1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway (3 page)

‘Seen a guy with a guitar, buster?’ he demanded.

Harry edged his chair back slightly. He continued to stare at Chuck, remaining motionless and silent.

Chuck shifted uneasily.

‘You deaf, dummy?’ he snarled.

‘I can hear you and I can smell you,’ Harry said quietly. ‘Take the kiddies out of here. You and they are stinking up the place.’

Chuck reared back, making a hissing sound between his teeth. His thin vicious face drained white.

‘No one talks that way to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll . . .’

‘Oh, run away,’ Harry said. ‘Ask your Mum to give you a bath.’

‘Okay, creep,’ Chuck said, his dirty hands closing into fists, ‘you asked for it so you’ll get it. Just for that we’re going to wreck this joint and we’re going to wreck you.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Harry said, shifting his chair back an inch or so more. He was now clear of the table and his hand dropped out of sight onto the club. ‘You’ll only get hurt. I don’t like hurting little boys . . .’

He stopped short as Chuck caught hold of the nearest table and tipped it over. The glasses and cutlery slid to the floor. The glasses smashed.

‘Wreck the joint!’ he yelled. ‘Smash everything!’

Harry slid out from behind his table and moved so swiftly he was within hitting range before Chuck realised he had left the table. The club smashed down on Chuck’s forearm. The bone snapped, making a sound like the breaking of dry wood. Chuck fell on his knees, screaming and yammering with agony.

Harry sprang away from Chuck and faced the others. The savage, fighting expression on his face seemed to chill them for they all backed away.

‘Beat it!’ he shouted at them. ‘Out . . . fast!’

As they hesitated, Harry moved again. He made a feinting move towards the youngest of the pack who squealed with fright and jumped back, then his club swished through the air and thudded down on the shoulder of the second eldest kid, driving him to his knees, howling with pain.

‘Out!’ Harry shouted again.

The girl spat in Harry’s direction, then turned and ran. The two younger kids fought each other to get through the doorway. The second eldest kid got to his feet, clutching his shoulder and staggered to the door. As he reached it, Harry’s foot shot out and his heavy walking shoe caught the kid on the tip of his spine, propelling him forward so he crashed down the steps and rolled into the road.

Harry went over to where Chuck was still kneeling, sobbing and moaning, holding his broken arm.

‘Out!’ he said. ‘Fast!’

Cringing away from him, Chuck staggered to his feet and blundered into the night.

Harry went out onto the stoop. He watched the pack running down the street. None of them stopped to help Chuck who staggered after them, moaning.

Harry shut the restaurant door and crossed to the bar. He looked over at the crouching man.

‘They’ve gone,’ he said. “I guess you could use a drink.’

The man rose to his feet. He was still shaking and his eyes were still scared.

‘I - I guess they would have killed me if they’d found me,’ he said, leaning against the bar.

‘Take it easy.’ To give him time to recover his nerve, Harry went over to the upset table and set it on its feet.

Maria, followed by her father who was quaking a little, came out of the kitchen ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Harry said to Maria. ‘I shouldn’t have let him smash the glasses.’

‘You were wonderful! I saw everything!’ Maria looked adoringly at him. ‘If you hadn’t been here we wouldn’t have had a thing left.’

Harry grinned.

‘Can you take care of our friend? He’s got a nasty cut.’

Maria surveyed the cut, nodded and ran into the kitchen.

Morelli caught hold of Harry’s hand and pumped it vigorously.

‘That was a fine thing you did! Everyone around here is scared of that trash. Thank you, mister. We need men like you.’

Embarrassed, Harry said, ‘Let’s all have a drink.’ He turned to the man with the guitar. ‘How about a Scotch?’

‘I’m Randy Roache,’ the man said$ and thrust out his hand. ‘Yeah! I sure could use a Scotch.’

‘Harry Mitchell,’ Harry said and shook hands. ‘Let’s all have a Scotch.’

Beaming, Morelli set up the drinks as Maria returned with a bowl of hot water, a towel and some adhesive plaster. She quickly stopped the bleeding and applied the plaster. Randy thanked her, then reached for his Scotch and waved the glass in Harry’s direction.

‘Thanks, pal. They were after my guitar. I ran into them a mile back. I got away. I was just that bit faster than they were. If it hadn’t been for you I’d have lost my guitar and my job.’

Harry sipped his Scotch, then asked, ‘Where are you heading for?’

‘Paradise City. You on the road too?’

‘Yes and going the same way.’ Harry turned to Morelli. ‘How about that apple pie I was promised?’ He looked at Randy. ‘Have you eaten yet? The special here is tops.’

Randy said he would have the special and the two men went over to Harry’s table and sat down while Morelli bustled into the kitchen. Maria began cutting up more bread.

‘If you are heading for Paradise City we could go together,’ Randy said, looking hopefully at Harry. ‘It’s safer for two than for one.’

‘Sure,’ Harry said. ‘Glad to.’

Maria came over with a plate of spaghetti and a vast slice of apple pie topped with ice cream. She set the plates down.

‘Dad says it’s all on the house,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘And the room too.’

‘Oh, now . . . look . . .’ Harry began, embarrassed, but Maria shook her head.

‘That’s what Dad says and what Dad says goes.’

She went back into the kitchen.

Harry looked at Randy and lifted his shoulders.

‘Nice people . . . they didn’t have to do that.’

‘I don’t know I reckon you saved their restaurant. Those junkies were stoned. If there’s anything I can do to even the score just name it,’ Randy said earnestly. ‘If I had lost my guitar, I’d really be in a fix. I rely on it to make a living.’ He forked up some spaghetti then went on, ‘I’ve got a nice job waiting for me at Paradise City. This makes the third season I’ve worked there: a nice, high-class restaurant, lots of style, run by a Mex and his daughter. A bit like this set up here, but much more style and the daughter . . . He rolled his eyes. ‘She has to be seen to be believed.’

He ate for a moment. ‘Say! This is some spaghetti!’

Harry nodded.

‘Some pie too. When do you reckon to start work?’

‘As soon as I get there.’ Randy paused, swallowed, then asked, ‘Are you looking for a job?’

‘Yes. What chance do I have? I’m not fussy what I do.’

Randy regarded him thoughtfully.

‘I might get you fixed up with Solo . . . he runs this restaurant: Solo Dominico. He will be hiring staff pretty soon. Can you swim?’

‘Swim?’ Harry grinned. ‘I guess that’s about the one thing I can do well. I was a winner of a bronze medal at the last Olympics for free style and diving.’

Randy gaped at him.

‘The Olympics! For God’s sake I You’re not putting me on?’

‘No . . . straight.’

Randy twiddled more spaghetti onto his fork.

‘When you were in the Army, did you get to Vietnam?’

‘Served my three years out there . . . what’s that to do with it?’

Randy laughed and patted Harry’s arm.

‘Then I can guarantee you a job. Solo’s son is serving out there. The old man will flip his lid for the chance of talking first hand to a guy just back, and besides, he has to hire a lifeguard for his beach . . . it’s compulsory by law to have a qualified swimmer and he has a hell of a job finding anyone for the job. Those who can swim well don’t want to do the chores . . . setting up the umbrellas, keeping the beach clean, serving drinks: those who’ll do the chores can’t swim.’ Randy grinned. ‘Would a job like that be okay with you? He won’t pay much, but it’s dead easy and the food is terrific.’

‘It’d suit me fine. But maybe he’s already fixed up.’

‘It’s my bet he isn’t. The season doesn’t start for another week. Solo is careful with his money. He won’t look for anyone until the last moment.’

‘What’s your job with him?’

‘I take care of the bar and do a couple of singing spots at dinnertime and one at lunchtime. This restaurant is pretty snazzy. Solo gets a lot of the Cadillac trade: it isn’t a dump like this.’

‘Sounds fine,’ Harry finished his apple pie, sighed contentedly and sat back to light a cigarette.

‘How long do you reckon it’ll take to get there?’

‘Depends if we have luck in getting rides. I’m a nightwalker. It’s safer that way. These hippies travel by day. By walking at night, we’ll avoid them, but there is less chance of getting a ride. I’d say three days if we have luck, four if we don’t.’

‘Well, I’m in no rush,’ Harry said. ‘I like the idea of walking by night . . . less hot. I sure got burned today.’

‘That’s it. We can walk faster and further at night. Look, suppose we start tomorrow evening, around seven? We can keep here, take it easy all day and then walk all through the night.’

Harry nodded. The idea appealed to him. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

‘I’ll fix it with the girl.’

He went over to the bar where Maria was washing glasses.

‘We figure to leave here tomorrow evening. Would that be all right with you and your Dad?’ he asked.

‘After what you’ve done for us,’ Maria said seriously, ‘anything’s all right with us. If you two want baths, the water’s hot . . . if there’s anything else, just ask.’

‘A bath would be fine.’

‘I’ll go up and fix the bed. Do you want a bath now?’

‘Why not? I’ll come up with you.’

He went over to Randy who was about to start on the pork chops Morelli had brought from the kitchen. He told him he was taking a bath and they’d meet sometime during the following morning.

Morelli again shook hands with him and again thanked him for saving his restaurant. He watched Harry mount the stairs with Maria.

‘That’s a fine man,’ he said to Randy. ‘That’s a man I’d like to have for a son.’

‘You’re right,’ Randy said and cut into his chop. When Morelli had returned to the kitchen, Randy paused in his eating, his expression suddenly thoughtful. Suppose Solo wouldn’t hire this guy? he thought. There were times when Solo was pigheaded and couldn’t be persuaded. After all, Randy told himself, Harry had saved his life and his guitar. He had better check. When he had finished his meal, he shut himself in the telephone booth and called Solo’s restaurant. He spoke to Joe, the negro barman who told him Solo wasn’t there.

‘This is important, Joe,’ Randy said, squirming with impatience. ‘Where can I call him?’

Joe gave him an out of town telephone number.

‘Where’s that, for God’s sake?’ Randy demanded, scratching the number on the wall of the booth with his fingernail.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Joe said. ‘It’s only if it’s important.’

Randy broke the connection, inserted more coins in the box and dialled the number.

Solo’s deep, growling voice came on the line.

‘Yes . . . hey? Who is it?’

‘Remember me?’ Randy said. ‘Randy Roache. I’m on my way. I’ve got you a lifeguard, Solo . . . an Olympic champ. Now listen . . .’

Chapter Two

T
hey had been walking now for some three hours.

The moon hung in the cloudless sky casting black shadows and sharply lighting the white dust road. The air was still and hot, and on either side of the road dense mangrove thickets made a solid black wall.

They walked silently: Harry just ahead: both of them preoccupied with their thoughts, but aware of each other and contented not to be alone.

They had left Yellow Acres soon after 19.00 hours. Each had been given a large wrapped parcel which Morelli had said was a little snack in case they became hungry during the walk. There had been a lot of hand shaking, and Harry had promised to look in on his way back.

He was now thinking of Maria, comparing her to the girl he had spent two nights with in New York who continually called him ‘Ducky’, chain smoked even when they were making love and was as full of boring problems as a pod is full of peas. He wondered about Maria’s ease of manner and her apparent simplicity.

Maybe, he thought, she too had problems, but was in control of herself. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. Everyone had problems these days. It depended on how they coped with them. Some people could manage alone: others had to talk about them: others couldn’t stop talking about them. It was a matter of personal pride to him not to weary others with his own problems. He grimaced ruefully. He had plenty of them, but this wasn’t the time to think of them. He had developed a built-in mechanism that controlled his thoughts. The three years in Vietnam were not to be thought of. His ruined domestic life wasn’t to be thought of nor the crap game on the ship he had stupidly got into that practically cleaned him out of all the money the Army had presented him with for services rendered.

Oh yes, he had plenty of problems but this was the wrong time to think about them. At least, the job at the restaurant seemed certain. Randy had told him he had telephoned Solo and Solo was very interested.

Randy said suddenly, ‘A couple of miles further on, we come to the highway.’ He paused to look at his watch in the light of the moon. ‘Half after ten. With any luck we could get a ride.’

He drew level with Harry. ‘The highway should be free of hikers by now.’

‘How’s your head feeling?’ Harry asked.

‘It’s all right . . . aches a bit and is sore, but all right.’ Randy glanced at him curiously. ‘I’m still thrown by the way you handled those kids. You broke his arm . . . you know that, don’t you?’

‘Does that worry you?’ There was a sudden edge to Harry’s voice.

‘No. It doesn’t worry me . . . still . . . a broken arm.’

‘So it does worry you. Have you been in the Army?’

‘Me?’ Randy made a mock gesture of horror. ‘Not likely! I burned my draft card. Catch me being shanghaied to Vietnam!’

‘Someone has to go.’

‘Okay . . . but not me.’

‘What’s so special about you then?’