The Postman Always Rings Twice (11 page)

      "I don't want any beer garden, I tell you. All I want is a guy that'll buy the whole works and pay cash."

      "But it seems a shame."

      "Not to me it don't."

      "But look, Frank. The license is only twelve dollars for six months. My goodness, we can afford twelve dollars, can't we?"

      "We get the license and then we're in the beer business. We're in the gasoline business already, and the hot dog business, and now we got to go in the beer business. The hell with it. I want to get Out of it, not get in deeper."

      "Everybody's got one."

      "And welcome, so far as I'm concerned."

      "People wanting to come, and the place all fixed up under the trees, and now I have to tell them we don't have beer because we haven't any license."

      "Why do you have to tell them anything?"

      "All we've got to do is put in coils and then we can have draught beer. It's better than bottled beer, and there's more money in it. I saw some lovely glasses in Los Angeles the other day. Nice tall ones. The kind people like to drink beer out of."

      "So we got to get coils and glasses now, have we? I tell you I don't _want_ any beer garden."

      "Frank, don't you ever want to _be_ something?"

      "Listen, get this. I want to get away from this place. I want to go somewhere else, where every time I look around I don't see the ghost of a goddam Greek jumping out at me, and hear his echo in my dreams, and jump every time the radio comes out with a guitar. I've got to go away, do you hear me? I've got to get out of here, or I go nuts."

      "You're lying to me."

      "Oh no, I'm not lying. I never meant anything more in my life."

      "You don't see the ghost of any Greek, that's not it. Somebody else might see it, but not Mr. Frank Chambers. No, you want to go away just because you're a bum, that's all. That's what you were when you came here, and that's what you are now. When we go away, and our money's all gone, then what?"

      "What do I care? We go away, don't we?"

      "That's it, you don't care. We could stay here--"

      "I knew it. That's what you really mean. That's what you've meant all along. That we stay here."

      "And why not? We've got it good. Why wouldn't we stay here? Listen, Frank. You've been trying to make a bum out of me ever since you've known me, but you're not going to do it. I told you, I'm not a bum. I want to _be_ something. We stay here. We're not going away. We take out the beer license. We amount to something."

      It was late at night, and we were upstairs, half undressed. She was walking around like she had that time after the arraignment, and talking in the same funny jerks.

      "Sure we stay. We do whatever you say, Cora. Here, have a drink."

      "I don't want a drink."

      "Sure you want a drink. We got to laugh some more about getting the money, haven't we?"

      "We already laughed about it."

      "But we're going to make more money, aren't we? On the beer garden? We got to put down a couple on that, just for luck."

      "You nut. All right. Just for luck."

      That's the way it went, two or three times a week. And the tip-off was that every time I would come out of a hangover, I would be having those dreams. I would be falling, and that crack would be in my ears.

      Right after the sentence ran out, she got the telegram her mother was sick. She got some clothes in a hurry, and I put her on the train, and going back to the parking lot I felt funny, like I was made of gas and would float off somewhere. I felt free. For a week, anyway, I wouldn't have to wrangle, or fight off dreams, or nurse a woman back to a good humor with a bottle of liquor.

      On the parking lot a girl was trying to start her car. It wouldn't do anything. She stepped on everything and it was just plain dead.

      "What's the matter? Won't it go?"

      "They left the ignition on when they parked it, and now the battery's run out."

      "Then it's up to them. They've got to charge it for you."

      "Yes, but I've got to get home."

      "I'll take you home."

      "You're awfully friendly."

      "I'm the friendliest guy in the world."

      "You don't even know where I live."

      "I don't care."

      "It's pretty far. It's in the country."

      "The further the better. Wherever it is, it's right on my way."

      "You make it hard for a nice girl to say no."

      "Well then, if it's so hard, don't say it."

      She was a light-haired girl, maybe a little older than I was, and not bad on looks. But what got me was how friendly she was, and how she wasn't any more afraid of what I might do to her than if I was a kid or something. She knew her way around all right, you could see that. And what finished it was when I found out she didn't know who I was. We told our names on the way out, and to her mine didn't mean a thing. Boy oh boy what a relief that was. One person in the world that wasn't asking me to sit down to the table a minute, and then telling me to give them the lowdown on that case where they said the Greek was murdered. I looked at her, and I felt the same way I had walking away from the train, like I was made of gas, and would float out from behind the wheel.

      "So your name is Madge Allen, hey?"

      "Well, it's really Kramer, but I took my own name again after my husband died."

      "Well listen Madge Allen, or Kramer, or whatever you want to call it, I've got a little proposition to make you."

      "Yes?"

      "What do you say we turn this thing around, point her south, and you and me take a little trip for about a week?"

      "Oh, I couldn't do that?"

      "Why not?"

      "Oh, I just couldn't, that's all."

      "You like me?"

      "Sure I like you."

      "Well, I like you. What's stopping us?"

      She started to say something, didn't say it, and then laughed. "I own up. I'd like to, all right. And if it's something I'm supposed not to do, why that don't mean a thing to me. But I can't. It's on account of the cats."

      "Cats?"

      "We've got a lot of cats. And I'm the one that takes care of them. That's why I had to get home."

      "Well, they got pet farms, haven't they? We'll call one up, and tell them to come over and get them."

      That struck her funny. "I'd like to see a pet farm's face when it saw them. They're not that kind."

      "Cats are cats, ain't they?"

      "Not exactly. Some are big and some are little. Mine are big. I don't think a pet farm would do very well with that lion we've got. Or the tigers. Or the puma. Or the three jaguars. They're the worst. A jaguar is an awful cat."

      "Holy smoke. What do you do with those things?"

      "Oh, work them in movies. Sell the cubs. People have private zoos. Keep them around. They draw trade."

      "They wouldn't draw my trade."

      "We've got a restaurant. People look at them."

      "Restaurant, hey. That's what I've got. Whole goddam country lives selling hot dogs to each other."

      "Well, anyway, I couldn't walk out on my cats. They've got to eat."

      "The hell we can't. We'll call up Goebel and tell him to come get them. He'll board the whole bunch while we're gone for a hundred bucks."

      "Is it worth a hundred bucks to you to take a trip with me?"

      "It's worth exactly a hundred bucks."

      "Oh my. I can't say no to that. I guess you better call up Goebel."

      I dropped her off at her place, found a pay station, called up Goebel, went back home, and closed up. Then I went back after her. It was about dark. Goebel had sent a truck over, and I met it coming back, full of stripes and spots. I parked about a hundred yards down the road, and in a minute she showed up with a little grip, and I helped her in, and we started off.

      "You like it?"

      "I love it."

      We went down to Caliente, and next day we kept on down the line to Ensenada, a little Mexican town about seventy miles down the coast. We went to a little hotel there, and spent three or four days. It was pretty nice. Ensenada is all Mex, and you feel like you left the U. S. A. a million miles away. Our room had a little balcony in front of it, and in the afternoon we would just lay out there, look at the sea, and let the time go by.

      "Cats, hey. What do you do, train them?"

      "Not the stuff we've got. They're no good. All but the tigers are outlaws. But I do train them."

      "You like it?"

      "Not much, the real big ones. But I like pumas. I'm going to get an act together with them some time. But I'll need a lot of them. Jungle pumas. Not these outlaws you see in the zoos."

      "What's an outlaw?"

      "He'd kill you."

      "Wouldn't they all?"

      "They might, but an outlaw does anyhow. If it was people, he would be a crazy person. It comes from being bred in captivity. These cats you see, they look like cats, but they're really cat lunatics."

      "How can you tell it's a jungle cat?"

      "I catch him in a jungle."

      "You mean you catch them alive?"

      "Sure. They're no good to me dead."

      "Holy smoke. How do you do that?"

      "Well, first I get on a boat and go down to Nicaragua. All the really fine pumas come from Nicaragua. These California and Mexican things are just scrubs compared to them. Then I hire me some Indian boys and go up in the mountains. Then I catch my pumas. Then I bring them back. But this time, I stay down there with them a while, to train them. Goat meat is cheaper there than horse meat is here."

      "You sound like you're all ready to start."

      "I am."

      She squirted a little wine in her mouth, and gave me a long look. They give it to you in a bottle with a long thin spout on it, and you squirt it in your mouth with the spout. That's to cool it. She did that two or three times, and every time she did it she would look at me.

      "I am if you are."

      "What the hell? You think I'm going with you to catch them goddam things?"

      "Frank, I brought quite a lot of money with me. Let's let Goebel keep those bughouse cats for their board, sell your car for whatever we can get, and hunt cats."

      "You're on."

      "You mean you will?"

      "When do we start?"

      "There's a freight boat out of here tomorrow and it puts in at Balboa. We'll wire Goebel from there. And we can leave your car with the hotel here. They'll sell it and send us whatever they get. That's one thing about a Mexican. He's slow, but he's honest."

      "O.K."

      "Gee I'm glad."

      "Me too. I'm so sick of hot dogs and beer and apple pie with cheese on the side I could heave it all in the river."

      "You'll love it, Frank. We'll get a place up in the mountains, where it's cool, and then, after I get my act ready, we can go all over the world with it. Go as we please, do as we please, and have plenty of money to spend. Have you got a little bit of gypsy in you?"

      "Gypsy? I had rings in my ears when I was born."

      I didn't sleep so good that night. When it was beginning to get light, I opened my eyes, wide awake. It came to me, then, that Nicaragua wouldn't be quite far enough.

CHAPTER 14

      When she got off the train she had on a black dress, that made her look tall, and a black hat, and black shoes and stockings, and didn't act like herself while the guy was loading the trunk in the car. We started out, and neither one of us had much to say for a few miles.

      "Why didn't you let me know she died?"

      "I didn't want to bother you with it. Anyhow, I had a lot to do."

      "I feel plenty bad now, Cora."

      "Why?"

      "I took a trip while you were away. I went up to Frisco."

      "Why do you feel bad about that?"

      "I don't know. You back there in Iowa, your mother dying and all, and me up in Frisco having a good time."

      "I don't know why you should feel bad. I'm glad you went. If I'd have thought about it, I'd have told you to before I left."

      "We lost some business. I closed down."

      "It's all right. We'll get it back."

      "I felt kind of restless, after you left."

      "Well my goodness, I don't mind."

      "I guess you had a bad time of it, hey?"

      "It wasn't very pleasant. But anyhow, it's over."

      "I'll shoot a drink in you when we get home. I got some nice stuff out there I brought back to you."

      "I don't want any."

      "It'll pick you up."

      "I'm not drinking any more."

      "No?"

      "I'll tell you about it. It's a long story."

      "You sound like plenty happened out there."

      "No, nothing happened. Only the funeral. But I've got a lot to tell you. I think we're going to have a better time of it from now on."

      "Well for God's sake. What is it?"

      "Not now. Did you see your family?"

      "What for?"

      "Well anyway, did you have a good time?"

      "Fair. Good as I could have alone."

      "I bet it was a swell time. But I'm glad you said it."

      When we got out there, a car was parked in front, and a guy was sitting in it. He got a silly kind of grin on his face and climbed out. It was Kennedy, the guy in Katz's office.

      "You remember me?"

      "Sure I remember you. Come on in."

      We took him inside, and she gave me a pull into the kitchen.

      "This is bad, Frank."

      "What do you mean, bad?"

      "I don't know, but I can feel it."

      "Better let me talk to him."