II
The next four days followed the same pattern.
Lola didn’t speak to me. It was as if I wasn’t there. She ran the kitchen
entirely on her own, and she kept the kitchen door locked. We had a service
hatch at the back of the lunch counter. I called the orders through this and I
only caught an occasional glimpse of her when I peered through the opening
at her. I did all the waiting, the servicing of the cars, and I ran the lunch room
snack bar single handed. The nights also followed the same pattern. She did no night duty, leaving it to
me. Around eleven o’clock she would unlock the kitchen door and go out the
back way to the bungalow, leaving me to manage as best I could.
She didn’t lower her blind when she went to bed, but although the temptation
was great, I kept away from my cabin until her light went out.
The picture I had in my mind of her n@kedness remained to torture me. The
heat didn’t help either. After the fourth day, a strong wind got up, blowing
sand everywhere, a hot wind that frayed my nerves.
I began to sleep badly.
The heat got so bad the traffic dropped off. The cantaloupe growers began to
send their produce by train as the eighteen hour run from Oakland over the
mountain to Tropica Springs spoilt the fruit. Fewer tourists used the
blistering, sun scorched road. Receipts dropped off. There were less meals to
serve and no repairs. I found I had time on my hands, and as my mind was constantly tormented by the thoughts of Lola, this was a pretty bad period for
me.
Eight days after Jenson’s death, Lola made her first trip to Wentworth for provisions.
I was working on the magneto of the Station wagon for something to do when I heard the Mercury start up. Looking out, I saw her driving away. I
guessed where she was going. It irritated me that she had gone, not telling me
when she would be back, not caring that I would have to handle whatever
trade came in single handed.
Around eleven o’clock, and as I was reassembling the magneto, I heard a car
draw up. I was in the middle of fixing the timing and I cursed under my
breath. I couldn’t leave what I was doing, so I carried on, letting the driver
wait.
Three minutes or so later, I had got it fixed, and I straightened up, reaching
for a rap to wipe off my hands when I saw the shadow of a man lying acrossthe opening of the shed. I looked up. My heart contracted as I saw George
Ricks standing there, in his dirty overalls, his straw hat resting at the back of
his head. His dog stood behind him, staring mournfully at me.
I had completely forgotten Ricks. Here was danger. The sight of this tall,
stooping vulture of a man sent a chill crawling up my spine.
“Mornin’,” he said, squinting at me. “Where’s Carl?”
I picked up the rag and began to wipe my sweating hands with it.
“Mr. Jenson is away. What do you want?”
“Away?” He moved a few steps into the shed. The dog moved with him,
keeping close to his right leg. “What do you mean— away?”
“What do you want?”
“Look, young fella, it’s my business what I want and not yours. You’re the
hired hand, aren’t you, or do you suddenly own this place?”
“I don’t own it. I’m asking you—what do you want?”
“Where’s that Jezebel? Isn’t she here?”
“I don’t know what you mean. What Jezebel?”
He leered at me.
“His wife. Who do you think you are kidding? Where is she?”
“If it’s any business of yours—she’s in Wentworth.”
“So you’re in charge?”
“Someone has to be.”
He leaned forward and scratched the dog’s head. The dog flinched as if expecting a blow.
“Where’s Mr. Jenson gone?”
“He’s away on business.”
He gave the dog a sudden impatient shove with his leg as he asked, “What
business?”
“You’d better ask him.”
He eyed me, moving a few steps forward.
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know: a couple of months: maybe not so long.”
“A couple of months?” His mean face showed his surprise. “What’s going on
around here? Didn’t he take his wife with him?”
“Look, I’m busy,” I said curtly. “Mr. Jenson won’t be back for a couple of
months. What do you want?”
“I want to see him. It’s important. Where is he?”
“Somewhere in Arizona. He’s buying a filling station if you must know.”
“Is that right?” He put his head on one side, squinting at me. “Another filling
station? I guess he has more money than sense. You mean he didn’t take his
wife with him?”
“No.”
“She’s staying here while he’s away?”
“Yes.”
I could see his dirty mind was already buzzing like a beehive.
“Well, I’ll be darned! I always thought he was an old fool, but I didn’t
imagine he would be that much of a fool.”
“Who cares what you think?”
He stared at me, then his crafty, mean face lit up with a sly grin.
“Well, I can’t call you a fool. You seem to know a good tiling when you find
it, don’t you?”
“Mr. Jenson told me about you,” I said, and I didn’t bother to conceal my contempt for him.
“He said you were the biggest scrounger in the district. He
said if you ever came around here trying to take something, I was to throw
you out. Are you getting out or do I throw you out?”
“Is that what he said?” The sly grin slipped a little. “He said that about his
own brother-in-law? You take it easy, young fella. If Carl is fool enough to
leave you and that wife of his alone together, it’s no skin off my nose. More
fool he: that’s what I say. I’ve got to see him. What’s his address?”
“I don’t know.”
He took off his straw hat and scratched his dirty, scaly scalp while his little
eyes probed my face.
“I’ve got to talk to him. I want his signature on my pension papers. He
always signs them. You must know where he is.”
“I don’t know! He’s somewhere in Arizona. He’s moving around. He said not
to expect to hear from him until he got back.”
He gave the dog a sudden flick with his hat before putting the hat back on his
head. There was now an alert, suspicious expression on his face.
“She must know how to get hold of him.”
“I tell you neither of us do!”
“Then what am I going to do about my pension papers? If I don’t get them
signed, I don’t get my pension.”
“Get someone else to sign them.”
He shook his head.
“I can’t do that. Carl always does it. If I get someone else to do it, those
dopes will want to know why. They could hold up my pension: then what
would I have to live on?”
“I can’t help that,” I said. “I haven’t his address. If I had, I’d give it to you.
You’ll have to wait until he gets back.”
He continued to stare at me, his head on one side. The dog stared at me too.
“Two months you say? What am I going to live on for two months while I’m
waiting?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” I found I was shouting at him and I throttled
my voice back. “Why don’t you do some work for a change?”
He didn’t like that. His face turned mean.
“Don’t talk that way to me, young fella. I’m a sick man. My doctor won’t let
me work. I have a bad heart. Are you sure she doesn’t know where he is?”
“How many more times do I have to tell you—neither of us do!”
There was a pause while he bent to pat his cringing dog. Then he said,
“Suppose something happened? Suppose she got ill? Suppose the place
burned down? You’d have to tell him, wouldn’t you? How would you find
him in an emergency?”
“She’s not going to get ill and this place isn’t going to burn down! Now, get
out! I’ve things to do.”
“If I don’t get my pension papers signed I’ll have no money.” His voice had changed into a whine.
I was tempted to give him a few dollars to get rid of him, but I realised the danger of this. Once I began handing this scrounging rat money, he would
keep pestering me.
“Oh, get the h*ell out of here!” I shouted. “I’m busy!”
I went back to the Station wagon and began to tighten the bolts on the
magneto.
“When will she be back?” he asked.
“I don’t know—late.”
There was a pause, then he said, the whine still in his voice, “How about
lending me twenty dollars?”
“It’s not my money to lend—beat it!”
I was now working on the magneto, my back turned to him. I was putting
pressure on a nut when he said, “I guess if I wrote to the Arizona police
they’d find him fast enough.”
He had spoken casually, but to me it was like taking a punch under the heart.
The spanner slipped and I lost the skin off a knuckle.
I tried to assure myself that the State police wouldn’t do a thing about such an
inquiry, but there was the risk that they might. If Ricks made enough of it,
created suspicion, they might just possibly get in touch with the Wentworth
police, and some smart, inquiring cop might come out here and start asking
questions. He might even be smart enough to recognise me.
“Mr. Jenson would like it fine to have the police looking for him,” I said,
trying to make my voice sound casual. I sucked my damaged knuckle. “You
be careful what you do. He’d be so mad he’d never sign your godd@mn papers.”
“Well, I’ve got to find him!” His voice was now aggressive. “If you can’t tell
me where he is, the cops might. You talk to her. I wouldn’t be surprised if he
hadn’t told her where he could be found and she isn’t telling you. I’ll come
out tomorrow. You tell her that. If she doesn’t know, I’m going to write to
the Arizona police.”
By now I had my face under control and I turned.
“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to her. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know, but I’ll ask
her.”
This was making a concession, and to a man like Ricks, it was a sign of
weakness, but the idea of some nosy cop coming out here scared the life out
of me.
He nodded: the sly grin once more in place.
“You tell her I’ll be out tomorrow evening. Well, I’ll run along. That reminds
me. I’m nearly out of gas. I may as well fill up while I’m here. I’ll have to
owe it to you. Carl wouldn’t mind.”
My one thought was to get rid of him. I shouldn’t have let him have the gas,
but I was sure if I didn’t, he would stay whining until he got it.
“Oh, help yourself, but let me get on with my work!”
“That’s a good fella.” He grinned widely. “You tell her I’ve got to get those
papers signed. I’ll be out here tomorrow evening, around supper time “
He shambled off, followed by his dog, back to his car. I watched him fill the
tank and then a couple of five gallon cans. He was one of those mean scroungers who grabbed a yard when you gave him an inch. He got in the car
and drove off.
When he was out of sight, I went over to the lunch room. I felt in need of a
drink. I poured a big shot of Scotch and drank it, then lighting a cigarette, I
paced up and down, trying to assess the danger from this old vulture.
Would the Arizona police take action if he wrote to them? It depended on
what he said. If he pointed out that Jenson had disappeared, and his wife and
the hired hand were sleeping together, the police might react. Often enough I
had read in the newspapers that murders had been discovered by neighbours
passing on gossip and rumours to the police. If the police did make enquiries
and couldn’t find any trace of Jenson coming out of Arizona—his description
was an easy one to remember—they might alert the Wentworth police who
were never overworked, and they could come out here. They would want to
know who I was and where I had come from.
But how to shut Ricks’s mouth? The obvious way would be to give him money. That would hold him for a couple of months. Would he believe my
story that at the end of this time, Jenson had found some other woman and
had given Point of No Return to Lola? Unless we could show him a letter,
telling him it had come from Jenson, he would most certainly not believe
such a story. Had he ever seen Jenson’s handwriting? I thought it was more
than likely. He most certainly knew his signature. It would be too dangerous
to attempt to forge the letter.
The more I thought about it, the trickier the situation became. When dealing
with a man of Ricks’s character, a man with nothing to do and with a flair for
smelling out trouble, I would have to watch every move I made.
Finally, when the lunch trade started, I had to give up trying to solve the
problem. I had to talk to Lola. We had a common enemy now. Maybe between the two of us, we could think of a way to stall Ricks.
Lola didn’t get back until after ten o’clock. By that time, I was pretty worked
up, and I had found no solution how to deal with Ricks.
I had just finished clearing up the kitchen and stacking the dishes when I
heard the sound of an approaching car. I looked out of the window and saw
Lola driving the Mercury into the garage.
I went out and caught up with her as she was crossing over to the bungalow.
“I want to talk to you,” I said.
She quickened her step, ignoring me. I walked with her up the path, waited
until she had unlocked the front door of the bungalow, then I crowded in with
her.
She turned, her green eyes pools of fury.
“Get out!”
“We’ve got to talk,” I said. “Your pal George Ricks was here this morning.”
That gave her a jolt. She stiffened. Wariness took the place of anger in her
eyes.
“I’m not interested. Get out!”
“You will be.”
I crossed the hall and entered the sitting room. I noticed she had washed out
the blood stain in the carpet. I went over to an armchair and sat down.
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