A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

‘What the hell’s the idea?’

‘What idea?’

‘Don’t pull that line with me.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘you’ve got me. This is a new car. I just bought it in Yuma. I wanted to find out how fast it would go. What does the judge soak me, a dollar a mile over the legal limit?’

‘Why didn’t you stop in at the quarantine station?’

‘I did. The man motioned for me to go on.’

‘The hell he did. He motioned for you to pull in and stop.’

‘I misunderstood him,’ I said.

‘You bought this car in Yuma, eh? Where?’

I told him.

‘When?’

I told him.

‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘We’re going back.’

‘Back where?’

‘Back to the checking station.’

‘Like hell we are. I’ve got business in El Centro.’

‘You’re under arrest.’

‘All right, then, take me before the nearest and most accessible magistrate.’

‘How’d you pay for this car?’ he asked.

‘With a check.’

‘Every hear anything about the penalty for issuing bum checks?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said.

He said, ‘Well, buddy, you’re going right back across the bridge into Yuma. The man that sold you this car wants you to answer some questions about that check. You thought you were being pretty cute, but you were just about fifteen minutes too early. They managed to get the check down to the bank before it closed.’

‘Well, what of it?’

He grinned. ‘They’ll tell you about that when you get back there.’

‘Back where?’

‘Back to Yuma.’

‘For what?’

‘For issuing a bum check, for obtaining property under false pretenses, and probably a couple of other charges.’

‘I’m not going back to Yuma,’ I said.

‘I think you are.’

I reached down and twisted the ignition key. ‘I know my rights,’ I said. ‘I’m in California. You can’t take me back across into Arizona without extradition.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘If you want to make it that way.’

He nodded. ‘All right, brother. You want to go to El Centro. Go ahead. We’re going there. Keep within the legal limit. I’ll be right behind you. Forty-five’s the legal limit. I’ll allow you fifty. At fifty-one I start shooting your tires. Do you get me?’

‘You can’t arrest me without a warrant,’ I said.

‘That’s what you think. Get out. I’m going to frisk you.’

I sat tight behind the wheel. He put one foot on the running board, shot his left hand out and hooked his fingers in the collar of my shirt. ‘Come on out,’ he said, holding the gun menacingly in his right hand.

I came out.

He patted me, looking for weapons, then looked through the car.

‘Remember,’ he said, ‘both hands on the wheel. No funny stuff. If you want to be extradited, you’ll sure as hell be extradited.’

‘I don’t like your manner,’ I said, ‘and I resent this high-handed invasion of my rights. I―’

‘Get started,’ he interrupted.

I got started. We drove into El Centro, and he took me to the sheriff’s office. I was left in charge of a deputy while the officer and the sheriff did some talking. Then I heard them telephoning. After that, I was taken down to the jail. The sheriff said, ‘Listen, Smith, you’re a nice looking chap. You’re not gaining anything by pulling a stunt like this. Why don’t you go back and face the music. You may be able to square it.’

I said, ‘I’m not talking.’

‘All right,’ he warned, ‘if you want to be smart.’

‘I want to be smart,’ I said.

They put me in a tank with four or five other prisoners. I didn’t do any talking. When supper was served, I didn’t do any eating. Shortly after supper, the sheriff came back again and asked me if I’d waive extradition. I told him to go to hell and he went out.

I stayed in the tank for two days. I ate some of the grub. It wasn’t too bad. The heat was awful. I didn’t have a newspaper and didn’t know what was going on in the world. They took me out of the tank and put me in a cell by myself. I had no one to talk to.

On the third day, a big man with a black sombrero came in with the sheriff. He said to me, ‘You Peter B. Smith?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m from Yuma,’ he said. ‘You’re going back with me.’

‘Not without extradition.’

‘I have extradition.’

‘Well, I refuse to honor it. I’m going to say right here.’

He grinned.

I gripped the side of the cot and raised my voice. ‘I’m going to stay right here!’

The big man sighed. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s too God damn hot for strenuous exercise. For Christ’s sake, come on out and get in that car.’

I yelled at him, ‘I’m going to stay right here!’

He shoved me around. The Arizona officer snapped handcuffs on my wrists. I refused to talk, and they hauled me out of the jail and into the car.

The big man put on a leg iron. ‘You asked for this,’ he said, mopping perspiration from his forehead. ‘Why can’t you be reasonable? Don’t you know it’s hot?’

‘You’re going to regret this as long as you live,’ I said. ‘I haven’t committed any crime and you can’t pin one on me. I’ll—’

‘Forget it. Shut up,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve got a hot drive across the desert ahead of me, and I don’t want to hear the sound of your voice.’

‘You won’t,’ I said, and sat back against the cushions.

We drove through the shimmering heat of the desert. The horizon twisted and danced in the rays of a blistering sun. The air was so hot it cooked my eyes in their sockets as boiling water boils an egg in its shell. The tires seemed to stick to the road, snarling a steady whine of sticky protest.

‘You would come at the hottest time of the day,’ I said.

‘Shut up.’

I kept quiet.

We drove into Yuma and went to the courthouse. The deputy district attorney said, ‘You made these people go to a lot of trouble, Smith. Where do you think it’s going to get you?’

‘They didn’t need to go to any trouble,’ I said. ‘If they think they’ve had trouble so far, wait until you see what they get.’

‘What are they going to get?’

‘I’m going to sue them for malicious prosecution, false arrest, and defamation of character.’

He yawned and said, ‘Don’t pull that gag. You make me laugh. If it had been a new car, the situation would have been different. As it is, it’s a demonstrator. You’ve given it a few miles’ run. It hasn’t hurt the car any. But you made them go to the expense of extraditing you. That’s going to hurt.’

‘Why the hell didn’t they cash the check I gave them?’ I asked.

He laughed and said, ‘Because you’d been down to the bank and drawn all the money out.’

‘Nuts,’ I said. ‘That was the other bank.’

‘What do you mean, the other bank?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You’re damn right I know what you mean. It’s the old flimflam game. You went down and handed out a line of soap. You deposited two thousand dollars in the bank. You left the check, knowing damn well they’d take steps to find out whether the check was good, but they wouldn’t cash it until you’d signed the papers and driven out with the car. You figured on getting the car delivered just a few minutes before closing time, beating it down to the bank and drawing out everything except two hundred dollars. You figured you’d have eighteen hours’ start before anyone found out the check wasn’t any good. But you beat your own time a little, and the automobile agency showed up at the bank about five minutes after you’d left with the money. They deposit every night just before closing time.’