Detour (4 page)

“Turn on the radio, Detroit. Let's have some music. Then maybe I'll forget I'm broke.”

Broke? Broke my grandmother. What was this? Another one of his lousy gags?

“I should be as broke as you are,” I said, trying to get a laugh into my voice, “every day in the week.” I turned the radio knob disgustedly and fiddled with the station selector.

“Eh?” He looked round at me with that sleepy, amused expression an Englishman always has on his face when he's making love. “Oh, you mean the two-three dollars I've got on me? Say, that's no dough. Do you know what's happened to me? They took me. Cleaned me like a Long Island duck. One race—thirty-eight grand. Can you imagine?”

I couldn't. As soon as any mentioned amount got above a dollar forty cents it was out of my line entirely.

“And I was supposed to be the know-it-all! Why, I can't even raise another stake—and after ten years on the track. They closed my book down as if I'd only opened yesterday with a two-bit roll.”

“That's a shame,” I said, really feeling a little sorry for the guy.

“A shame? It's a laugh, that's what it is.” Then he began to curse—and, boy, what a vocabulary! He goddamned his sheet-writer, the Racing Secretary, the Commissioner, the handicappers, the horses themselves and a whole string of people I never heard of. He raved on for a couple of minutes; yet he didn't seem really angry.

The radio warmed up. Some announcer was plugging a salad-dressing. I gave him the hook and caught a weather forecast. We were due for some rain. By this time Haskell had smoked his cigarette almost down to his first knuckle. He took one final drag and then clinched it and put it back inside the case. That struck me funny. With all the heavy sugar he was packing, he was saving stumps like any tramp. There was something mighty screwy about this Mr. Haskell.

“But I'll dig up another stake, Detroit—see if I don't. I'll be back when the season opens in Miami with fresh dough, plenty of it, and no tightwad backers to worry about, either.”

“That's the spirit.”

“Just watch,” he yawned.

“Sure you will. Never say die, brother,” was my damned-fool comment. I was humoring him like a drunk.

As we rode along Haskell was smiling with his eyes closed. He seemed to derive huge satisfaction from thinking about the secret supply he was aiming to tap. Well, I was way ahead of him. From what he had been telling me about his family at the dinner-table I could read his mind. Everywhere his old man went his footprints were dollar-signs.

I finally got some orchestra on KATAR, Phoenix. The violin section was terrible.

I drove all that night while Haskell slept like a log. The only time he moved a muscle was when the car hit a few bumps the other side of Phoenix. But every now and then he'd start to snore and I'd remember he was there. He'd make his mouth move, too—twitch his jaw and move his tongue around to moisten his lips. And once in a while he'd mutter something in his sleep. I didn't like it. It sent prickles up my spine. After about two hours I began to grow sleepy myself. I hadn't had a decent night's rest since I got out of the Dallas jail. My eyelids started drooping and a couple of times I had to shake my head to wake myself up.

I would be handing you a lot of Abe Lincoln baloney if I said I wasn't tempted once or twice during the night to slug Mr. Haskell over the head and roll him for his cash. So I won't say it. The guy was treating me right and I couldn't bring myself to the point of hurting him. It took plenty of self-control, though. Remember, I was desperately in need of money; and in the glove-compartment of the car was a small Stillson wrench and a pair of heavy driving-gloves I could have used for padding. It was a cinch set-up if ever there was one.

I realize all this sounds bad. But try to get me straight. I'm a musician, not a thug. The few dishonorable things I did I didn't
want
to do—I
had
to do. Anyway, this is one of the things I passed up—and I'm not asking you to pin a merit-badge on me, either. The only boy Scout rule I ever followed was: “Be Prepared”.

I didn't do much thinking that night while I was rolling along. It was too hazy, and a wandering mind at the wheel of a car in a fog spells bad news. Besides, all there was to think of was Los Angeles and what I was going to do when I got there. I'd been thinking of that for weeks. My plans, as usual, were a little vague. I was counting on Sue being able to advance me a little dough—just enough to keep me for a week or so until I found work. According to a friend of mine, musicians never starve in Hollywood. There are plenty of dance bands around, dozens of little cocktail joints where, in a pinch, a fellow could play solo for tips, and then, of course, there are the studios. There are always dubbing jobs to be had and scenes where the hero is supposed to walk off a cliff or out of a second-story window playing a violin. That's where I came in. I'm laughing. Since Sue was not expecting me, and since she was staying with a girl friend, I'd have to bunk some place else. But that didn't worry me. I generally manage to get by.

About a hundred miles west of Phoenix and seventy east of Blythe dawn began to break. I could see it coming in the rear-view mirror: first a grey strip on the black, then a blue tinge, and then a kind of reddish brown. Ahead of me it was still dark and foggy; behind it was fast becoming clear. That's a mighty lonesome stretch of desert in there. On either side of the road are deep black gullies, some of them twenty and thirty feet down. If you've got any sort of an imagination, driving alone through there is liable to get you. It's dry as a bone in that section during the summer and every now and then the State Department or some motor club leaves a rain-barrel on the shoulder of the road in case a motorist's radiator leaks. In the gloom they look like little hitch-hikers. At that time of day the whole countryside has a ghostly quality, about it. Shadows shift along the ground as your car climbs and descends little hills, leaving portions of the highway light and other parts pitch dark. A couple of times I jammed on the brakes because I imagined something or somebody was crossing the road. They tell me that most of the accidents in those hills take place about dawn or dusk. The gas gauge showed almost empty, but I thought I'd better let Haskell sleep until we hit a service station.

Waking him then wouldn't have done any good. To tell the truth, the look of the road got me a little panicky. The last station I passed was a good eight miles back, and this stretch didn't even have billboards. I knew Haskell would sure as hell hand me my walking papers if we ran out in the middle of nowhere, so I drove with my fingers crossed.

It was about that time that the haze turned into rain. A fine drizzle began to cloud the windshield and I had to switch on the wipers. A few miles of this and my clothes felt damp and uncomfortable. I decided that before it started to pour we'd better put up the top.

I nudged Haskell. “It's beginning to rain, Mr. Haskell.”

Not a peep out of him.

I pushed him again, this time harder. Then I shook him a little. “It's beginning to rain, Mr. Haskell. Shall I put up the top?”

When I couldn't even get a rise out of him I made up my mind to keep going until either we hit a gas station or ran out. I knew it would be practically impossible to get the top up without waking him.

Since the guy was so dead to the world I thought it wouldn't hurt if I sneaked one of his smokes. I'm a tobacco fiend if ever there was one, and all I'd had that day was one cigar. If Haskell woke up and caught me, it was such a little thing he couldn't very well get sore. I could tell him that I was falling asleep and smoking kept me awake. That settled, I opened the glove-compartment as quietly as possible, found the case and helped myself to a butt. I didn't have a match, but—miracles will never cease—the dashboard lighter worked. While I was doing this the rain really began to beat down hard. The drops hit the leather upholstery of the back and rolled on to the seats. My pants felt sticky. I don't think I took more than four or five puffs on the cigarette before I started to get dizzy. After every drag it got worse. The road commenced to bank and turn and whirl in the windshield. The wipers seemed to be working at twice their normal speed. Inside of me I felt a sudden tightening, as if my intestines had tied themselves into a knot around my stomach. Luckily, as the cigarette slipped from between my fingers, I was not too far gone to have the presence of mind to apply brakes. The car skidded, swung around crazily and then stopped.

My head felt light as a feather and I had the curious sensation of floating about. Of course I knew at once what was the matter. The reason Mr. Haskell was clinching his butts was because they were reefers, sticks of jive. The guy was a tea-hound. I'd only tried smoking marihuana once before, but there could be no mistaking that balmy, sickish sensation which distorts everything and makes a marble look like a basket-ball.

The car began to roll backward down a slope. I yanked the emergency and, leaning well over the door, got sick all over the road. The coyotes got the first steak I'd had in my belly for nearly three months.

I heaved all there was to heave and in a few minutes I felt better. My temples were still throbbing but the dizziness was gone. Looking over, I saw that Haskell had not moved during all this. He was still slumped against the far door, the raindrops hitting his forehead and rolling down his face. I knew that if that didn't wake him, no shaking in the world would. The bastard must be high as a kite on that weed.

I cut the motor.

Putting up a wet top is no cinch, and I had to struggle with it. I got my side straightened out all right, but there was nothing I could do to the other without opening the door on Haskell's side of the car and kneeling on the seat. By that time the rain was letting up a bit. Nevertheless, as the clothes I had on were the only things I owned, I made up my mind that—Haskell or no Haskell—the top was going up. Holding my splitting head with one hand, I walked around to his side of the car and jerked open the door.

All right. Now you've reached the part where all the mess beings. You'll probably take the rest of the story with a grain of salt or maybe just come right out and call me seven different brands of liar. It sounds fishy—but I can't help that, any more than I could have helped what happened. Up to then I did things my way; but from then on something else stepped in and shunted me off to a different destination than the one I had planned for myself. And there was nothing in the world I could do to prevent it. The things I did were the only things left open for me to do. I had to take and like whatever came along.

For when I pulled open that door, Mr. Haskell fell and cracked his skull on the running-board. He went out like a light.

Isn't that a laugh? Can't you just picture the fellow with horns laughing like a son of a bitch and slapping his knee? Sure it's funny. If Haskell came to, even
he
would swear I conked him with a wrench for his dough!

But here's something funnier. He never came to. As soon as I dragged his legs out of the car and propped him up against one of the fenders, I saw he was dead. His face was a yellowish color, except for the long purple bruise extending across his forehead where he'd connected with the running-board. He looked ghastly. That's the only word for it.

I guess I went nuts there for a minute. I slapped his face as hard as I could and called him by name; I rubbed his wrists and shook him until his teeth rattled. No dice. He wasn't breathing and there was no pulse at all. He may have been dead before he cracked his skull, I don't know. But one thing was sure: the man was worm bait.

Can you appreciate what a nice pickle it was? There was I, a vagrant; and there he was, a rich race-track sport with all kinds of dough, a swanky car and a cracked head. Who but a moron would believe me when I said he fell out of the car? Some cops are pretty dumb, I'll grant you; but not one of them, not the greenest rookie in New York, would fall for a story like that. To make matters worse, I was just out of jail for petty larceny in Dallas. What if I did only grab a bunch of bananas and run? What that guy had in his pocket would buy plenty of bananas.

It looked very much like I was in for it. Any judge and any jury in the world would have yelled “Murder in the First Degree” at the top of his lungs. I began to wonder what sort of execution the State of Arizona provided—hanging or lethal gas. Then a flash of Sue's face hit me hard. I'd never see her again. She would believe I hadn't done it all right... but, probably, she was the only person who would.

I was wet clean through: my shirt and pants from the rain, my body from sweat. Kidding aside, I was never so frightened in all my life. I was so scared I couldn't think, and I knew I had to do
something.
What? You tell me. The first thing off the bat, I guess a person's instinct makes him want to run, and to run like hell. That's the way I wanted to run, but I had sense enough to realize I couldn't get very far before the law caught up with me. I stifled the urge by reminding myself that there were several people back down the highway who could identify me. There was that heel waiter in the restaurant at Lordsburg, and the cook, and the two attendants in the filling station. I would really be in a sweet spot then, trying to explain to the cops why I took it on the Arthur Duffy. Running for it is a sure sign of a guilty conscience. The next possibility was to sit tight and tell the truth when the cops came. That would be crazy. That wouldn't be Daniel going into the lions' den; that would be Daniel going into the lions' den at feeding-time, eating a hamburger. Hell, before I'd do that I'd run.

But standing alongside a car in the middle of the road with a dead man propped up against a fender was just asking for trouble. If somebody passed by it would be all over but the hanging, or gassing, or whatever it might be. I'm pretty strong, but it was no easy job dragging Mr. Haskell back into his seat and slamming the door. Not only was he heavy, but I didn't want to touch him. It gave me a funny feeling I didn't like. Well, like it or not, it had to be done. I got him up there and then I went round the car and climbed in under the wheel. I was completely fagged out. My knees felt like water and my head ached terribly. I just sat there in the car for it must have been ten minutes, panting like the dickens, my teeth chattering as if it was cold. I kept moaning, “Why did you have to die now? Why did you have to die
now?”
I tried to stop, but I couldn't.