1960 - Come Easy, Go Easy Page 5

  I also shook hands with the counter man, nodding my thanks, then I followed Jenson’s enormous bulk out into the burning sunshine.

  He led the way to where a ten ton truck stood in the shade. The truck was loaded with scrap metal: rusty iron bedsteads were piled together with rods, bolts and broken farm equipment.

  Jenson swung himself up into the cab and I followed him. It was like an oven in the cab and we both stripped off our coats.

  Jenson took out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. As we lit up, he said, “May as well make ourselves comfortable. It’s a long, hot run.” Then he started the engine and drove down the dusty main street.

  Neither of us said anything until we were clear of the town, then Jenson broke the silence by asking casually: “Is this your first visit out here?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Me—I was born and raised here. It’s a lonely spot and it’s goddamn hot, but I like it. You come far?”

  “Oakland.”

  “That’s quite a step. Never been there myself. What’s it like?”

  “Okay.”

  He glanced at me.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you were country bred. What line are you in if it isn’t being nosey?”

  “I’m in the lock trade. My dad was a locksmith too: runs in the family.”

  “Locks, eh? Would you know anything about metal?”

  “Sure. When I’m not fixing locks I’m building safes, and you’ve got to know about metal with safes.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. We were driving along a dusty road that led through the desert. In the far distance was the mountain. The wheels of the truck churned up the dust that came in through the open cab window, smothering us.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about car engines, would you?” he asked after a long silence.

  “As much as most,” I said, wondering what he was getting at. “I can take an engine down if that’s what you mean. I once made a new cylinder head for my old man’s Ford. That was quite a job, but I did it.”

  He glanced at me again, and I was aware the sharp blue eyes were going over me intently.

  “If you can do that, you know cars,” he said. “Are you planning to stay in Tropica Springs?”

  I was getting bothered by this steady stream of questions.

  “Yes,” I said, and looked away from him out of the cab window.

  In the distance I could see a hawk hovering, sharp etched against the sky that seemed bleached white with the heat.

  “Have you a job waiting for you?” he asked. “What I’m driving at is this: if you’re looking for a job, I could give you one.”

  “You could? What kind of a job?”

  “I need a guy who can handle metal and cars. These past two years have been tough going for Lola—that’s my wife—and for me. I keep promising myself I’d get help. You seem the kind of young fellow I could get along with. Mind you, the place is pretty lonely and you’d have to do your turn at night shift. The nearest town is Wentworth—twenty miles of desert road, but you’d find the food okay. Lola certainly knows how to cook. She’s Italian. You like Italian food?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You wait until you try her spaghetti: never tasted anything so good. You’d have a cabin to yourself. There’s a radio. I have a spare TV set: you could have that too.” He looked hopefully at me. “I’d pay forty bucks and all found. There’s nothing to spend your money on. You could get together some capital.”

  I didn’t hesitate for more than a second or so. This was my chance to get lost. Anyway, I could work for him for a few months, get together some money and then move on.

  “Sounds fine,” I said. “Okay, I’d like to give it a trial.”

  He grinned at me.

  “Then you’ve got yourself a job, son,” he said and reaching out his enormous hand, he patted me on the knee.

  chapter four

  I

  The first sight I had of Point of No Return was when the truck had panted up a sharp hill and then began to coast down into the valley that was as flat as a plate with ribbed white sand, blinding in the sunshine and dotted with burnt up scrub.

  “That’s it,” Jenson said, pointing, “that’s my place.”

  There was a small bungalow, a couple of low sheds, a bigger and higher shed, three gas pumps, and on the other side of the highway, a cabin. All the buildings were painted sky blue, and they stood out against the whiteness of the sand with startling intensity

  “That cabin on the far side is for you,” Jenson said. “That was where I was born. My old man built it with his own hands. I built the bungalow when he passed on. It takes guts to live out hire. It’s lonely and tough going. I’m lucky to have found a woman who’ll share it with me. Without her, I’d be sunk. We’re on call every night of the week. You’d be surprised the number of times we have to turn out in the middle of the night. Truckers drive over the mountain at night—it’s cooler, and they always stop here for gas. That’s why I reckon you’ll be a big help to me. With three of us taking turns, the night shift won’t be so bad.”

  We were down in the valley by now. The heat came at us with an edge to it that brought me out in a sticky sweat.

  “You feel it?” He seemed proud of the heat “But at night it’s okay. At night, it can be really cool.”

  He put his great hand on the horn button and gave two long blasts. He looked at me, grinning.

  “That’s to let Lola know I’m coming. She’ll be surprised when she sees you. She’s always telling me we don’t need a hired hand. The fact is, Jack, it’s because I’ve listened to her for so long I’ve never had a fella to help out. You know these Italians—goddamn thrifty. That’s the way they’re made. Me—I guess I’m pretty careful with my money too, but my wife—land’s sake— she’s more than careful. ‘What do we want a man here for?’ she says. ‘If I don’t mind getting up at night, why should you?’ That’s the way she talks.” He shook his head. “At my age, it’s not right. For more years than I care to remember, I’ve slaved seventeen hours a day. Okay, I’ve made money, but I’ve never had any fun out of it. What do you make money for, Jack? You tell me. What do you make it for?”

  “Why, I guess, first for security, then when you have that, you go after some fun,” I said, humouring him.

  “That’s right!” He punched me on the knee. “Security first. Well, I’ve got that taken care of.

  Now at fifty-five, I’m going to have some fun. With you here, Lola and me can go into Wentworth every now and then. With you to help out, it’s going to be a lot easier here.”

  But there was a slight doubt in his voice that made me look at him, puzzled. He didn’t sound like a man who is sold on what he is saying.

  The truck was now pounding along the flat, burning road and we passed a big sign that read:

  Point of No Return

  You Have Been Warned!

  Last Chance for Gas for 165 Miles

  Snack Bar. Repairs. Greasing. Service.

  I looked beyond the sign to the three gas pumps and the garage that loomed up towards me.

  The service station was bright and gay. There were paths to the bungalow and to the cabin across the highway edged with stones, painted white. There were flowers planted around the gas pumps that made a gay splash of colour. Behind the pumps was a long, low building that housed the snack bar. Beyond the snack bar was the bungalow with bright blue curtains at the windows and a cream coloured front door.

  “This is quite a place,” I said. He beamed at me.

  “Glad to hear you say it. I’ve certainly worked at it. You and me—we could do a lot more to it. I’ve plenty of ideas. Up to now I’ve had to do it all on my own.”

  He opened the cab door and climbed down onto the white, burning sand. I followed him down.

  If I had owned this place and had a wife to share it with me, and if I had blasted my horn the way Jenson had, I would have expe
cted my wife to have come out from where she was and give me a welcome.

  But no one came out of any of the buildings to welcome Carl Jenson back to his home.

  The place could have been a morgue for all the excitement his arrival caused, and that registered with me, although it didn’t seem to surprise him.

  He waved to the cabin.

  “You go ahead. You want a wash and a shave.” He gave me a nudge in the ribs that made me stagger. “You hungry? I’ll get you something. You go ahead and clean up.”

  “When I’m through—where do I come?”

  He pointed to the lunch room.

  “Right there,” and nodding, he walked up the path to the bungalow.

  I went over to the cabin, pushed open the door and walked into the living room. It was comfortably furnished, and there was a T.V. set in one of the corners. Beyond the living room was a tiny bedroom. I stripped off my clothes and went into the bathroom. It took me a little time to get clean and shave. By now I had raised quite a moustache, and I decided to keep it. I returned to the bedroom, put on my shirt and trousers, and then took a look at myself in the mirror on the wall.

  The moustache made quite a difference, but I was still acutely aware that I was being hunted. Looking at myself now, I felt more secure. If there were pictures of me in the papers, I was pretty sure with this moustache, I wouldn’t be recognised.

  I went to the cabin door and stood looking across at the opposite buildings, then I looked back at the long winding road disappearing into the hills. The desert stretched either side of me: bleak, hot and desolate. It gave me a feeling of security. The police would be looking for me in Oakland or one of the other big towns. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t think to look for me here.

  I moved out into the sunshine and crossed over to the lunch room. There were ten fixed stools in front of the counter and five tables along the wall for those who wanted to eat in style. Along the counter were beer and soda spouts. There was a glass case full of pies, baked to a turn, with individual labels on each, reading: cherry, apple, pineapple, cranberry. There was a unit containing paper napkins, condiments, ketchup, glasses and knives and forks. Everything was spotlessly clean. On the wall was the menu written in bold, neat printing:

  Today’s Specials

  Fried Chicken

  Veal Steaks

  Beef Hash

  Fruit Pies

  Through the half open door behind the counter came the smell of onions frying that made my mouth water. I was just about to tap on the counter to attract attention when I heard Jenson say, “Now look, Lola, you mustn’t get worked up like this. I know what I’m doing. This young fella can take care of the place, and we two can go to Wentworth a couple times a week. I don’t like you going there alone. It’s not right for a woman to go to the movies on her own in a town like Wentworth.”

  “And why isn’t it right?”

  She spoke with a strong Italian accent and her voice was shrill.

  “It isn’t right. You’re a respectable, married woman. There are guys in Wentworth ...”

  “Are you telling me I go around with men in Wentworth? Is that it?”

  “Of course I’m not! I’m just saying it isn’t right. With this fella here, you and me can go together. That’s what we want, isn’t it?”

  “I know one thing—I don’t want any strangers here! I’ve told you that a thousand times!”

  “I know you’ve told me, but you’re wrong. We’ve got to have help. How many times did you get up last night? Six—maybe seven times. You need your sleep. With this guy to help us out, we’ll get our sleep and we’ll get some freedom. When he’s on night shift, you and me can go to a movie. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “How many more times do I have to tell you?” Her voice was angry and excited, “I don’t want strangers here. Besides, he isn’t working for nothing, is he? Since when have you started to throw your money about?”

  The hard shrill note in her voice bothered me. She sounded vindictive, and in a hell of a rage.

  “Stop yelling at me! Let’s give him a trial. If you don’t like him, well okay, then we’ll get rid of him. You’ll be glad to have him around. Now let’s stop this. How about something to eat?”

  “How do you know you can trust him? Do you mean you intend to leave him here to take the money, to have the run of this place while we’re in Wentworth? You’re crazy!”

  I felt it was time to let them know I was here. I went on tiptoe to the door, opened it and let it slam shut. Then I walked heavy footed to the counter.

  “Anyone here?” I called.

  The angry voices abruptly came silent. There was a pause, then Jenson came out of the kitchen. His fat, good natured face was red, and there was an embarrassed look in his eyes.

  “There you are,” he said. He looked me over and his expression altered a little. I could see he was relieved and pleased that I now looked presentable. “That’s a good cabin, eh? Have you found everything you want?”

  “It’s fine,” I said. The smell of the frying onions was driving me half crazy. “And this too. You’ve certainly got a place here, Mr. Jenson.”

  He nodded, but the beaming pride wasn’t there. I could see he was still bothered about the argument he had been having with his wife.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty good.” He rubbed his jaw, his eyes shifting away from me. “I guess you must be hungry. I’ll see what I can rustic up for you.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Jenson. You tell me what I’m to have and I’ll fix it.”

  “You stick around. I’ll talk to my wife.”

  He was so embarrassed I felt sorry for him. He was starting back to the kitchen when a dusty Packard pulled up by the gas pumps and the driver honked on his horn.

  “Shall I take care of him?” I said.

  “It’s okay. I’ll do it. Time enough for you to start work when you’ve had something to eat.”

  He went out and I watched him through the open window as he began to service the car.

  I heard a sound behind me and I looked over my shoulder, then I turned right around.

  A woman was standing in the doorway. She was staring curiously at me.

  She had Titian red hair: a lot of it, piled to the top of her head, rather sloppily. She was a beauty although her mouth was too big and her lips too thick. There was a sensual quality about her that would attract any man: it attracted me.

  She was wearing a crisp white overall, pulled tight around her, and as she moved through the doorway, I could see she hadn’t a stitch on under the overall. She was about thirty. She had cold green eyes and her skin was the colour of old ivory.

  She didn’t say anything. We just stood there, looking at each other. Then Jenson came in, grinning nervously and introduced me.

  She nodded at me, still saying nothing: her green eyes hostile.

  Jenson stood awkwardly, rubbing his jaw, grinning fatuously at us.

  “I guess he could use some food. I know I could,” he said finally. “How about it, Lola?”

  Her face was expressionless as she said, “I’ll get you something.”

  She turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  I could see the outline of her heavy hips under the overall. They rolled sensually as she walked.

  I picked up a paper napkin and wiped my face. Sweat was running off me.

  “Pretty hot, huh?” Jenson said, his grin widening.

  “If s hot all right,” I said.

  My face felt stiff as I tried to match his grin.

  II

  It was while Jenson and I were unloading the scrap off the truck that he began to talk about his wife.

  I had eaten one of the best meals in my life. She had come out of the kitchen carrying two plates loaded with spaghetti and big veal steaks, and had planked them down on the counter and then had gone back into the kitchen without a word.

  While we were eating and to ease Jenson’s obvious embarrassment I asked him what he wanted me to
do now I was going to work for him.

  He said he would like me to take care of the garage and the gas pumps so that he and Lola could concentrate on the lunch room. He would like me to do three night shifts every other week and two the alternate week. Any breakdown jobs that came in he expected me to handle, and it would be my job to keep the outside clean and tidy.

  “You’ll be busy, Jack,” he said, “but in this heat and with nothing else to do, it’s a good thing to be busy.”

  I said that was okay with me. I couldn’t be busy enough. I meant that. I knew if I started sitting around doing nothing in this place, my mind wouldn’t be anywhere else except in the kitchen where she was. She would have that effect on any man.

  After we had finished the meal we went outside and he showed me how the gas pumps worked, explained what I had to do when a customer arrived and showed me the tariff of charges for oil and gas.

  He then asked me to give him a hand unloading the scrap.

  By now the sun was sinking behind the hills and it was cooler. I was glad of the chance to exercise my muscles after being cooped up for so long in the freight truck.

  As we worked, he talked.

  “You don’t have to worry about Lola,” he said. “She hates to be crossed. I told you: she’s always been against anyone working here. I don’t know why. It’s just one of those fool ideas women get into their heads.” He looked at me anxiously. “You don’t want to take it to heart. Maybe for a couple of days she will sulk, but she’ll get over it.”

  I didn’t say anything: there didn’t seem anything to say.

  We hauled a rusty rotary cultivator off the truck. I was impressed by Jenson’s strength. He handled the machine as if it were a toy.

  As we dragged the machine into the shed, he said, “Don’t you think she’s a fine looking woman?”

  “Yes.”

  He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. As we lit up, he went on, “Funny thing how we met. Two years ago she got off the Greyhound bus and walked into the lunch room. I was feeling pretty low at the time. My wife had died a couple of weeks back, and I was trying to run this place single handed. I was even trying to do the cooking, and let me tell you, the food was terrible. She asked for a hamburger. Funny how one remembers a thing like that, isn’t it? I remember too she was wearing a green dress. The bus stopped for twenty minutes to collect the mail and parcels and give the passengers a chance to get something to eat. They all crowded in: all yelling for sandwiches, pies, hamburgers and so on, and I was swamped. I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels, then suddenly there she was behind the counter instead of in front of it, serving. I saw she knew the business, and I let her handle the rush. I just showed her where everything was. Before the bus left, everyone was fed. I couldn’t have done it myself, but she had done it. I had the same feeling about her as I had about you. I told her if she wanted a job, there was one here for her.” He squatted down by the rotary cultivator and began to loosen the gear wire. “Like you, she didn’t hesitate. The bus left without her. I gave her the cabin: like I’ve given it to you. Well, she worked for me for a couple of weeks, then I got thinking.” He looked up, his blue eyes guileless. “I knew it wasn’t right to have her here alone. People at Wentworth began to talk. When they came here for a snack or for gas, they sniggered at us. They thought things were happening that weren’t. So one evening, I talked to her. I asked her if she liked it here: if it wasn’t too lonely for her. She said she liked it, so I suggested we got married. That way we’d stop the sniggering and the talk. She would have security, and if anything happened to me, she’d have the place. So we got married.” He got the gear wire loose and began to take off the cover of the gearbox. I stood by him, smoking and listening. “Mind you, she’s twenty-three years younger than I am,” he went on. “I wondered if I was doing right, but she wanted to stay and I couldn’t have her here unless we were married. When a man of my age marries a woman as young as she is, he has to have a lot of patience. She’ll sulk now for a couple of days, but she’ll do her job. One of the great things about her is the way she works: I’ve never seen anyone work like her.”