The Crossroads (3 page)

For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes, recognized the same breed of animal, the same mocking assurance.

“Take it slow through Armette, sir. Radar area.”

“How you figure I’m going south?”

“Saw you pull in.”

“Watch everything, sonny boy. Sometimes it’s money.”

“All done, sir.” Glenn eased the rack down, backed the big car out deftly, whisked his protective tarp off the car seat, wiped the steering wheel with a rag, took Fescher’s credit card, hustled back with the clipboard for his signature.

Fescher put a dollar on the board when he handed it back. “That’s for the radar that isn’t there, sonny boy.”

Glenn looked startled and angry, and then grinned. “Sometimes it’s there, sir. Thanks.”

Glenn stood for a moment with his brown fists on lean hips, staring after the haughty fins of the Chrysler as it slid out into the traffic flow. Maybe if you try hard, you can roll it over, buddy. Nineteen times. He felt as if the man had reached out, tipped up his mask and looked underneath.
Laughed at him. There was something about him that reminded Glenn Lawrenz of those smart old tough cops. The ones who looked at you and kidded you and didn’t pay a damn bit of attention to the eager, earnest, confused bit. They were the kind who liked to beef you around, and kept smiling. Like in New Orleans that time. He shrugged off the highly unpleasant memory of New Orleans and took a shrewd look at the flow of business. Six months on this deal and he knew angles these gas jockeys never thought of before. And Marty, the stupid manager, thought he was the best man on the early shift. You just had to keep moving all the time when Marty was around, and goof off when he wasn’t.

Two cars swung in. He moved fast but took short steps until Gus had committed himself to the old Buick full of luggage and little kids, then lengthened his stride and picked up the two women in the new Ford, adjusting his earnest, honest, practiced smile as he approached the car. One was cute, a brunette, but nothing like Sylvia. My God, that Sylvia! It made his heart jump like a bass every time he thought of her. If these other monkeys ever got wise to what was going on …

“Fill it up with the special this morning?” he said, keeping his voice low and slow, the way Sylvia Drovek liked it.

In the second of the four pleasant houses out behind the Motor Hotel, Leo Drovek was finishing his second cup of coffee at quarter to nine. He always finished his second cup of coffee at quarter to nine. It was such a nice morning Betty had served breakfast on the patio overlooking the woods and the creek.

Leo, the second son, was two years younger than Charles. Except that his hair was darker, he very much resembled his brother. But on the inside there was no similarity. Leo was vice-president of the Crossroads Corporation. He considered himself a wise, sober, cautious man, and felt that, with his head for business, he was a good balance wheel, keeping Charles from expanding too recklessly and dangerously.

Each morning he arrived at the corporation office at
nine. It was a small building out behind the small row of leased shops across from the Motor Hotel Restaurant. Except for lunch at the restaurant, he spent all day in the office. He felt uncomfortable going around and looking at things the way Charles did. He felt good at his desk, compiling the statistics of operations, making comparisons. Even though he could seldom get Charles to pay much attention to his figures, he felt they were most valuable. The office staff was small. There was Myra Miles, the book-keeper. Leo could never understand how anybody who chewed gum so constantly and avidly, and giggled at the most asinine remark, could keep books so accurately. The Walterburg firm of Kimball and Kimball who did the auditing and the tax statements never found an error. Myra handled the payrolls too. Joe Varadi, whom Leo considered to be a very sour-acting man with very little personality, handled the consolidated purchasing for all the corporate-managed facilities, assisted by Elena Hessecker, a rather pretty girl who acted as sour as Joe. But sometimes they would laugh themselves practically helpless over something which, to Leo, didn’t seem the least bit funny. Then there were the two secretaries. Ginger Daley wasn’t a secretary. She ran the switchboard and did typing. Gloria Quinn took shorthand and did typing, and was supposed to be the secretary for the Drovek brothers. But Leo had complained often to Charles about her. She always seemed to be busy helping Joe or Myra, and it took her forever to get his tabulations typed. She even acted as if they weren’t important.

The three managers, of course, reported directly to Charles. Marty Simmons managed the two gas stations and the automotive end of the business at Truck Haven. Walter Merris managed the two motels. John Clear managed the restaurant part. John really had the biggest job. The Motor Hotel Restaurant, and the Crossroads Pantry and the food end at Truck Haven, as well as the big bar and cocktail lounge in the new wing on the north side of the Motor Hotel Restaurant, the Starlight Club. It didn’t open until 11:30
A.M
., and closed at two, three hours after the restaurant itself closed. John had his own office and staff over on the top floor of the Motor Hotel Restaurant and was
the only manager who did any appreciable part of his own buying.

Leo reminded himself to speak to Charles again about John Clear. He had sent memos to John telling him exactly what additional operating figures he needed, but John was not co-operating. Certainly the man could easily compile separate figures on pilferage and breakage instead of lumping them together the way he did. But he would have to talk to Charles when he was in a good mood. Sometimes Charles became unreasonable and yelled at him in front of the staff. It would be better to talk to him after this automobile agency thing had been settled.

He realized Betty had been saying something to him.

“What, dear?” he said, looking across the small table at her. She was a small, somewhat scrawny woman with graying hair. Her wide blue eyes were her prettiest feature. He loved her dearly. It often seemed to him that she was the only person able to comprehend the real value of his contribution to the Crossroads Corporation.

“Martha May’s cold is worse today. Thank goodness Roger and Bunny haven’t caught it yet. I’m going to keep her in bed.”

“Good idea.”

“You don’t have a cold, do you? You were coughing in the night.”

“No. I feel all right.”

“Are you worried about something, dear?”

“I think that Charles is going off the deep end on this automobile agency thing.”

“Really?”

“I’m going to have to have a serious talk with him. I think we have enough leased operations right now. It’s time to consolidate instead of expand. First we had the six little shops across from the restaurant. Then the drive-in movie and then the bowladrome and then that enormous shopping center. I don’t think we should borrow more money at this time.”

“I’m sure he’ll listen to you, dear.”

Leo wished he could be as sure as Betty was. For one moment he had the dispiriting memory of having objected
to every structure they had built for lease, and having Charles go ahead anyway. And having it work out well.

He stood up and patted his firm mouth with his napkin, went over to Betty, bent and kissed her trusting lips, and left for the office a half mile away, walking briskly. He arrived exactly at nine.

The other half of the small office building was occupied by the Paris Realty Corporation. It had its own entrance. As Leo approached the office he saw Charles’s red Vespa parked in front. It always irritated him to see it. He felt that Charles should have more dignity than to run around on a silly red motor scooter. And wearing those sports shirts, without a tie or jacket. It didn’t become the president of such a large enterprise.

And it irritated him further to realize that Charles was in talking to Joan. It made him jealous. Charles always seemed to have time to talk to Joan, and no time to listen to sound suggestions backed up by careful statistics.

Charles Drovek was in Joan Paris’ small private office. Joan was thirty-five, the third Drovek child. She was, on a scale so majestic as to make the average man uncomfortable in her presence, a truly beautiful woman. She had an oval face with a hint of the oriental in its structuring, pale shining hair, a flawless complexion. She was big. Big bones, big shoulders, high firm hips. She stood five-eleven in her stocking feet, only an inch shorter than her two elder brothers. She weighed one sixty, and she was completely firm, gracefully built. She wore tailored clothes. On her, frills and flounces would have been grotesque. She could not make an ungraceful, unwomanly movement. Behind a mask of sleepy and almost sensuous amiability, her mind was as quick and sharp as Charles’s. They were the close ones. At ease with each other, aware of the same problems, the same triumphs.

On the advice of attorneys and accountants, Charles had set up the Paris Realty Corporation. Joan and Jack Paris, Charles and Papa Drovek were the only shareholders. This arrangement was resented by Leo and Pete, the youngest Drovek, particularly after the arrangement became increasingly
more important to the Crossroad Corporation. They knew, however, that when Papa died, his shares would be divided equally among the two now left out.

The Paris Realty Corporation managed all leases, collected all rentals, arranged for all necessary repairs and maintenance on leased properties, subtracted the maintenance expenses and realty fees and turned the balance over to the Crossroads Corporation.

They had finished talking about the automobile agency deal. It would go through. The papers would be signed on Monday at the Walterburg Bank and Trust Company.

“Where’s Jack?” Charles asked, almost too casually.

“Out sharpening up his game for the tournament, Chip.”

Their eyes met. He saw the little sour shadow in her odd gray-green eyes and looked away uneasily. Certain fictions must be maintained. You do not tell your sister her handsome husband is a lazy bum. She knows that all too well. And you do not ask her why she doesn’t dump him over the side. She happens to love him. And you haven’t got the best marriage in the world yourself.

“I had breakfast down at the Pantry this morning,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Dingy chrome. Dirty uniforms. Smeary windows. Lousy coffee. Lipstick on the water glass. It was an experience. Our Mr. Clear has stopped covering for Pete.”

She frowned, shrugged her big shoulders. “You can’t blame John. After all, brother Pete, damn his eyes, is a shareholder. He makes more than John Clear does. If John put his own boy in there, it would be neat as a zipper. You put Pete in there. And he covered for him for a year, Chip. Now he’s letting you see for yourself.”

“But, damn it, his job is to manage the food end, all of it. Keep it up.”

“But he isn’t supposed to be managing the Pantry too. It’s too much. And he’s good, Chip. We know it and he knows it. You can lean on him when he slips and he’ll take it. But not for this.”

“So I lean on Pete? What the hell good will that do?
He’ll take off again. And Papa will be upset. If it wasn’t for Papa I’d be glad to see Pete leave for good.”

“Would you? Really?”

He sighed. “I guess not, damn it. I have the feeling that if I could only find the key to the kid. Something to wake him up. He just … drifts. He doesn’t give a damn. Any suggestions?”

“Not about Pete. He defeats me. But I think you better tell John Clear to find a manager for the Pantry.”

“I wish he was another Leo,” Chip Drovek said.

They both smiled in the same way, a tender exasperation. “Ole Leo,” she said softly.

“He holds this organization together, by God!” Chip said.

“Don’t make fun. He was in here yesterday, scared to death of the agency thing. I’m supposed to help him cool you off on it. He had the usual batch of figures clutched in his hot little hand. He said you’d been avoiding him. Please be more patient with him, Chip.”

“Okay. Sure. But honest to God, sometimes he …”

“I know.”

“So damn … earnest.”

“I know.”

“But Pete has got it. Somewhere. If we can unlock it. God, how we could use that mind of his if we could … motivate the kid.”

Chip stood up. “I’m going to take Papa his check … after I soothe Leo. And tell him the plans.”

“Give him my love. Tell him I’ll be up tomorrow to say hello.”

“Okay, Lady Joan.”

He walked out. She didn’t hear the splutter of the Vespa so she knew he had gone into the office next door. To be nice to Leo and pick up the check for Papa. She realized that in spite of her intentions she had neither found nor made an opening to speak to Chip about the girl in the gift shop. Anyway, it was none of her business. He would be careful. And he did need … someone. We Droveks make the fine marriages. Clara, the lush. Jack, the drone. And dear little swivel-hipped Sylvia, Pete’s problem. Leo did the best of us, with his devoted Betty. Maybe I did second
best. I know what Jack isn’t. And I know what he is, and need what he is. Turn me to a sickening tub of mush with one touch of his hand. Even right now, after these ten years of him. Back to work, Joanie girl.

TWO

It was almost ten o’clock when Charles “Chip” Drovek putted north on the red Vespa up beyond the Starlight Club to the crossover through the medial strip that was opposite the other corporation-owned gas station on the east side and the Crossroads Bowladrome on the west side of the divided highway. When there was a gap in traffic he cut through into the bowladrome parking lot, across the lot, and onto the narrow unpaved road that led west between the bowladrome and the drive-in movie, and up the gentle slope for over a mile to the white hillside cottage where Papa lived alone.

Papa, in work pants and his old red sweater, had been working in the vegetable garden behind the house when he heard the motor scooter. He came around the house, grinning, his brown head bald and speckled in the sunlight, wiping the dirt from his hands on the thighs of the work pants.

He was not a big man, but at seventy-one he still had a wide tough look about him, an invincible hardiness. The years had scored his peasant face so deeply he had a simian look about him. In 1908, when he was twenty, Anton Drovek had come over from Poland to work in the steel mills and get rich. He had worked in Youngstown for five years, learning rudimentary English, saving every penny, hating the heat and noise and dirt and confusion. He had quit and moved south, looking, doing farm work, keeping secret the sweat-stiff money belt around his tough waist.