Now I knew he was my man, I looked at him more closely. He stood fully six
foot four in his socks and was as broad as two ordinary men. His face was
fleshy and sunburned. It was a good face: open, kind and humorous. At a guess he was around fifty-two or three. Although he was big, there wasn’t
much fat on him. He looked durable: a lot more durable than most men of his
age.
The counter man said, “Excuse me, Mr. Jenson, this fella is looking for a ride
over the mountain. I told him Point of No Return is the best spot to pick up a
truck.”
Jenson turned and looked me over, then he smiled.
“How do,” he said “Yeah, Mike’s right. You won’t get any truckers stopping
on the road, but they do stop at my place. Glad to be of help. I’ll give you a
lift to my place, but you’ll have to take your chance with the truckers. Most
of them aren’t permitted to carry passengers over the mountain: something to
do with the insurance.”
“Thanks,” I said, “if you’re sure it won’t put you out.”
He laughed.
“I’m glad to have company on the drive back. It’s a damned awful road. My
name’s Carl Jenson.” He held out a big fleshy hand.
I shook hands with him.
“I’m Jack Patmore,” I said, thinking up the name on the spur of the moment.
“Are you heading for Tropica Springs?”
“That’s right.”
He finished his coffee and dropped a coin on the counter.
“Well, if you’re ready …”
He shook hands with the counter man as I slid off the stool.
“So long, Mike: be seeing you.”
I also shook hands with the counter man, nodding my thanks, then I followed
Jenson’s enormous bulk out into the burning sunshine.
He led the way to where a ten ton truck stood in the shade.
The truck was
loaded with scrap metal: rusty iron bedsteads were piled together with rods,
bolts and broken farm equipment.
Jenson swung himself up into the cab and I followed him. It was like an oven
in the cab and we both stripped off our coats.
Jenson took out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one.
As we lit up, he said,
“May as well make ourselves comfortable. It’s a long, hot run.” Then he
started the engine and drove down the dusty main street.
Neither of us said anything until we were clear of the town, then Jenson
broke the silence by asking casually: “Is this your first visit out here?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Me—I was born and raised here. It’s a lonely spot and it’s goddamn hot, but
I like it. You come far?”
“Oakland.”
“That’s quite a step. Never been there myself. What’s it like?”
“Okay.”
He glanced at me.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you were country bred. What line are you in if it
isn’t being nosey?”
“I’m in the lock trade. My dad was a locksmith too: runs in the family.”
“Locks, eh? Would you know anything about metal?”
“Sure. When I’m not fixing locks I’m building safes, and you’ve got to know about metal with safes.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. We were driving along a dusty
road that led through the desert. In the far distance was the mountain. The
wheels of the truck churned up the dust that came in through the open cab
window, smothering us.
“You wouldn’t know anything about car engines, would you?” he asked after
a long silence.
“As much as most,” I said, wondering what he was getting at. “I can take an
engine down if that’s what you mean. I once made a new cylinder head for
my old man’s Ford. That was quite a job, but I did it.”
He glanced at me again, and I was aware the sharp blue eyes were going over
me intently.
“If you can do that, you know cars,” he said. “Are you planning to stay in
Tropica Springs?”
I was getting bothered by this steady stream of questions.
“Yes,” I said, and looked away from him out of the cab window.
In the distance I could see a hawk hovering, sharp etched against the sky that
seemed bleached white with the heat.
“Have you a job waiting for you?” he asked. “What I’m driving at is this: if
you’re looking for a job, I could give you one.”
“You could? What kind of a job?”
“I need a guy who can handle metal and cars. These past two years have been
tough going for Lola—that’s my wife—and for me. I keep promising myself
I’d get help. You seem the kind of young fellow I could get along with. Mind
you, the place is pretty lonely and you’d have to do your turn at night shift.
The nearest town is Wentworth—twenty miles of desert road, but you’d find
the food okay. Lola certainly knows how to cook. She’s Italian. You like
Italian food?”
“I guess so.”
“You wait until you try her spaghetti: never tasted anything so good. You’d
have a cabin to yourself. There’s a radio. I have a spare TV set: you could
have that too.” He looked hopefully at me. “I’d pay forty bucks and all found.
There’s nothing to spend your money on. You could get together some
capital.”
I didn’t hesitate for more than a second or so. This was my chance to get lost.
Anyway, I could work for him for a few months, get together some money
and then move on.
“Sounds fine,” I said. “Okay, I’d like to give it a trial.”
He grinned at me.
“Then you’ve got yourself a job, son,” he said and reaching out his enormous
hand, he patted me on the knee.
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