I. ALEXANDER ROTH

THE big grey roadster streaked by me and came to a halt fifty yards down the highway with screaming tires. I got my lungs full of the smell of hot oil and burning rubber. It choked me so that for a full minute I couldn't breathe. Neither could I move; I just stood there staring stupidly at it and at the two black skid-marks the wheels left on the concrete. I was heading west, via the thumb-route, and had been waiting over three hours for a lift. I can't remember exactly where I was at the time, but it was somewhere in New Mexico, between Las Cruces and Lordsburg.

It seemed sort of crazy, that car stopping. I had begun to believe that only old jalopies and trucks picked up hikers any more. Bums are generally pretty dirty and good cars have nice seats. Then, too, it was a lonesome stretch in there and plenty can happen on a lonesome stretch.

The guy driving the car yelled at me over his shoulder. “Hey, you! Are you coming?” He acted as though he was in a great hurry, for he goosed his engine impatiently so I'd shake a leg.

I snapped out of it. It was hot as a bastard and I guess the sun was getting me. Somewhere back along the line I had lost my hat and the top of my head seemed to be on fire. Anyway, the last two hours I had been waving cars more or less mechanically, not expecting anyone to stop. A few hundred of them must have whizzed by without even slowing down a little to give me the once-over. You know, hitch-hiking isn't as popular out west as it used to be. I suppose that is why the real bums stick to the rails.

“I'm coming, I'm coming!” I shouted as loud as I could. My throat was caked with road dust and even opening my mouth was painful. It felt like someone had given my tonsils a good going over with sandpaper. Taking the lead out of my pants, I broke all records running to the car and piling in, lugging my valise after me. “Sorry, mister. The heat's got me down.”

The man reached back, pressed a button behind his seat and the rumble popped open. He pointed to my valise. I tossed it in and slammed the rumble shut.

“Make sure your door's closed, Johnny.” I made sure.

We drove along for a little while, neither one of us saying anything. I was glad of that. I never know what to say to strange people driving cars, except the old line of gab which is flat as hell. The chances are a guy knows just as well as you do that it is a nice day, that the scenery is pretty, that the road is quite rough in spots and that it can't be much farther to Deming. Then, too, you never can tell if a fellow wants to talk. A lot of rides have been cut short because of a big mouth.

I was sweating like a man in a Turkish bath, so I kept to my own side of the car. My dirty polo-shirt clung to my back as though it was glued there and I could feel little drops of perspiration trickle down my legs into what was left of my socks. On either side of the road baked endless low hills covered with green sage. Every thing in sight reflected a glare in spite of the thick coating of dust which had settled even on the highway itself. The top was down on the car, but to catch some breeze I had to hold my head out over the wind-wing. We were making better than seventy miles an hour with the road full of curves, yet I was too grateful for the air to be nervous. As I cooled off a bit I took back all the names I had been calling the Southwest.

“How far are you going?” he asked me after a while.

“L.A.”

The man turned to face me in surprise. “Well, you're really traveling, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” I answered him, “but I don't expect to make it for a couple of years at the rate I've been promoting rides.”

“Not much luck?”

I thought I'd make him feel good. They tell me that is the secret of success—you know, winning friends and influencing people. From the looks of the buggy, I figured this guy should be good for a hamburger.

“There ain't many people driving cars,” I said, “who will stop and pick up a fellow these days.”

He ran a sleeve across his sun-glasses to wipe off the dust.

“No, I guess not.”

“They're afraid of a stick-up, maybe. It's only men who have been around that can tell a straight from a phony.” I thought that ought to hold him for a while.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Detroit. ”

I don't know why I said that; there really was no call to lie. Maybe I was so accustomed to lying it had become a habit, I don't know. But that's me all over. For the life of me, I can't figure myself out. The fact of the matter was I hadn't been anywhere near Detroit for years.

“Detroit, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” I said it, so I had to stick to it.

“Well, Detroit, you're in luck this time. I'm going all the way.”

I couldn't believe my ears. I thought I was dreaming.

“You mean you're going straight through to Los Angeles?”

“That's the ticket. Can you drive a car?”

“Sure thing,” I breathed, trying to keep from singing or something.

“Good.”

“Whenever you're tired, let me know.”

“I'll holler.”

He didn't say anything after that for a couple of miles and I slumped back on the rich leather upholstery and got to thinking all the hell I'd been through and how nice it was that it was practically over. Since losing my job playing fiddle in Bellman's band, a lot of water had gone under the bridge. I didn't mind losing the job so much—because with me or without me Bellman's band was pretty punk—but Sue ought never to have walked out like that only a week or ten days before we were slated to get married. The idea of me being unemployed was nothing for her to tear her hair out because I can handle a fiddle well enough to land something in a minute, providing there is a spot open; but what got me was that she was practically postponing our marriage for years. With everything all set, she certainly picked a fine time to go to Hollywood. Well, I told myself, what the devil. She didn't mean anything by it. Sue was an impulsive kid, jumping at the first thing that came along.

That got me to thinking: maybe that was how she agreed to marry me. I had an apartment and forty a week coming in and... But no. It was a dirty thing to think, and it didn't stand up. Sue could have had Bellman if she'd wanted him. She could have had any fellow in the band.

Of course all the hell wasn't over yet by a long shot. Just reaching L.A. didn't mean I had a job and a bank account; but at least the long trip would be over and I'd be with Sue again and there'd be no more hoofing it down the concrete or parking my can on guard-railings. You can lay your bottom dollar the next time I take it into my head to go somewhere I won't blow my money—or, if I do, at least I'll stick around until I can dig up the price of a bus.

We took a curve fast. The rear-end skidded on the smooth surface of the road. I was a little scared. I don't mind fast driving when I'm at the wheel, but I didn't know this guy. A couple of feet to the right was one hell of a ravine and I kept imagining we were edging towards it. One wrong move of the hand could have sent us into eternity, Kingdom Come, or whatever is waiting for us. I glanced at the speedometer and saw the needle hovering at seventy-eight, then eighty. Boy, that was some car all right. It was a year old, but it seemed like Cinderella's coach after that Model T fertilizer truck I'd ridden all the way from El Paso. I still smelled like a barn. The man at the wheel must have noticed me watching the dash. “I started from New York,” he volunteered. “Only four and a half days so far.”

“Some driving,” I commented. The way I said it could have meant almost anything. I'm from New York myself and I know how most of them drive. However, in a few minutes I was considerably relieved. Here was one New Yorker who really could drive. I admired the dexterous way he used his hands and feet as he double clutched into second at seventy to save his brakes at a cow-crossing. It was then that I first got a flash of the deep scratches on his right wrist. They were wicked marks—three puffy red lines, about a quarter of an inch part.

Without removing his eyes from the road, for which I was grateful, he said, “Aren't they beauties? Those are going to be scars some day. What an animal!”

I'd seen plenty of scars before in my life—from old war wounds and appendicitis incisions to the long whip-welts on an ex-con I knew who'd once been on a Florida chain-gang—but these scratches interested me. “What kind of an animal was it, sir?” I asked. “Must have been pretty big and vicious to have done that.”

He laughed. “Right on both counts, Detroit. I was wrestling with the most dangerous animal in the world. A woman.” He laughed again. This time I joined him. “She must have been Tarzan's mate,” I said. “It looks like you lost the bout.”

“Oh, I'm always getting cut and scratched, seems to me. I can't even shave myself without losing a quart of blood. Have to go to a barber. But if you want to see a real scar, take a look at this.” He pulled the right sleeve of his coat up a little higher and I almost got sick to my stomach. The thing looked like a thick piece of twine twisted around his forearm. It was rough and had a lot of little bumps and knots on it. “I got that one dueling,” he explained.

“Dueling!”

Say, what kind of a chump did this fellow take me for, anyway? Only Germans dueled any more, and I could tell just by looking at him he wasn't German.

“Yes,” he went on. “Of course we were only kids. My dad owned a couple of Franco-Prussian sabers. Kept them on the wall for a decoration. Well, another kid and I took them out one day when he wasn't around and had a duel. He got me on the arm here. It was a mean cut. An infection set in later.”

“Yeah.” I can see.”

“Some beauty-mark, eh?”

I turned my head away and the man pulled down his sleeve. Then he lapsed into silence, his mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. I wondered what he was thinking about, or if I had said something wrong. Some guys are sensitive. Maybe I should have told him the scar was gorgeous?

But in a minute he continued, “The pain made me crazy and I lost my head, I guess. I began slashing, and before I knew it I... I put the other kid's eye out.”

He whipped the Buick around a sharp bend with a yank at the wheel. The rear tires screeched to beat the band. We must have lost at least a half-inch of rubber on that turn and I was beginning to think that maybe I'd never see Sue in Los Angeles at that.

“Gee,” I said solemnly, “that was tough.”

“Oh, it was an accident, of course. But you know how kids are. I got frightened and decided to run away from home. My father almost caught me while I was packing my duds. If the bloody rag I wrapped around my wrist hadn't attracted his attention he would sure as hell have seen my bundle. I sneaked away while he was calling the doctor.”

He paused to light himself a cigarette which he took from a case in the dash-compartment. I was hoping he'd offer me one, but he didn't.

“That was fifteen years ago,” he said. “I haven't been home since.”

I couldn't think of anything to say to that at the moment; I had my mind on bumming one of his butts. If he had only been going a few miles I would have risked making a pest of myself; but this guy was my one chance of getting to Hollywood before next Christmas. I made up my mind to forget about a smoke.

“Well, what do you know about that,” I murmured, trying to appear interested as hell. “Can you beat it?” He was smoking expensive Egyptians.

 

About two hours later we hit Lordsburg and the owner of the car pulled up before a restaurant on the main drag. Although it was late afternoon, the sun was still shining as bright and as hot as ever; and when the stranger removed his sunglasses he had two round white patches circling his eyes. He mopped his burned face with a handkerchief. I wanted to mop mine, too; but my one and only handkerchief was split in half and being used to plug up the holes in my shoes.

“Hungry, Detroit?”

Was I hungry? Well I certainly should have been. I hadn't had anything to eat since the midnight doughnut and coffee I'd managed to chisel seventeen hours before. I was almost at the point of wishing I was back in the can at Dallas, where at least a fellow could have something to eat twice a day. Yet, even with that rotten gnawing in the pit of my stomach, I didn't want to be in too big a rush to put on the feedbag. First I had to make sure that this fellow knew the score. If I got him down on me it was good-bye ticket to Hollywood.

“I'll wait for you out here in the car, mister,” I mumbled, trying to look as forlorn as possible—without hamming it. It was a big moment. Believe me, if the stranger had shrugged indifferently and walked in without me I would I have collapsed. But I guess an empty gut makes a convincing actor of a man. As I had hoped, he picked up his cue like a trouper.

“Oh, if it's the money, don't worry about paying for it. This time it's on me.”

“Well, that's white of you, mister... er...” I didn't want to go on calling him just plain “sir.” It sounded funny.

“Haskell is the name. But think nothing of it. When you make your first million you can do the same for me.” He came out with one of those loud and sudden laughs of his evidently pleased that he had said something funny. I laughed with him because it was expected of me, but it wasn't such a hot joke. It is very easy to kid about dough—when you've got it.

“Well, much obliged, Mister Haskell damned lucky I met you. My name is Alexander Roth.”

We sort of hesitated around, not knowing whether we ought to shake hands or what; then finally we did, awkwardly, and went into the restaurant. The smell of the place weakened me. It was a little chophouse with one of those open kitchens where a large black cook was barbecuing some meat. I could practically taste the stuff from thirty feet away. They had the joint fixed up sweet, and as soon as we walked in I could tell they clipped you plenty. When there are tablecloths and thin dishes in a roadhouse you can bet your life coffee's a dime. A waiter in a starched white mess-jacket gave me the once over as the screen door slammed behind us and I have an idea he would have tossed me out on my ear if he hadn't spotted Haskell. Even so, he gave me a dirty look, making me fed ill at ease. The way I was dressed, I should have been coming around the back, holding out my hand. “Two? This way, please.”

The waiter was giving Haskell that prop smile of his and me the death's-head grin. Those bastards are all alike, the world over. I've worked in enough clubs and restaurants to know the breed backwards. They'll do anything for a tip, and they can smell where it's coming from a mile away. Anyhow, this guy certainly could. I didn't know him, but I hated him.

He showed us into a booth and I didn't waste any time sitting down and grabbing the menu. Have you ever been so hungry that you get to gnawing through the inside of your cheek? My mouth was full of canker sores.

“Don't you think we'd better wash before ordering?”

I looked up at Mr. Haskell and then down again in shame.

We were alone in the place—it being an odd time—but his voice sounded loud enough to be heard out in the street.

Besides, to add to my embarrassment, there was that grinning baboon with the napkin over his arm standing by the table. I felt like crawling into a hole somewhere. I knew I was dirty as hell. I hadn't had a bath in nine days; my hands were cracked and dusty and my nails were a sight. Jeez, if my old violin teacher, Professor Puglesi, could have seen those nails he would have dropped dead. He used to tell me that some day my hands would be my fortune. What a laugh! The old fellow meant all right I guess; however, on this trip, by far the most valuable finger on my hand was my thumb.

I shoved back the table and hopped out of the booth. “Sure, if you'd rather, Mr. Haskell. Only I thought it save a little time if we ordered now and then washed while he was getting it.”

Haskell nodded. I knew I'd scored. “Maybe you're right at that, Detroit. I want to make Los Angeles before Saturday, so you see every minute counts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I've got a line on a plug that runs back east at Belmont Park. It means dough to me if I can get in town before the race.”

I yessed him again. What was he telling me all this for? He didn't want to get there any quicker than I did. It seemed like years since last I saw Sue. In all that time I'd been living the life of a monk.... Well, practically the life of monk. Sue told me before she left that she didn't expect me to be faithful to her—although she, naturally, would be faithful to me. “Men aren't built that way,” she said, “and as long as it doesn't mean anything, I don't really mind. So go out when you feel like it and have a good time.” I thought that was very broad minded of her, yet somehow, I didn't like it. I wanted her to want me to be faithful—even if I wasn't.

Haskell was looking at the menu. “How about a steak, Detroit?”

Imagine! A steak!

“Do you mean it?” I stammered. The guy didn't sound like a ribber.

“Why not? That's what I'm having.”

Then and there I decided this fellow was tops. Feature it. He not only lifts me for hundreds of miles, he buys me steak dinners! And to think that a couple of minutes before I'd been reading the menu from right to left. I didn't know the proper thing to say to him, so I didn't say anything.

“Two sirloin steak dinners,” he told the grinning duck at his elbow. “And be sure you make them rare.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

I liked mine well done, but I let it go at that.

It was while I was scrubbing the thick layer of road-dust from my face and hands that I first took a good look at this angel of mine. You know how it is. When you're strictly on your rear-end you kind of feel inferior; you don't look a guy over to size him up when he's giving you a break. You feel thankful enough to be getting the break. Haskell was behind me, looking into the wall-mirror over my shoulder while he combed his hair. He had a rather a handsome face, only it looked a little bloated, as if he'd been keeping late hours or something. It was tanned from the sun, but even so it had the appearance of pallor, a certain puffiness under his eyes and around the corners of his mouth. The eyes themselves were brown like mine, only they were bloodshot and tired and the pupils looked dilated a little—caused by driving too much, no doubt. He was about my own height and build, but probably three or four years my senior. The thing that struck me funny, though, was his nose. It was almost the duplicate of my own. His had the same kind of bump at the bridge which sort of threw the nose a little to one side. And the nostrils flared, too. He must have seen me staring at it, because he asked what was up. I told him.

“You think we look alike?” He frowned a little into the glass.

“Oh, I don't know. I can't see a resemblance.”

“Well,” I insisted, “you're older than me, for one thing. But take a look at my nose. See, that bump there? I broke it, riding the tail-board of an ice-wagon when I was ten. You've got that kind of a bump, too.

“He laughed at that. “I assure you, bud, I was never on an ice-wagon in my life.”

“No, but you've got that bump. I'll grant you we don't look like brothers, but...”

“Well, you can have the job of posing for all my passport photographs. How about that?”

“No, but seriously, Mr. Haskell, don't you think—”

“I can't see it,” he cut in, getting tired of the conversation. “If you're ready, let's get going.”

I shut up pronto. He was just in a hurry, not sore. Nevertheless, I wouldn't have blamed him much if he had been sore. I looked like the wrath of God. When I left New York I wasn't wearing the proper clothing for a trip of this kind; and noticing the expensive grey tweeds he had on, I became all the more conscious of my sweaty, dollar polo shirt and my ragged pants. Well, maybe we didn't look much alike.

He did most of the talking during the rest of the hour we were in the cafe. I ate. He rambled on about his family who lived in Bel-Air, his kid sister he had always been so crazy about, his mother who had died the year before he ran away, his father whom he had always despised, and stuff like that. Every now and then I'd come out with a “Yes?” or an “Is that so?” but I wasn't paying much attention. That steak kept me busy. It was a little tough—I guess it wasn't cooked enough—but need I mention I enjoyed it? It tasted like the manna must have tasted to the starving Jews wandering around in the wilderness for God knows how long. I began to feel myself again with that under my belt, and the morbid pictures I'd been conjuring up in my mind for weeks suddenly went like Margaret Mitchell's book. By the time the dessert came I was in such a pleasant frame of mind that even the thought of Sue out there alone among the Hollywood wolves did not bother me.

And, believe you me, that's saying something. Sue was—and for that matter must still be—a gal who can bother anybody under the age of seventy. Pretty as a dream, blonde and green-eyed, it is her habit to open those big eyes wide, pout that red Cupid mouth, and crawl right in under a guy's skin. That is exactly the way she crawled in under mine. But once she's there she festers and it takes plenty of time and liquor to get her out of your system. One fellow I know back in New York stayed in love with her for months after she handed him his hat. He used to walk around in a fog and get drunk every night. Once he even tried to commit suicide. That's the way Sue affects people. But let me tell you how I happened to get mixed up with her. I know it's the old story, but I like to think about it.

I met her while I was playing first fiddle in a little club on West 57th Street, not far from Columbus Circle. I was only doing that sort of work to force my old man off the relief rolls. He wanted me to go on studying under Professor Puglesi; but I'm funny that way. I don't like people making any sacrifices for me—not even my own father. As it was, my dad almost died of shame when I came home one day and told him what I was doing and that I intended to keep it up. And the professor? Well, he damned near blew his cork.

“A concert violinist playing jazz music in a cheap night club! Ye gods! My boy, in three—maybe even two—years I will have you making your debut. You will be the envy of everybody who can call himself a musician. Believe what I am telling you and quit this foolish job right away.”

And nothing he could say would change my mind. I told myself that if I really had something on the ball it would come out no matter what I did. Besides, how did I know I was as good as I was cracked up to be? I had only the professor's word for it, and maybe he was dishing out a lot of hot air so he could keep getting that two bucks a lesson.

Anyway, that's how I fell in with Sue. Only don't get the idea she was one of the club's headliners or plugged songs or sold cigarettes. She was just one of the fifteen-dollar-a-week cuties in the floor-show chorus. She was great on looks, but the dance-director used to complain to Bellman that she had two left legs. That may or may not have been true, but to me she stood out like nobody's business, making the rest of the girls look sick and sixty. Her hair was about the color of polished brass, with that same metallic shine to it; and it fell down to her shoulders, and it was straight except for the ends, which she kept curled under. It formed a perfect frame for that delicate nose and those enormous dark green eyes. But if her face and hair were lovely, her body was something special. She was of slight build, with a waist so slender every time she bent over you expected her to break. I won't go into all the details, but engineers ought to go to her for lessons in streamlining. With her looks she didn't have to know how to dance.

It took me all of three weeks to gather up enough nerve to ask her for a date. When finally I did she said she had a date; however, the following night she let me take her home on the Fifth Avenue bus that runs up Riverside. It was quite a long ride—she lived uptown near Seaman Avenue and Dyckman Street—but in all the time it took us to get there I don't think I said ten words to her. She had me completely buffaloed, and before the bus passed 72nd Street I was in love with her. I could feel her little body against my arm and the perfume she had on was enough to make any man bite through a bar of cast-iron. It was heaven, let me tell you. I guess she must have realized how I felt, because when we reached her door she kissed me good night and said I was sweet and good night again, she'd see me tomorrow; then she kissed me again. I rode home on the downtown subway that night and passed my stop.

All this was about three months after my father died. I was still feeling pretty low about it and the apartment seemed awfully dark and empty without him. His old Morris-chair continued to stand by the living-room window where he used to sit by the hour and stare down into the street. Right after the funeral I packed everything of his away and stored it in the basement because I didn't want to think about him any more. It only made me feel rotten. But now and then I'd run across one of his pipes or something and I'd go soft as mush. For that reason I stayed away from home as much as possible. I would have moved in a minute if the landlord would have let me break the lease.

One night Sue and I got to drinking after the club closed and we wound up only a few blocks from where I lived. I took her up there, and to my astonishment she said she'd appreciate it if I let her stay all night. She explained she was tight and couldn't face her mother in that condition. She didn't look that tight to me, but you can bet your sweet life I didn't send her home. We slept together for the first time that night and after that we went to my house a lot.

I was truly overboard by then. However, don't be misled and think it was one of those sexual attachments story-writers are always talking about. Of course I enjoyed staying with her, but there was something else, too. Words can't describe it, but if you've ever been in love you'll know what I mean.

There were times when I wanted to hold her off at a distance so mat I could see her and appreciate her without my emotions being hammered to pieces; and then at other times I couldn't get close enough. I'd imagine there was a wall between us and I'd try my damnedest to break through. I felt that I was outside, and that wasn't enough. Sometimes I'd lay awake at night fighting the desire to reach out and turn on the bed-lamp so I could look at her. Once I did turn it on. It woke Sue up and she got sore, so I never tried it again. But I wanted to. Do you get what I mean? If you don't, it's the best I can do.

Then one day her mother found out about us. Don't ask me how. I haven't the faintest idea unless Sue talked in her sleep or kept a diary. Being one of the straitlaced kind—the kind of woman who wears a corset under her nightgown—she told her daughter to get out and stay out. She wasn't fooling, either. I went around and tried to argue with Mrs. Harvey, but it was no soap. When I explained that my intentions were honorable, that I loved her daughter and intended to marry her just as soon as I earned a little more money, she slammed the door in my face. So there remained nothing else but for Sue to move in with me, which she did, bag and baggage. We got along beautifully, Sue and I. True, she wasn't much of a housekeeper—being more the bohemian type—and most of the time it was I who had to do the cleaning; but she made up for that in other ways. Just her presence in that small, dreary apartment was enough to compensate for what the neighbors must have thought. Oh, they believed we were married all right; but one day they caught a glimpse of our place. They must have thought we lived like pigs. Well, we did, I suppose. What's a little dust and a few dirty dishes when you're in love?

During this period I don't think I missed a day without asking her to marry me and make it permanent. I'd start in on it in the morning after breakfast, at lunch, at dinner between numbers at the club and in bed at night. Sue insisted she was every bit as much in love as I was, but that marriage is a serious step and people should never go into a thing like that until they were sure. I was sure all right; maybe she wasn't. Nevertheless, with all the cold water she threw on the idea, one night, after we had been living together for almost three months, she agreed to be the Mrs.

“I'm only doing it so that I can have a little peace,” she laughed. I laughed too when I wondered which way to take that.

It was early in the spring when I got fired for poking a customer in the jaw. I'm usually a very quiet guy, and I don't pick fights unless they're forced on me; but there were a lot of wiseacres who came into the Break O'Dawn stag, looking for whatever they could pick up. This one bird made a pass at Sue while she was on the floor doing her number. It wasn't much, really—all he did was pat her fanny—but it riled me, I saw red, hopped off the bandstand and let him have it. The management put him out, and when work was over Bellman came up and told me I was through. I expected him at least to give me two weeks' pay. All I got was the curl of his lip. That, naturally, was grounds for a beef to the Union. However, I didn't want to make trouble on account of Sue.

I was sorry to lose that job; not that the money was much, but because it meant not being able to work with her. As things turned out, though, it wouldn't have made much difference. Less than a month later she decided to go to Hollywood, on spec. A friend of hers kept writing that she was doing fine out there and how marvelous the sunshine was and how it never rained in Southern California; that was all the encouragement Sue needed.

“But we were supposed to get married next Monday!” I howled.

“We'll get married when I come back, Alex, huh? Or when you come out. Say, that's an idea. Why don't you come out, too?”

She knew very well why I couldn't come out. I had fourteen bucks left in the bank. So all I could do was kiss her good-bye and tell her to be sure to write at least once a week. She did, about a month later, enclosing a ten-dollar bill, which she said she was sure I could use. It came in very handy. She must have been a mind reader or psychic or something, because I just couldn't find work. No band seemed to be short on fiddles. I made the rounds six days a week, but summer is a bad season for everything in New York. Then one day I went to see a friend of mine who is an assistant program director at N.B.C. and he advised me to sleep mornings. I put the bee on him for twenty bucks and decided to follow Sue.

In a way, her leaving wasn't so bad, and I began to feel much better about things. It gave me an excuse to do what I'd always dreamed of doing: striking out to the west. When we were kids it was the Indians we wanted to hunt; now it's the movies. I know I'm probably the millionth guy to start out for the film capital, hoping to connect; but why shouldn't I be able to crash the racket? I'm not Heifetz or Kreisler, but I can handle a bow a lot better than Rubinoff, for instance, and I'm only twenty-nine and not bad looking. The only cockeyed feature about me is my nose, and that shouldn't prove such a handicap. I understand they can hook enough filters, portrait-attachments and jiggers to the camera to make Madame X look like Shirley Temple.

My only regret in starting for L.A. was my fiddle. Since the only way I could afford to cross the country was to bum it, I didn't need train or bus fare. But I'd have to eat, so into hock it went—along with the few pieces of furniture that were paid for, two suits and my working tux. That stuff I didn't mind pawning, but I'd need the violin to work. It was no Stradivarius, I'll grant you, but it could carry a tune with the best of them. As the professor always claimed, a true artist doesn't need an expensive instrument. He can get by with an old cigar-box and a couple of yards of cat-gut.

The going wasn't so bad in the east. I didn't have any trouble catching rides—except around Philadelphia, where you can catch about everything else—and all went along smoothly until I ran into tough luck in Dallas. My money was all gone and I was thrown in the jug for swiping some fruit off a stand. I'm no thief, but, boy, three days of penny candy can make a great difference in a fellow's scruples. The cops treated me mean, slapped me around plenty, took my picture and finger-prints; then they hauled me into court. When he heard the charges against me the judge smiled kind of wistfully. He was a benign sort, that judge; he looked like an owl, with his bald head and heavy spectacles.

“Another State v. Jean Valjean, eh?”

Maybe he had a notion I didn't know what he was talking about, but I'd seen that picture, too. The arresting officer evidently hadn't. “You must have the wrong case, Your Honor. This man is Alexander Roth.”

The judge didn't say anything for a moment, just sat there on the bench, peering at me through those milk-bottle lenses. Then he sighed wearily. “Thirty days,” he said. “When you get out, Roth, come back and see me. Next case.”

I thought it was a bum rap, but when I went back to see him he wrote me a letter of reference. That was nice of him, especially since he didn't mention that I'd served time. In the letter he called me a personal friend of his, I still had the thing in my valise.

The guy across the table from me was just finishing his dessert. I'd finished mine ten minutes before, He took a final slug of coffee and then wiped his lips with a napkin. As if that was some prearranged signal, the waiter approached, still wearing that sickly smile, and laid the check on the table, face down. I've often wondered why waiters do that. Is it because they don't want to spoil the customer's appetite?

“All set, Detroit?”

“Yes, sir. That certainly was grand of you to...”

“Forget it—forget it.”

“Oh, I can't do that. I'll bet there's not another man who'd have—”

He shut me up with a wave of the hand and, reaching into his inside pocket, took out a big black wallet. My heart almost stopped beating when I got a flash of that thick sheaf of twenties and tens. I'd never before seen a roll like that one, not even in the clubs. The sight of so much cash really got me, and I scarcely breathed while he was thumbing through it. I tried to look away—because I was afraid if he saw me watching him he might think I was getting ideas—but I just couldn't remove my eyes.

They say that money is nothing, that a buck is only a piece of paper crawling with germs, and that you can't buy happiness with cash. I say sour grapes. Name me one thing money can't buy. Respect? That's usually the first item people mention. Well, will you tell me who respects a guy without money? A guy that's starving, say, or on the bum? Go on the bum some time and find out how much respect you get. I know. Love? That's usually the next come-back. Brother, don't ever let anyone pull that one on you. You can win a woman a lot easier with a mink coat than with poetry and walks in the park. But what got me off on this?

The check couldn't have been more than two and a half, but Haskell paid it with a fin.

“Keep the change, Mac,” he told the waiter. I made up my mind that I must be riding with some kind of crook. No honest man would think of tipping a waiter like that.

The road from Lordsburg to Phoenix—U.S. 70—winds around an awful lot through mountain passes. The scenery is really beautiful, if you like mat sort of thing. I don't. Wilderness may be O.K. for animals and hermits, but give me cultivated lawns, buildings and people every time. When I was a young sprout I had an ambition to become a cowboy and roam the range, shooting rustlers and rescuing good-looking women. But I'm older and wiser now and I've learned there are more good-looking numbers to be had by riding around in a flashy car with a pocketful of chips.

While we were tearing around curves the sun was going down. The sky became a dull red, gradually growing darker as if it was cooling off which, as a matter of fact, it was. Somehow I wasn't at all nervous any more and I didn't keep wondering what would happen if we blew a tire or met a truck on a bend. I just leaned back, completely at ease puffing away on the cigar Haskell treated me to. If we had run off a cliff then, I'd have died feeling happy. Funny how little it actually takes to make a man contended. Why, if it had been Sue there alongside me, there would have been nothing more I could ask of the world.

Haskell was driving without his sunglasses and I noticed that his eyes looked sleepy. He was squinting a little and the lids drooped. The puffiness in his face had gone away, only now there were bags and pouches and his skin had a transparency about it. I could almost see clean through to his cheek-bones. The man looked unhealthy. “Want me to take over for a while, Mr. Haskell?”

He thought it over for a few seconds. “Well... think you can handle her all right?”

“Sure. I'll take it easy. You must be all fagged out, driving so long.”

Haskell covered a yawn. “I am, rather. Didn't get much sleep last night in El Paso. All right, Detroit. Wait until we come to the next gas station. Tank's almost empty, anyway.”

We swung into a Shell joint about twenty minutes later and two attendants rushed out, smiling the company smile—from ear to ear. An independent dealer will smile according to the amount of gas you buy, but these college graduates, most of them engineers, lawyers, bacteriologists, BA. and B.S. men cum laude, cheerfully wipe your windshield, put water in your radiator, check the headlights and battery, add air, clean the steering-wheel, and do everything else they can think of but give you a shave and a shine. Haskell broke out his roll again and handed me a twenty. It was definitely a thrill. I hadn't had that much dough in my hands for months.

“Tell them to fill her up and change the oil. I'm going in the back. Hey, Johnny,” he called to one of the attendants, “where is it?”

“You have to go out there to the shed, mister.”

“I hate this natural plumbing,” he said to me.

“I won't be long.”

When he came back I handed him his change. He counted it. “Let me see. You're giving me back sixteen twenty-two. That leaves three seventy-eight. That must have been twelve gallons at nineteen and six quarts at two-bits. Correct isn't it?” My jaw dropped wide open. Jimmy, this guy certainly was up on his arithmetic! What was he, anyway? A. C.P.A.? I knocked wood mentally that I hadn't tried to pocket a few dimes on the transaction.

He smiled when he saw the look on my face.

“Yes, I'm pretty good at figures, Detroit. I should be. I wrote sheet for seven years.”

That explained it. He was a bookie.

When we got going again, with me at the wheel, Haskell rode with his head resting against the back of the seat and his eyes closed. I hit a steady pace of fifty-five, which I decided was plenty in the dark with all those twists and turns. Not only that, it was getting a little foggy, and the headlights of approaching cars, even after they were dimmed, blinded me. Half the time I didn't even bother to strain my eyes to see ahead; I merely followed the line in the center of the road. After about an hour passed, and Haskell still rode in that same position, I thought he may be asleep. It startled me when he suddenly said, “Hey Detroit, have you got a stick of gum on you, by any chance?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Haskell, I haven't.”

“My mouth feels so dry,” he grunted, shifting his position an inch or so. “Guess my stomach is upset a little. No wonder, with all these lousy restaurant meals.”

“A shot of bi-car ought to fix you up, Mr. Haskell. What's the trouble? Didn't that steak go down right?”

“Oh, I don't know. I've been feeling this way all afternoon. My tongue feels like a wad of paper. And water doesn't seem to do much good I've had gallons.”

“How ill do you feel?” I asked, not that I gave a damn.

“Eh? Oh, I guess I'm all right.”

“Want to stop and see a doctor at the next town?”

“Hell, no,” he grumbled. “It's not that bad. I guess I can wait until we get to Los Angeles. We should be there tomorrow afternoon—or tomorrow night if we stop over some place. The trouble is there's no place of any size to stop at between here and the coast, except Phoenix. We ought to be in there pretty soon.”

“In about an hour, I guess. You want me to stop when we hit Phoenix?”

“No. Keep going.”

“O.K.”

That suited me down to the ground. If he decided to stop over somewhere, I could count on a night spent walking around or sleeping in the car.

“But if you pass a drug store anywhere along the line, stop. I want to buy some gum and put more iodine on these scratches. They sting like hell. There ought to be a law against women with sharp nails.”

I felt like saying that was what he got for playing around. However, I had sense enough to keep my mouth shut. What business was it of mine if he tried to manhandle some dame?

“I know how you must feel,” I remarked sympathetically. “I've been scratched like that lots of times myself. One time the gal I was sleeping with got so passionate she damned near ripped my back to pieces.”

Another of my lies. Nothing like that had ever happened to me. I hear women do get like that now and then; but never one that I had out. It sounded good, though.

“Well, it's the first time for me. And the last. God, females are unreasonable! One minute they love you and the next they're ready to tear your face to ribbons. Well, no woman can do that to me and expect me to forgive her. I put her out on her ear.”

“That's the stuff,” I said.

“I don't believe in babying them, like some men do. If they get out of line, slap them down. They'll respect you for it in the long run.” He paused and yawned. “Say, open that glove compartment and get out my cigarette-case, will you?”

I felt around in there until I pulled out the long, silver case, thin as a dime.

“Want me to light one for you, Mr. Haskell?”

He opened his eyes in a jiffy. “No, no. That's all right. I'll light it myself.”

He lit it and by the flare of the match I saw that his hands were trembling, although the night air was warm as toast. I figured he must have some sort of fever. I began praying he wouldn't ask me to put up the top and roll up the windows because I can't stand the smell of Egyptian tobacco. I don't mind it when I'm smoking it, understand; but when I'm not, it gets me in the stomach. A few drags on the cigarette, however, seemed to stop him shivering. He sat up.

“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.

Finally I heard the sound of a car coming towards me from the west. That snapped me out of it in a hurry. I started up the motor and got the Buick moving. It jerked around and almost stalled because my foot was shaking on the clutch pedal, but once I was in high it was O.K. Instinctively I realized that I was safe as long as I was on the highway and moving, but I also realized that I couldn't drive more than a few miles without stopping to take on gas. The gauge read empty. If I ran out... well, that would be curtains.

The other car came on full blast and flashed by like a bat out of hell. I'm sure he was going too fast to notice whether there were two of us in the Buick or just one. I breathed a little easier. One danger was past.

When my head cleared a bit, and I was getting over my first shock and panic, I reasoned that the circumstances pointed to but to one escape: if I was to get away, I would have to get rid of the body immediately. Alone I had a chance, but carting a stiff around in an open car was the same as shaking hands with the warden. Having come to that conclusion, I swung off on to the shoulder of the road and locked the ignition. I stood up on the seat so that I could look down into the gully. It was only nine or ten feet deep in there, but thick with underbrush. Obviously an ideal place. If I hid him carefully, nobody should run across him for a long time.

I listened for a few minutes before doing anything. When I was sure no car was coming I hopped out, ran round and hauled Haskell onto the shoulder near the edge of the ravine. I got him on the brink, laid him down parallel with the road and then gave him a shove. He rolled down, crashing through the bushes, until I heard him hit the bottom. He must have landed on his head, because it wasn't a dull thud like you read about in books. It was a very sharp sound, something like a cue striking a billiard-ball, only with more of a ring to it than that and with a cracking.... Well anyway it was horrible.

I'll never forget it.

I waited and listened a little while before I slid down after him. My plan was to cover him with brush, not to rob him. Nevertheless, as my mind began to function properly I remembered the car. That would be brilliant, wouldn't it? There are deserted Buicks all along the highway! So there you are. Any dope can see that there was nothing else to do but take the car with me. Leaving it there would be like erecting a tombstone.

That is the way it began, and, as the book says, one thing leads to another. I knew that even if I drove the car for only a hundred miles or so, and then deserted it, I would need money for gas and oil. Anyway, it was stupid to think of leaving all that dough on a man who was dead. I helped myself to his money.

I was about to place the wallet back in his pocket when I remembered that I'd better have the registration to the car and his driver's license, too—in case somebody stopped me. I was sure to get by with those. I could pass for thirty-two easily, and my hair and eyes corresponded with the description on the license. I stuffed the wallet into my pocket.

You see, by that time I'd done just what the police would think I'd done—even if I hadn't. It sounds punchy, but the only way I could beat the rap for something I didn't do was to do it. I had no choice in the matter. Oh, very well, if you want to get technical. I had the choice either of staying alive or committing suicide. Put it that way.

I was just getting ready to leave him and climb back on to the road when I thought of something else: the way I was dressed. Wearing the clothes I had on would not look kosher for the owner of such an expensive car. Some cop might pull me in on suspicion if I was stopped for some minor violation of traffic rules.

In the drizzle I yanked my clothes off. My nerves were so completely shot that I tore a big hole in the collar of my polo-shirt in trying to get it off without unbuttoning it all the way. I knew if anyone passed and stopped then it would be impossible to explain myself and the game would be up. The guy's shoes pinched somewhat because my feet were swollen, but his shirt was my size and his coat and trousers fitted fairly well. Everything but the coat was pretty dry because the heavy underbrush protected the gully. The only stitch I left on Mr. Haskell was his underwear. I'm finicky about such things.

After I dressed in his clothes, I put mine on him. They didn't look right, though. He was clean shaven, his hair was neatly trimmed and his nails manicured A crumby polo-shirt and an old pair of pants looked funny on a man like that. Yet somehow I couldn't laugh.

I covered him carefully with brush when I'd finished dressing him, but as I was about to climb the bank something else caught my eye. He had on a gold signet ring, a massive thing with his initials in what looked to me like platinum. It was tight and I had a tough time getting it off his stiff finger. Why did I take his ring? So they couldn't identify him, of course. If they just found a dead man dressed in those clothes they might figure it was only some bum who'd got into a fight. With that ring on him it would be different. Sure, and why should some crooked cop stick it into his pocket and have it melted down for somebody's maid? The thing looked like it might have a gold value of at least twenty bucks. I slipped the ring on my own finger, made sure Haskell was well covered, and climbed back out on to the road. By this time it was daylight. The sky was a dirty blue with rain clouds hanging low. There was no sign of the sun. I started for the car. Then I froze. All the strength in my body suddenly ebbed away and it was all I could do to keep on my feet.

Standing beside the car was a motor-cycle cop.

He was walking slowly around the car when I came up out of the gully. His machine was parked ten feet away with its headlight still burning, I could read what was written across the fuel-tank: Arizona State Highway Patrol. This was no messenger boy. He was checking the New York plates with some numbers he had in a little book, so it was a few seconds before he lifted his head and saw me.

“Oh, there you are,” he said.

The blood was pumping through me like mad. I felt like running. But I didn't feel like getting shot. “Yes, here I am.” It was a stupid answer, but I couldn't think. At that moment the world seemed to fade, numbing me upstairs. I think if he had asked me my name I wouldn't have been able to remember it. Sue and every other person I'd ever known would have been strangers to me if they had suddenly come along. The badge on the cop's cap was the only thing that registered.

“You the owner of this car?”

I opened my mouth to say I was but I couldn't get a word out. The cop didn't pick me up on that, though. He simply took it for granted. “Don't you know better than to leave a car with the wheels half-way out in the middle of the highway?”

“I'm sorry, Officer, I... I didn't think....” My voice did not sound like me at all. It was high and quavering, like the voice of a very old man.

“Well, next time, think. That's how accidents happen. I'll let it go now, but watch it in the future. I know this is a lonesome stretch, but cars do come by here once in a while, and we get plenty of accidents.”

He was telling me.

All at once he looked down at my clothing. His eyes narrowed. I wanted to look down there, too, but I didn't dare. I imagined—and then suddenly I was sure—I was covered with mud or blood, or maybe Haskell's name was written all over the vest, or maybe...

“Say,” the cop said, “what were you doing down there, anyhow?”

I felt the corners of my mouth twitching to beat the band. At that minute I wanted to confess everything. The desire was so strong I had to fight myself. Because the suspense was pulling me to pieces, I don't think I ever wanted anything more. I was certain the cop suspected something queer and that it would only be a matter of seconds before he hiked down into the gully and had a look for himself. I opened my mouth to blurt it all out and take my chances with a jury. But then I shut it again and clamped my teeth together.

“Oh yeah, I see,” the cop said. “Well, next time be sure your car is off the road.”

I nodded without understanding.

“And you'd better button up, Johnny. You're wide open.”

“Thanks, officer,” I managed to say. “I will.”

“I notice you're from the big town. I was wondering if by chance you know my brother? His name is Sid Hammerford.”

“Sorry, I don't.”

“Too bad. I figured it was pretty much of a long shot. He works for the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company there.”

“No, I don't remember anyone by that—Say wait a minute! Did he have red hair like yours, sort of a flat nose...?”

I thought I'd keep him in conversation and get his mind off the gully.

“Nope. Not Sid. He's short and darker than you.”

“Well, then I guess it's a different guy.”

“Yeah. Must be. Sid, he lives up in the Bronx, around Moshulu Parkway.”

“No, I'm sure I don't know him.”

“He's been in the east for almost eight years now. I hear from him every once in a blue moon. I was just hoping... well, thanks, anyway. And say, take it easy along in here. There's a washout about three miles ahead.”

I stood in the road, watched him mount his cycle, kick the starter and then ride off. I was too dazed from fright to move. I began to sob hysterically, like a woman. Strange sounds came involuntarily from my throat, high and silly and weird. I tasted salt and knew I was crying. Then, all of a sudden, I sprang into the car, pressed the rumble-seat button, pulled out my half-filled valise, and flung it down into the gully. If they found a dead man now, it would be me. I fastened down the top on the right hand side of the car as I drove off. It was still raining, and the drops streaked down the windshield like tears.