Trucks, cars and cars pulling caravans roared by him. He decided to start walking again. By now his ankle was throbbing and he wondered, with a feeling of alarm, if he had been too confident about his injury. He stopped in the shade and as he was about to sit on the grass to rest an open truck came to a stop some twenty yards from him.
Grabbing up his suitcase, he limped up to the truck. The driver had got out and had the hood up. He was staring at the engine.
As Johnny approached the man, he looked hard at him: tall, lean, around twenty-seven years of age with long nut-brown hair, wearing dirty overalls, and to Johnny, harmless enough.
"You in trouble?" Johnny asked as he reached the truck.
The man looked up.
An odd face, Johnny thought. Thin, narrow eyes, a small mouth, a thin nose and a sour expression which Johnny had often seen: a defeated face.
"Never out of it. I live in trouble. Just a goddamn plug." He stood away from the truck and lit a cigarette. "Got to let her cool off. You looking for a ride?"
Johnny set down his suitcase.
"Yeah. Where are you heading?"
"Little Creek. That's my home. This side of New Symara."
"I pay my way," Johnny said.
The man looked sharply at him, eyeing Johnny's new khaki drill, his new bush hat.
"Is that right?"
"Ten dollars." Johnny knew when a man needed money. He had seen that expression over and over again.
"Sure friend, I'll take you. Ten dollars, huh?"
Johnny felt in his pocket and produced a ten dollar bill.
"Let's pay in advance, then we can forget it." Lean, long fingers took the bill.
"I'll change the plug. You get in, friend."
Ten minutes later, the man swung himself into the cab beside Johnny.
"I'm Ed Scott, he said as he started the motor.
"Johnny Bianco," Johnny said.
The truck began to roar down the freeway.
"What's your racket, Ed?" Johnny asked after a mile or two of silence.
"I haul shrimps." Scott gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "Every goddamn day except Sunday. I pick up a hundred crates of shrimps and rush them to Richville : that's a hundred and twenty mile haul: two hundred and forty there and back. In this truck I do it in four hours: so that's eight hours of my day, sitting here, driving. I have to get up at five to load up. I don't get back home until seven. I've a three-year contract with four top-class Richville restaurants: they use shrimps the way a bucket full of holes uses water. I thought I'd found Eldorado when I got this contract, but, man! is it a killer!"
Johnny was listening. He thought: what a way to earn a living!
"Goddamn it!" Scott went on. "I should have my head examined! Freda warned me . . . my wife. You know something? I don't listen to women. Women are all piss and wind. They yak for the sake of hearing their own voices. But after eight months of this, I'm beginning to think Freda has more sense than me. A year ago I was hauling for the Florida Citrus people. That paid steady, and it wasn't hard, but I have this bug: I can't work with people. When some punk of an overseer starts sounding off, I flip my lid. I have to work on my own and for myself." He glanced at Johnny. "You with me or aren't you?"
"I'm with you," Johnny said quietly. He took out his pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?"
"Why not?"
Johnny lit two cigarettes and passed one to Scott.
"So I've saved some money and I bought this truck and I think I'm in business." Scott went on. "I say I'll haul anything. So okay, I get landed with this shrimp contract. There's no let up. I've got to get these goddamn shrimps up to Richville every day or they can sue the pants off me. And what do I get out of it? That's what Freda asked and I wouldn't listen to her. So . . . I've found out. I clear a hundred and fifty bucks a week. That has to take care of me, my wife, repairs to the truck, the rent and all the other extras and I'm now finding I'm working my goddamn tail off for peanuts."
"You have yourself a tough deal," Johnny said.
"You can say that again." There was a long pause, then Scott said, "And you? What's your racket?"
"Call me a bum," Johnny said "For years I've been a rentcollector and suddenly I could take it no more. I sold up everything I owned: my car, a T.V. set, stuff . . . you know and I'm here. I've lived north all my life. So I've come south. When my money runs out, I'll get a job, but not until my money runs out."
"You've got no wife?"
"No."
"Yeah . . . a man is free without a woman. You're lucky. Get a woman and you have to work."
"You got Lids?"
"I wanted a couple but Freda's against it. I guess, now looking back, she was right. The way we live . . . no place for kids."
"There's time . . . you're young."
Scott laughed. "I guess, but they won't come now. Not on this shrimp haul."
He lapsed into moody silence. Tired by his walk and lulled by the roar of the engine, Johnny dozed off. He slept for half an hour, then came awake with a start. The truck was pounding down the freeway: on either side were mangrove trees and jungle. He glanced at Scott, saw his sweat-glistening, exhausted face and saw the tension in his hands and arms as he held the wheel.
"Suppose you let me drive?" Johnny said, "and you take a nap? What's the matter with that?"
"Could you handle her?" Scott looked hopefully at Johnny.
"I can handle anything on four wheels."
Scott slowed, pulled on to the verge and stopped the truck.
"Could I sleep!" he said. "You keep going. When you see a signpost marked Eastling, wake me up. Okay?"
"Nothing to it." They exchanged seats, and even before Johnny had started the truck, Scott was asleep.
So Johnny drove, careful not to exceed the speed limit, aware that if some maniac caused an accident, he would be in more trouble. Suddenly, after eight days in hiding, with nothing to do, he felt relaxed. He was now doing a job and he realized that was what he wanted to do.
He thought about what Scott had told him. Eight hours a day in this hot truck and the pay off: one hundred and fifty dollars! His mind shifted to all that money waiting for him in the left-luggage locker! $186,000! But when would he get it? Would be ever get it? The organization was now looking for him! That meant hundreds of people throughout the south who had some connection with the Mafia would be warned to look out for him. One never !mew who was employed by the Mafia and who wasn't, but he was certain that there would be always someone in a bar, a cafe, even a garage, a cheap eating-house, a cheap hotel, a motel who might have Mafia connections. When he finally reached Little Creek which Scott had said was where he lived, what was he to do? A sudden stranger! Even with his beard, he would be investigated. He was sure, knowing how the Mafia worked, there would be a reward out for him. He looked at the sleeping man lolling in the corner of the cab. Very few brains there, he thought. An individualist: a man who had worked on his own because he couldn't submit to discipline. Johnny understood that, but because of this failing, this man had got himself into a rat race that made him less than a slave.
Johnny switched his mind from his own troubles and thought about what Scott had told him. He got up at 05.00, loaded up crates of shrimps, then belted up the freeway, four hours there, four hours back, got home at 19.00, in time for dinner, a look at the telly and then bed: six days a week for one hundred and fifty dollars! At the present cost of living, what did that mean?
Suddenly, he could smell the sea. He sniffed at it the way a man will sniff at an outrageously expensive perfume. The Sea! His mind flashed to a white, beautiful forty-five footer . . . his! Once he had got all this money, waiting for him in the left-luggage locker, he would go to some ship builder and talk boats. His heart beat excitedly as he imagined the moment when he had signed the papers, paid the money, then walked on the gang plank and on to the deck. His! Then he thought of the danger: going back, getting those two heavy bags out of the left-luggage locker, then getting out of town. Not yet! He would have to be patient. He would have to remain in hiding until the heat had really cooled off. Patience! Discipline! He would do it. Suddenly he felt confident. Sooner or later, Massino and the Mafia Dons would get bored trying to find him. He would keep in touch with Sammy who would alert him of any danger. When Sammy finally told him that the heat was off, then he would go back, but not before.
Ahead of him, he saw the signpost: Eastling, and he slowed down. Reaching across, he shook Scott awake.
"Here we are," he said. "Eastling."
"Pull over and stop," Scott said, shaking himself awake. "Phew! Seems only five minutes." He dug sleep out of his eyes. "I'll take her."
They changed seats.
"Would there be somewhere for me to sleep?" Johnny asked.
Scott looked at him.
"I've a spare room: cost you five bucks a day and all found. Want it?"
"You have yourself a deal," Johnny said.
Scott engaged gear and drove the truck on to the freeway.
While Johnny was driving Scott's truck, Massino was holding a meeting in his office. Present were Carlo Tanza and Andy Lucas.
Massino had just explained to Tanza that the lead they had on this old guy Giovanni Fuselli was a washout. It was only with difficulty that Massino contained his rage and he kept glaring at Andy who had been responsible for this waste of time.
"What we've got to remember is Johnny didn't have the money with him when he left town," Massino said. "It was Andy's idea he was working with someone else and we thought it could be this Fuselli, but it wasn't. Toni and Ernie are sure Fuselli is clean. So . . . one of two things. Either Johnny was working with someone we don't know about or he panicked and left the money stashed somewhere in town." He looked at Tanza. "What do you think?"
"There's a third possibility," Tanza said. "He could have put those two bags on a Greyhound bus. The station is right across the street. No problem there for him. You buy a ticket, stick the bags on a bus and they'll deliver to any Greyhound station on their route. I know that's what I would have done. I wouldn't have been nutty enough to stash the money here where I would have to come back for it, and from what I know about Bianda, he's far from nutty."
"You don't think he was working with someone?" Tanza shrugged.
"Doesn't seem likely. He's a loner . . . the only friend he seems to have had is this smoke, Sammy the Black and he wouldn't have the guts to steal chewing gum from a kid. Yeah, seems to me that's what Bianda did. Grabbed the money, rushed it across to the bus station, got the bags on a bus, knowing they would be delivered to await arrival, then he went back to his whore, found he had lost his medal, flipped his lid and beat it out of town."
"We can check," Massino said. He looked at Andy. "At that time there would be very few buses leaving. Get over there and check. Someone should remember if two heavy bags were put on a bus."
Andy nodded and left the office.
Massino looked at Tanza.
"He's now been gone eight days." His little eyes were like red beads. "Think you can find him?"
Tanza grinned evilly.
"We always find them, but it costs."
"So how much?"
"Depends on how long it takes. Let's say fifty per cent of the take."
Massino said softly, "I want him alive. You'll get fifty per cent if he's delivered to me alive. A third if he's dead."
"He could be tricky to take alive."
Massino closed his huge fists.
"I want him alive! I'm going to smash that sonofabitch to a pulp with my own hands." His rage gave him an insane look and even Tanza who was ruthless and tough was shocked. "So get after him! Get your wonderful organization hunting him!" Massino slammed his fists down on the desk. His voice rose to a snarling shout. "I don't give a goddamn what it costs! I want him!"
"Nearly home," Scott said, slowing the truck. "A mile ahead and to the left is New Symara . . . that's where I load. Up here," he swung the truck off the freeway and driving slowly climbed a narrow, sandy road, bordered either side with dense stands of pines, "leads to Little Creek. It's little enough. A store, around a dozen cabins and the lake. We've got a houseboat on the far side of the lake. No one bothers us. People in Little Creek are too busy to earn a dollar to bother anyone."
This was reassuring news to Johnny.
The sandy track was now edged with thistles, ferns and blue flags. The jungle behind was so thick it looked like a black curtain to Johnny.
They came out suddenly on to the lake. Johnny judged it to be a mile and a half across. There were several boats out with men fishing. One of the men raised his hand in a salute as Scott drove by. Scott waved back.
"Supper time," he said with a crooked grin. "Everyone here fishes for their suppers and their goddamn dinners too. I wonder if Freda's caught anything."
Leaving the group of cabins behind them, they drove for a mile through the jungle, then came out suddenly into a cleared space where Johnny saw a long, shabby houseboat with a twenty-foot long, battered pier joining it to the mainland.
"Lived here for two years," Scott said as he drove the truck into a parking bay, covered with tatty bamboo. "Got it for a Song. Had to work on it, but now it's not too bad. You reckon to stay long?"
Johnny turned and looked directly at Scott.
"Doesn't that depend on what your wife says? She may not want a stranger hanging around."
Scott shrugged.
"You don't have to worry about Freda: she's as money hungry as I am. I can use thirty-five bucks a week and she can use some company. Not much fun for her being left here all alone all day."
Johnny continued to look directly at Scott.
"Just a minute . . . Is there something wrong with your wife? Is she a cripple or something?"