked her.

  Gerda stiffened. “I don’t scare easily,” she said coldly. “The last guy who tried to get fresh with me is still wondering what hit him.”

  “Sorta tough, huh?” the driver said with a hoarse laugh. “Well, I like a dame to be tough.”

  “That’s nice for me, isn’t it?” Gerda rejoined sarcastically.

  The driver laughed again. “I guess before we go any further I’ll collect your fare,” he said, stopping the truck with a jerk. “Let’s get in the back for a while.”

  Gerda shook her head. “Get goin’,” she said sharply. “I don’t wear that sort of thing. I’ll give you a fin when we reach Fort Pierce. That’s all you’ll get.”

  The driver screwed round in his seat. “Yeah?” he said, his voice suddenly menacing. “I ain’t used to that sort of yappin’ from a dame. Get into the back of the truck quick, before I get rough. You’re taking what I’m goin’ to give you, an’ you goin’ to like it.”

  Gerda opened the door. “If that’s the way you feel about it,” she said, her eyes hard and calculating. She slid into the road. The moment her feet touched the wet tarmac she made a dart towards the thick citrus groves. Before she reached them a terrific jar struck her just above her knees and she went down in a heap. Her breath was knocked out of her body, and for several she minutes was powerless to move. She felt herself being picked up, carried a few steps and then banged down again.

  “How do you like that?” the driver asked, kneeling over her.

  She realized that she was in the back of the truck and she lay very still, waiting to recover her breath.

  “Now, baby, do you play or must I rough you around until you do?” the driver asked.

  Gerda said breathlessly: “O.K., you big caveman, let me get up an’ fix myself.”

  The driver moved away from her with his back to the entrance of the truck, so that she couldn’t pass him. “Not so tough, huh?” he said. “I tell you, baby, I’ve gotta way with dames.”

  Gerda got slowly to her feet. Her body ached from her fall. She poised herself, and then with all her strength she swung over a punch aimed at the driver’s jaw.

  The driver had been expecting it and shifted his head a trifle. Gerda’s fist scraped his ear and he countered with a heavy slap across her face with his open hand. The blow stunned her and she fell on her knees, suddenly frightened. She knew that this guy was too strong and smart for her.

  The driver knelt down beside her and smacked her face several times. The pain made tears run down her face and she tried to protect herself with upraised arms. All he did was to poke her with his forefinger very hard in her belly which brought her hands down quickly, and then he went on slapping her.

  “Had enough?” he asked after a while.

  Gerda was too dazed to speak. She lay limply waiting, shudderingly, for him to take her. She felt his hands on her clothes, but she hadn’t the strength to resist him. A red haze hung before her eyes and her face and head seemed to be on fire.

  She was suddenly conscious that something awful for her had happened. She heard the driver suck in his breath sharply and she heard him mutter, “For Pete’s sake,” and she realized with a dreadful sinking feeling that he had found the roll of money.

  She struggled up and tried to snatch it from him, but he was too quick for her. He shoved her away roughly and stood up.

  “Where did you get this?” he shouted, holding the roll in a trembling hand.

  “Give it to me—it’s mine.”

  “Yeah? Well, prove it’s yours.”

  “I tell you it’s mine,” Gerda said, nearly sobbing with fury. “Give it to me!”

  The roll disappeared into the driver’s pocket. “You pinched it,” he said. “Maybe you got it from the house that was on fire way back. A tramp like you wouldn’t have so much dough.”

  Gerda threw herself on him, her fingers clawing for his eyes. He hit her between her eyes as she came in, sending her in a heap on the floor-boards, then he stepped over her and booted her out of the truck. She landed in the wet mud of the road with a thud that shook the breath out of her.

  He said, as he dropped to the road beside her: “If you want the dough, come along to Fort Pierce an’ ask the cops for it. Maybe they’ll have it for you.” He gave a little snigger. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll know much about it,” and he ran back to the truck and drove away.

  MORNING VISIT

  The Lieutenant stopped and held up his hand. Over to his right he had seen the farm, half hidden by a clump of coconut palms.

  The four negro soldiers shuffled to a standstill, grounding their rifles and leaning on them.

  Overhead the sun beat down on the little group. The Lieutenant, the sweat oozing out of his fat hide, wriggled his body inside his uniform which stuck to him uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the great patches of damp that stained his white uniform; and he cursed the heat, the President and, above all, the A.B.C. terrorists.

  Contemptuously he regarded the four negroes, who stood staring with vacant eyes on the ground, like emasculated cattle. “This is the place,” he said, thrusting forward his bullet head. “Two of you to the right; two to the left. No noise. No shooting—use your bayonets if there’s trouble.”

  He drew his sword. The steel blade flashed in the sunlight.

  The soldiers opened out and advanced towards the farm at a trot. They held their heads down, and their rifles hung loosely in their hands. As they shambled over the uneven ground they looked like bloodhounds picking up a scent.

  The Lieutenant moved forward at a slower pace. He walked gingerly, as if he were treading on egg-shells. Inside his once beautiful uniform, his fat body cringed at the thought of a bullet smashing into him. He took the precaution of keeping the coconut palms between him and the farm. When he could no longer shelter himself behind the slender trunks he broke into a run. The heat waves coiled round him like a rope as he lumbered over the rough ground.

  The four soldiers had already reached the farm, and they stood in an uneven circle, waiting for the Lieutenant to come up. They were more animated now. They knew that very soon they would be back in the barracks out of the heat of the afternoon sun.

  The farm was a squat dwelling, with a palm-thatched roof and whitewashed walls. As the Lieutenant approached cautiously, the door of the place opened and a tall, poorly dressed Cuban stepped into the sunshine.

  The soldiers jerked up their rifles, threatening him with the glittering bayonets. The Cuban stood very still, his hands folded under his armpits, and his face wooden.

  The Lieutenant said, “Lopez?”

  The Cuban’s eyes flickered round at the soldiers, seeing only the ring of steel before him. He looked at the Lieutenant. “Yes,” he said, a dry rustle in his voice.

  The Lieutenant swung his sword. “You may have heard of me,” he said, a wolfish smile pulling at his mouth. “Ricardo de Crespedes.”

  Lopez shuffled his feet in the sand. His eyes flinched, but his face remained wooden. “You do me much honour, senor,” he said.

  The Lieutenant said, “We’ll go inside,” and he stepped past Lopez, holding his sword at the alert. He
walked into the dwelling.

  Lopez followed him with two of the soldiers. The other two stood just outside the door.

  The room was very poor, shabby, and dirty. De Crespedes moved to the rough table standing in the middle of the room and rested his haunches on it. He unbuttoned the flap on his revolver-holster and eased the revolver so that he could draw it easily. He said to one of the soldiers, “Search the place.”

  Lopez moved uneasily. “Excellency, there is no one here—only my wife.”

  The negro went into the other room. De Crespedes said, “See if he’s armed.”

  The other soldier ran his big hands over Lopez, shook his head, and stepped back. De Crespedes hesitated, then reluctantly put up his sword. There was a long, uneasy pause.

  The negro came back from the other room pushing a Cuban woman before him.

  De Crespedes looked at her and his small eyes gleamed. The woman ran to Lopez and clung to him, her face blank with fear. She wore a white blouse and skirt; her feet were bare. De Crespedes thought she was extraordinarily nice. He touched his waxed moustache and smiled. The movement was not lost on Lopez, who tightened his hold on his wife.

  De Crespedes said: “You’re hiding guns here. Where are they?”

  Lopez shook his head. “I have no guns, Excellency. I am a poor farmer—I do not trade in guns.”

  De Crespedes looked at the woman. He thought her breasts were superb. The sight of her drew his mind away from his duty and this faintly irritated him, because he was quite a good soldier. He said a little impatiently: “It will be better for you to say so now than later.”

  The woman began to weep. Lopez touched her shoulder gently. “Quiet,” he said, “it’s Richardo de Crespedes.”

  The Lieutenant drew himself to his full height and bowed. “He is right,” he said, rolling his bloodshot eyes a little. The woman could feel his rising lust for her.

  Lopez said desperately: “Excellency, there has been some mistake—”

  De Crespedes lost patience. He told the soldiers to search the place for guns. As the negroes began hunting, he pulled the woman away from Lopez. “Come here,” he said, “I want to look at you.”

  Lopez opened his mouth, but no sound came from him, his eyes half closed and his hands clenched. He knew he could do nothing.

  The woman stood close to de Crespedes, her hands clasped over her breasts. Her fear stirred his blood.

  “Do you understand why I’m here?” he said, putting his hand on her bare arm. “Traitors are arming the people against the President. Guns have been hidden here. We know that. Where are they?”

  She stood quivering like a nervous horse, not daring to draw away from him. She said: “Excellency, my man is a good man. He knows nothing about guns.”

  “No?” De Crespedes pulled her closer to him. “You know nothing about these terrorists? Nothing about plots to overthrow Machado?”

  Lopez stepped forward, pushing his wife roughly away, so that de Crespedes’ hold was broken. “We know nothing, Excellency.”

  De Crespedes shoved himself away from the table. His face hardened. “Seize this man,” he barked.

  One of the soldiers twisted Lopez’s arms behind him and held him.

  The woman ran her fingers through her thick hair. Her eyes grew very wide. “Oh no… no…” she said.

  De Crespedes himself supervised the search, but they found nothing. He went out into the sunlight again and shouted to the remaining soldiers to look round the outside of the farm. Then he came back. He stood in the doorway, looking at Lopez. “Where are the guns?” he said. “Quick—where are they?”

  Lopez shook his head. “We know nothing about guns, Excellency.”

  De Crespedes turned to the soldier. “Hold him very tightly.” Then he began to walk towards the woman. She turned to run into the other room, but the other soldier was standing against the door. He was smiling, and his teeth looked like piano keys. As she hesitated, de Crespedes caught up with her and his hand fell on the back of her blouse. He ripped it from her. She crouched against the wall, hiding her breasts with her hands, weeping softly.

  De Crespedes looked over his shoulder at Lopez. “When you are dead,” he said, “I will have your woman—she is good.”

  Lopez controlled himself with a great effort. He was completely powerless in the grip of the soldier.

  De Crespedes said to the soldiers who came in at this moment, “Cut off his fingers until he’s ready to talk.”

  The woman screamed. She fell on her knees in front of de Crespedes, wringing her hands. “We know nothing, Excellency,” she said wildly. “Don’t touch my man.”

  De Crespedes looked down at her with a smile. Then he put his dusty boot on her bare breasts and shoved her away. She fell on her side and lay there, her head hidden under her arms.

  The soldiers forced Lopez to sit at the table, and they spread his hands flat on the rough wood. Then, using his bayonet like a hatchet, one of the negroes lopped off a finger.

  De Crespedes sat looking at the blood that ran across the table and dripped on to the floor. He stood up with a little grimace of disgust.

  A thin wailing sound came from Lopez, although he didn’t open his lips. The two soldiers who held him shifted as they strained to keep his hands in position.

  “Until he talks,” de Crespedes said, unhooking his jacket and removing his sword-belt.

  The negro raised his bayonet and brought it down with a swish. There was a little clicking sound as it went through bone, and he had difficulty in getting the blade out of the hard wood.

  De Crespedes threw his jacket and sword-belt on the bench and walked over to the woman. With a grunt, he bent over her. Taking her under her arms, he dragged her into the other room. He threw her on the bed. Then he went back and kicked the door shut. He noticed that it was very hot in the room, although the shutters kept out the sun.

  The woman lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chin. She kept her eyes shut, and her lips moved as she prayed. De Crespedes lowered his bulk on to the bed. He took her knees in his hands and turned her on her back. Then he forced her knees down and ripped the rest of her clothes from her. He did not hurry, and once, when she resisted, pushing at him with her small hands, he thumped her on her chest with his fist, like he was driving in a nail with a hammer.

  Then, because he knew this rigid body could give him no pleasure, and because he had much experience, he set about breaking her down. His two hands settled on her arms and his fingers dug into her soft muscles. Her eyes opened and she screamed. He leant on her, crushing her with his bulk, and dug further with his fat, thick fingers. It was not long before the violence of the pain turned the woman into a weeping, gibbering thing of clay on the bed. And when he took her, she lay placid, her tears falling on his shoulder.

  Later on, one of the soldiers had to go out and get a bucket of water to throw over Lopez, and although they did many things to him, they could not get him to speak, so they lost patience with him and they killed him.

  When de Crespedes came out of the room he found his soldiers standing uneasily waiting for him. He looked down at Lopez and stirred him with his boot. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and yawned. “Did he talk?” he asked indifferently. He was thinking of the long tramp back to the barracks. When they shook their heads, he shrugged and put on his jacket. He was feeling devilishly tired. Listlessly he tightened the sword-belt round his thick middle and put on his cap. Then he went back and looked at Lopez again. “It is possible he knew nothing about guns,” he said half aloud, “they’ve made a lot of mistakes before.” He shrugged and turned to the door.

  The soldiers picked up their rifles and moved after him. Outside, he paused. “The woman,” he said irritably, “I was forgetting the woman.” He looked at one of the soldiers. “Attend to her. Use your bayonet.”

  While they waited in the blinding heat, he thought regretfully how much better it would have been if she had loved him. There was little satisfaction to
be had from a weeping woman. Still, he felt better for it. Women were necessary to him.

  When the soldier came out, they gave him time to clean his bayonet and then they all tramped across the uneven ground towards the barracks.

  TWIST IN THE TALE

  The first time I met George Hemingway was when I was after marlin off Key West. I ran into him in a casual sort of way in the Plaza Hotel. He was with a large crowd and I was on my own. It was my first experience of deep-sea fishing, and I rather wanted to experiment by myself. I had had a year of worry and hard work steering my firm through the depression, and now that things were looking pretty good again, I considered that I had earned a few weeks off. So down I went to Key West. I had heard a lot about the fishing there, and I thought it sounded just the right sport for my frame of mind.

  I put myself in the hands of Joppy, one of the finest fishermen on the coast. He and I went out in a fast motor-boat nearly every day. He was a soft-spoken, patient sort of a guy, and I guess he wanted all his patience by the time I got through. We fished those waters for over a week without seeing anything remotely resembling marlin. I guess they thought I was too mean a guy to bother about, and even Joppy began looking at me thoughtfully towards the end of the week.

  I remember sitting in the lounge bar of the ‘Plaza’ after a completely uneventful day, wondering what the hell deep-sea fishermen could see in such a slow sport, when about a dozen people drifted in, making enough row to scare all the marlin right out of the Mexican Bay. They crowded up to the bar, and because I was at a complete loose end I watched them with, what must have amounted to, almost rude curiosity.

  The girls were the usual type of brittle beauty that infest the luxury hotels during the season. There were five of them, and they all were wearing beach trousers, sandals, and gay-coloured handkerchiefs that hid their firm, curved breasts. They were chattering and laughing as they always do, and as soon as they had settled their neat little bottoms on stools they began drinking pink gins at an astonishing rate.