Detour (2 page)

“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?