A. Fair - All Grass Isn't Green

“There is one thing I’ve got to have,” I said, “if I’m going to get Hale in court.”

“What?”

“The opportunity to see Calhoun — now.”

He shook his head. “It’s too late. Visiting hours are...”

I pointed to the telephone. “You can fix it up,” I said.

“It might be a little difficult.”

I said, “Calhoun is paying you to smooth out difficulties.”

He picked up the telephone, put through a call to the Sheriff’s Office, talked a while in a low voice, hung up the phone, turned to me and nodded.

“It’s all fixed,” he said. “You’ll have to go right away.”

“On my way,” I told him.

He was watching me speculatively as I left the office.

Milton Calhoun had the best quarters in the Detention Ward. I don’t know whether money had fixed it or whether Anton Newberry had pull, but the place wasn’t too bad as jails go.

He was glad to see me.

“How do you like the attorney I got for you?” I asked.

“I think he’s all right,” he said.

“He’s arranged for a quick preliminary hearing,” I said, “tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, I understand.”

Calhoun nodded and said, “But the preliminary hearing means nothing. We’re not going to do anything except ride with the punch. That’s what Newberry thinks should be done.”

I said, “Have you talked to anybody?”

“Newberry, that’s all.”

I said. “Sit tight. Don’t talk to anybody. Don’t give anyone even the time of day. Refer them to Newberry.”

“That’s what my attorney has told me.”

“All right,” I said. “Now I’m going to tell you a few things. Get over closer.”

“Why closer?” he asked.

“So you can hear me better,” I said.

I sat on one side of the toilet and motioned Calhoun to the other side.

I flushed the toilet, put my lips close to his ear, and starting talking about Colburn Hale.

When the toilet ceased to make noise, I quit talking, waited for a few seconds, then flushed it and began all over again.

“What’s that for?” Calhoun asked.

“That,” I said, “is because the place is bugged and I don’t want other people to hear what we’re talking about. Why didn’t you tell me that you knew where Nanncie was?”

“I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“You act like a clumsy fool,” I said. “You can’t hold out information on me any more than you can on your lawyer.”

“I haven’t even told him all you know,” Calhoun said.

“Then don’t. I’m going to take care of Nanncie. Be sure that you don’t ever mention her name. They’ll ask you about the gun and...”

A man appeared at the barred door. “What the hell is all this water running down the toilet about?” he asked.

I grinned at him and said, “How did you know water was running down the toilet?”

He looked at where Calhoun and I were seated opposite sides of the toilet, shook his head, and said “Come on, wise guy. Get out. Your visit is over.”

“That was a short visit,” I said.

“Wasn’t it?” he agreed.

“Why cut it so short?” I asked.

“Because,” he told me, “we don’t like to waste water. We’re out here in the desert. Come on, let’s go.”

I shook hands with Calhoun. “Remember what I told you,” I said.

I followed the deputy sheriff on out.

The deputy had me check out on the visitors’ register, looked me over and said, “Sergeant Sellers told us about you.”

“Do you,” I asked, “want me to tell you about Sergeant Sellers?”

He had the grace to grin. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

After I got out of the jail I bought the El Centro evening paper. Seated in the agency car, I read about Calhoun. Evidently he was a real big shot in Los Angles.

Then another item caught my eye.

Headlines read: ROADBLOCK NEAR BRAWLEY NETS MANY CARS WITH DEFECTIVE EQUIPMENT.

I read about the forty-two cars with defective lights, and then I read: “Peter L. Leland, a former pugilist, was also apprehended at the roadblock at 10:45 P.M. alert officer spotted Leland waiting on the outskirts of the roadblock, communicating over a Citizen’s Band radio with some unknown individual. Inquiries developed that Leland was wanted, having jumped bail in Los Angeles on a charge of dope smuggling. He was taken into custody.”

I tore this out of the newspaper and put the item in my billfold. This could be Hale’s “Puggy.” I debated whether to call the matter to Newberry’s attention, but decided to wait until I saw him at the preliminary hearing.

I drove across to the Lucerna Hotel and found Colburn Hale sitting fully clothed by the side of the swimming pool, talking with Nanncie. Nanncie was in a bathing suit.

“What’s the matter?” I asked Hale. “No swim?”

He shook his head. “Just too plain sore to even think of it.”

“It’ll take the soreness out of you. Relaxing in water is one of the best ways there is to get your muscles unwound.”

“I suppose so,” he said, “but it — it’s just a problem even getting my clothes on and off. I managed a hot bath. I almost fainted. I’ll wait a couple of days before I swim.”

I said, “I have a little missive for you.”

“What is it?”

I handed him the subpoena.

“Why, that’s tomorrow morning at ten o’clock!” he said.

“That’s right.”

“In El Centro.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I suppose if I have to be there, I’ll have to be there.”

I said, “I’ve got one just like it.”

“What about me?” Nanncie asked.

I shook my head and said, “You don’t have anything to contribute to the situation at the present time, at least nothing that anyone knows about.

“And,” I went on, looking pointedly at Hale, “ I know that no one will say anything that would drag your name into it. ”

“It’s getting late. I’ll buy you folks a drink.”

Hale eased himself up out of the chair.

“I’ll shower and dress,” Nanncie said. “It’ll take me few minutes.”

“You can join us in the cocktail lounge,” I said.

Hale started staggering and hobbling toward the cocktail lounge. I said, “Oh just a minute, I forgot something.”

I went back to where Nanncie was just getting up.

“Get your things all packed,” I said. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

“Why?”

“To keep your name out of the papers.”

“But how am I going?”

“I’m taking you.”

“Where am I going?”

“To a place where no one will ever think to look for you. Say nothing to anyone. Join us in the lounge for drink, then make an excuse to get to your room. I’ll give you a buzz.”

I rejoined Hale. We went into the cocktail lounge an, had a Margarita, one of those beautiful Mexican drink with frosted salt around the edge of the glass and a balm of liquid delight inside.

Nanncie joined us. We had another drink.

Hale would have sat there and pinned one on, but said I had some work to do and left.

Nanncie said she never cared for more than one before dinner, and we left Hale sitting there.

Things worked out like clockwork. Nanncie was packed all in one suitcase and a bulging bag. She made a record for speed.

I tipped a bellboy, and while Hale was still in the bar we were were on our way.

“Where,” Nanncie asked, “are we going?”

I said, “You are going to go to a primitive place.”

“Where?”

“Ever hear of El Golfo de Santa Clara?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“This,” I said, “is a place down on the Gulf on the Sonora side. It’s dean, it’s nice, it’s quaint, it’s picturesque. There’s a motel there that is fairly livable, and there are some very good restaurants where you can get, perfectly fresh seafood and prawns that are almost as big as a small lobster.