The Crossroads (10 page)

Chip leaned against the sink. “You tell me something. Tell me how you got top grades in college with no perceptible effort. I’ve tried to educate myself. Leo had two years. You and Joan got the whole free ride. She came through.”

Pete’s face reddened. “Are we going to …”

“Are we going to go into this same old routine again? Yes. You’re bright. You’re energetic. When I’ve put you into a new job here, you’ve done fine, for a little while. Come up with good stuff. Then blah. No attention span. You take close to twenty thousand a year out of this setup, before taxes, and you aren’t worth as much as any pearl diver at the Haven.”

“For Christ sake, Chipper!”

“I had breakfast at the Pantry this morning. It was a mess. John stopped covering for you. I told him tonight to find somebody. So now I have to find something for
you. I’m not trying to chew you, Pete. I honest to God am trying to find some clue, some way to get you off your tail. What do you
want
to do?”

For a few moments Pete looked so thoughtful that Chip had the rare hope that he might say something helpful. But then the mask was slipped back on. Pete grinned at him. “The old Chipper. Man, you carry this place on your back. You won’t let things get fouled up. Everything runs itself. Relax a little. How do you get any fun? You ought to use some of the money that comes in, Big Brother. You got hot-shot managers, and a big batch of leases going. Why don’t we just lease everything, lay back and collect the rent and have a ball?”

“Is that all you want?”

“I’m just a young fella that got into the jam cupboard, Chipper. Life isn’t as earnest as you make out.”

“Do you want to be off the payroll entirely? You can live on the dividends.”

“A threat? Now you know it wouldn’t look good to all the serfs if I didn’t have a job. Anyway, I need the extra. What’s my new position, man?”

“Report to Marty Simmons tomorrow.”

“On Saturday!”

“On Saturday. I’ll talk to him. You’ll be a sort of assistant to him. I’ll give him the same old crap about you learning all phases of the operation. Please try to go through the motions, will you?”

“I’ll be a brisk kid.”

“I know you will. For a while.”

“Maybe I bore easy, Chip.”

Chip finished his beer. “Maybe all of a sudden …”

“I know the line. I’ll come to. Or wake up or something. Sure, Chip. Maybe that will happen.”

Chip walked back to his own home. Shower and change, one drink and dinner at the restaurant. Then make a night tour. Show up here and there. Talk to the employees. It kept things rolling better if you kept close to it. Never give orders, except to the managers. Find Marty and tell him about Pete. Maybe Marty would have the key.

The night traffic surged by, thinning a little. Big rigs droned, Christmas trees alight, rubber humming. A sharp-featured woman in a southbound Pontiac said, with acidulous satisfaction, “No vacancy. No vacancy. See? See? I told you a hunnert times if I told you once, we shoulda stopped at that cute place way way back. But no. You gotta keep driving so we finally end up in some stinking cabin where nobody else …”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” the husband said, holding the wheel so hard his knuckles hurt. The car leaped to eighty as he swerved around a truck, cut inside a car that had just passed the truck more slowly, shot out in front of the slower car.

In the high cab of a westbound, wildcat, diesel rig, the owner-operator, twenty hours from his last stretch of exhausted sleep, dozed at sixty, hands on the wheel. The incline of the overpass slowed tons of metal slightly. His chin was on his chest. The rig eased slowly off toward the right. It missed the concrete railing of the overpass bridge by almost an inch. Beyond the bridge the right front wheel struck the relative roughness of the shoulder. The man came awake with a start and pulled the rig back onto the right lane. He looked back at the lights and cursed softly. He had meant to home down off 82 for coffee at the crossroads. He had gone beyond the turn. Another fifteen miles to coffee. Limited access highway. Just steer and stay awake. He rubbed his face vigorously. His eyes felt as if they had been sandblasted. The scare made him feel more alert. Maybe alertness would last fifteen miles. Got to keep rolling, or they’ll repossess it.

In a stolen eastbound Buick a scared and sober Negro kid maintained the speed limit, driving with great conservatism. He was fourteen, and his companions in the back seat were aged eight and nine. They were scuffling and yelling like crazy back there. He couldn’t get them to shut up. The gas gauge rested on
empty
. He had only the vaguest idea of where he was, and no idea at all of what he would do when the gas ran out. “Yawl shut up back there!” he kept yelling. Guess all you could do was get it off the road and get out and run, when it stopped.

In a northbound Rambler a bride of three weeks slept against her young husband’s shoulder. As he drove he was slowly, intricately reviewing the memories of honeymoon. He thought of the beach night outside their cottage, with that incredible white flood of moonlight, the waves coming in like a thousand tumbling crystal chandeliers, her hair like dark smoke on the ashen sand, her breasts limned with silver.

At approximately ten minutes after eleven a drunken electrician, westbound on 82, in an elderly Plymouth, with what was left of a full quart of bourbon propped upright between his thighs, made his ultimate mistake. He wanted to get down onto 71 and go north to Walterburg and his too empty house. His wife had left him over a month ago, taking the kids. James Arthur Tuckerman, dazed by the movement of the lights, chanting his obscenities, rocketed by his proper turn. He slammed on his brakes. A Cadillac yelped and blatted as it wrenched by him. James Arthur Tuckerman made a backhand turn into that part of the cloverleaf which was supposed to take southbound traffic on 71 up into the flow of westbound traffic on 82. It was one way coming up, and he went down it the wrong way.

He shot out onto divided 71, going north on the southbound side. He had caught a glimpse of the sign that said O
NE
W
AY
—D
O
N
OT
E
NTER
, and he mumbled, “Doan do this. Doan do that. Sheee-it!”

There were three lanes on each side of the curbed medial strip. James Arthur Tuckerman swerved out directly into the path of three oncoming sets of headlights. One truck was passing another truck, and a passenger car was passing both of them. Air horns yammered at him in panic and rubber shrieked off onto the road.

“Sheee-it!” said James Arthur Tuckerman and plunged toward the medial strip. He hit the curbing and bounced high, turning in the air. By a freak of chance the northbound lanes were momentarily empty. The Plymouth banged on its side, and in its second leap it spewed James Arthur Tuckerman out, sprawling him high, outlined against neon. The Plymouth rolled end for end twice and
three times sideways, ripping the green terraced lawn in front of the Crossroads Motor Hotel, coming to rest alarmingly close to thirty-five hundred dollars’ worth of advertising sign. James Arthur Tuckerman came to eternal rest on the shoulder, his face entirely gone and his feet pointing at random angles. The people came running.

After the wrecker dragged the Plymouth away, dragging metal sparking against the highway, and as the body was being loaded into the ambulance, Charles Drovek stood beside the state police sedan, leaning against it, his arms folded, the flashing dome light blinking red against his face. Tod Roamer, lieutenant in charge of that patrol area, shoved his notebook into his pocket and said, “What are you going to do, Chip? I mean, for Chrissake, drunk as a hoot owl, probably, coming down a wrong-way road, trying to head north on the southbound side. What can you do?”

“It could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

“Traffic engineers stay up nights trying to make these deals foolproof. And then a cluck like that! There he goes. His problems are over.” The curious had moved off into the night. “Don’t you ever sleep, Chip?”

“When there’s nothing else to do.”

“Chopped your lawn up pretty good.”

“Glad he missed the sign anyway.”

“See you,” Tod said and slid into the cruiser, drove smoothly away.

Chip walked up through the wide motel court and back toward his house. His problems are over, Tod had said. Very quick. Very final. And he felt the slimy little thought ease its way up into his consciousness. Wish she was dead. It shamed him to think that. It was an area of decay in his mind, making him less of a man. Why doesn’t she die? That’s right, so everything will be just dandy for you and Jeana. Nice and easy. All problems solved. He walked slowly home, despising himself.

FIVE

On Sunday night at eight o’clock Glenn Lawrenz was sitting, restless and fidgety, behind the wheel of his four-year-old souped-up Ford convertible in Walterburg’s largest municipal parking lot, lights and motor off. Sylvia had driven into the station on Saturday, just before he went off. Their system worked fine. He palmed the note when he swept off the car floor. After she drove off he went into the can, and took his time combing his hair, examining his teeth, squeezing a couple of blackheads before he opened it up.
8 o’clock Sun
. That’s all it said. That’s all it had to say.

Now she was a little late. But she’d be along. That little old gal is crazy about ole Glenn, he told himself. They had to be when they dropped right into your lap the way she did just about three weeks ago. Knew who she was, of course. Looked right up at me out of the side window of that Chevy and said, “I get so lonesome when my husband is out of town.”

Nearly knocked ole Glenn right off his feet. I made a fast recovery. Gave her the slow dirty grin. As I cleaned the windshield, I said, “You could drive into town. Maybe go to Sandy’s drive-in about eight, buy yourself a beer and see what happens.”

“I might,” she said. But she was there all right. Awful scared of being seen. Didn’t want to leave her car there. So she followed me here to the lot and left her car right here, almost in this same space. Wouldn’t go to any night spot. Didn’t want to take a chance on me sneaking her into the room. Just drove on out to the state park and parked like the high-school punks. Acted funny about it. First it seemed as if it was going to be easy. And then she got nervous and wouldn’t. Then she cried some. And finally she did.

What date is this? Fifth. That’s right. Fifth time. Time
to put my foot down. The hell with this high-school routine. Can’t figure her out. Acts so scared. So scared I don’t know how she had nerve enough to speak to me in the first place. Lights turning in. Her? Yessirree, boy.

She parked the Chevy beside the Ford. He reached over and opened the door on her side. She got in fast.

“I guess I’m a little late, Glenn.”

“Not enough to matter,” he said. He pulled her close and kissed her. “Come on, honey. Put some life in it.”

“Somebody’ll see us here. Let’s go.”

“Honey, let’s have a place to go. Let’s get this thing organized better. I know a motel ten miles north. It’s perfectly safe.”

“No, please.”

“Listen, with this park routine we’re asking for trouble. The park cops or some wise kids. You never can tell. A motel is safer, honestly. I’m not kidding you. If you want to play it safe as possible, that’s the deal.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear.”

An hour later, in the dark room, in the double bed, Glenn Lawrenz sighed and said, “Doesn’t this beat hell out of that damn park, honey?”

“I guess so.”

“You’re the best, honey. I’m nuts about you. I can hardly believe it most of the time. Except like now. Say, what’s this with husband Pete? He was hanging around all yesterday morning.”

“He’s working for Marty now.”

“That’s what they say. I didn’t believe it. Makes me feel kind of funny, you know what I mean?”

“I guess I know what you mean.”

“You don’t seem sure of anything tonight, honey.”

“I … I’ve been thinking about us, Glenn.”

“You’re not sure about us? Don’t give me that jazz.”

“I don’t like all this hiding and sneaking, darling. I’d like to be with you all the time. Every minute.”

“That would be nice,” he said uneasily. Sooner or later they all started this forever and ever jazz. No damn woman
ever seemed happy just to grab what was handy and forget the rest.

“I wish we could run away together.”

“Sure, baby. A nice wish. You’re the most.”

“Would you run away with me?”

“Honey, there’s the little question of money. It would be a dog’s life. You got it set up pretty nice there with Pete. I couldn’t duplicate that. Not for a hell of a long while. So stop dreaming.”

She snuggled closer to him. “But what if we had a lot of money?”

“Then it would be fine.”

“I was in Mexico once. Pete and I were married there. I liked it.”

“I was over the border a couple of times. I guess it’s better further south.”

“We could have fun there together.”

“Big dream.”

“I know where there’s a lot of money.”

“So do I. Right in the Drovek family.”

She drew a slow pattern on his chest with a finger tip. “What if we could … get hold of a lot of money, darling? Sort of easy.”

He felt a crinkling feeling in the back of his neck. “You’ve been acting funny. What’s on your mind?”

“Well … I’ve just been thinking how nice it would be. For us. We could run away. With enough to last us forever, darling.”

“That
must
be some wad you’ve got your eye on.”

“It’s a lot. And it wouldn’t be hard to get.”

He knew she was waiting for the question. And he sensed that if he asked it, he would be committed in some way. But he knew he had to ask it.

“Where is this fortune?” He tried to ask rightly, but his voice didn’t sound like his own.

She drew more patterns on his chest. “Well, I guess you’ve heard about the way Papa Drovek puts cash in …”

He sat up suddenly, pushing her away. He found the switch on the lamp on the bedside table. He looked at
her in the sudden light. “Look, baby,” he said harshly. “You’re a very nice thing. I’m glad you came along. Sure, I know about Papa’s little habit. He keeps it in the bank, too, where it belongs. And if you think I’m fixing to rob any banks, no matter how tasty you are, you’re out of your damn mind.”