Peter Rabe - The Box

From here on in, a number of things were supposed to happen like clockwork.

Quinn put the man down on the ground, slowly, leaned the man back and felt the tension. This was the natural tensing of trying to balance oneself while leaning back. Quinn hit the man again because he had not been entirely unconscious. He used his fist this time, a sharp uppercut, feeling much more certain about what he was doing now. When the man sagged in the right way Quinn was done.

Turk, by the house, was whistling.

The man with the camel got up, yelled at his beast, and tapped his stick under the animal’s chin.

Quinn dumped the driver on top of the canisters in back of the pickup, got into the cab, and maneuvered the car off the road and behind the ruined house. When he got there Turk was ready with the tools.

So far, nice and smooth. Quinn felt nervous and happy.

While Turk pushed the jack under the front axle Quinn started to undo the nuts on one wheel. By then the first camel came around the corner of the house, and then the other two, each led by a man. Quinn did not know any of them but they’re working out, he thought, maybe they’ll work out. He hardly looked at them, no time now for this, and told Turk what he wanted each of the others to do. Then he took the first wheel off. He let the air out of the tire while he took off the second wheel. He let the air out of that one too. Turk was coming back out of the house.

“Check the driver,” said Quinn.

Turk went to the back of the truck and said, “Do you want me to hit him again?”

“I said check him! I want to know if he’s still out.”

“He sleeps.”

“Make sure.”

“I did.”

Quinn did not ask how Turk had made sure. He only told him to put the driver into his cab and they should get busy with the cans on the truck. The three Arabs came out of the house, carrying the skins. One camel was lying down by itself, one stood, and one was grinding its teeth.

Then Quinn pounded the tires off the front wheels, and then he bolted the bare wheels back on the wheel-drums. After that he got the jack out and put it under the rear of the truck. There he did the same thing he had done to the front. He took the tubes and tires off the wheels and then put the bare wheels back in place. Make them think there’s a gentleman thief around. Puts the wheels back on, after the deed.

Turk and the three others were pouring alcohol into empty skins and water into empty canisters. Quinn smoked a cigarette, standing back a little. It smells like a hospital, he thought, or a brewery. I can’t decide which.

The men put the canisters full of water back on the pickup and they tied the skins full of alcohol to the packsaddles of the three camels. They were all scratching themselves and they were grinning while they stood around because none of them knew what this was all about. Quinn checked the driver again and then walked to the Arabs.

“Tell them what I say, Turk.”

He gave all of them a cigarette and they all smoked. Turk smoked and so did two of the others. The third split the paper open and ate the tobacco.

“Tell them they can sell the tires as soon as they wish. And I don’t care to whom they sell them or where.”

“The best place…”

“Shut up and listen. Make it clear that it will go badly with them, if Remal finds out who stole his tires. Tell them.”

Turk told them and they all talked at once. Then they listened again.

“Tell them that I will do nothing to them, if the tires get traced, because Remal will take care of them good and proper if they aren’t careful.”

“That will be difficult,” said Turk, “to sell the tires and Remal knows nothing about it.”

“It can be done.”

“But how?”

Quinn picked up sand from the ground and rubbed it in his hands. It took some of the grime off and then he wiped his hands on the dirty burnoose.

“I want them to figure that out by themselves. Because I can’t use them if they can’t sell stuff without getting traced. Tell them.”

Turk told them and there was much discussion while Quinn got into the truck. He leaned out and told them to move the camels out of the way, he wanted to back up. Then he said, “Do they know about the alcohol?”

“Oh yes. They are to hide it, not sell. They know.”

Quinn nodded, kicked the starter, geared into reverse. It was a clanking, hard maneuver without tires on the wheels, and gave a weird motion to the truck. Once the truck hit the highway, it sounded like a tank clattering over the pavement. Quinn stopped with the truck pointed towards town. It had been twenty minutes since the driver had gone under and Quinn was a little bit worried. He propped the man up and then got out of the cab. Behind the house the Arabs and Turk were still arguing.

“Since it might take them a while to figure a way of selling the tires,” said Quinn, “give them this as an extra.”

He handed bills over to Turk which amounted to about one dollar apiece. Then he said that the three men and the camels should go.

Quinn did not watch them leave but sat in the jeep, inside the ruined house, smoking. He said nothing when Turk came and thought, I hope I did that with a sufficient, imperial touch, stalking off that way.

“Quinn,” said Turk and started the motor, “did you like the men I picked?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll see how they’ll work out with the tires.”

“That was very clever of you, Quinn, and they too thought you are very clever. And generous.” Turk drove out of the building and crossed the highway.

“They’ll make more, if they stick.”

“Yes, but they thought you very generous. They know how much you got for the cans which you sold to Whitfield and that you have no other money.”

Quinn did not care to show that this irritated him and said nothing. When the jeep was on the other side of the road Quinn looked back, worrying about the driver in the pick-up truck. The man sat in the cab as if he were asleep.

“And they want to stick with you,” Turk was saying, “because they believe you will do great things.”

“That’s very devoted of them, I’m sure.”

“They know how little money you have and they are sure your greed will make all of us rich.”

The jeep bumped and leaped and made so much noise on the rough terrain that Turk could not hear how Quinn was cursing.

Quinn got some of his humor back when he stood on the pier and heard the noise come from the distance. It was a clattering metal noise which nobody could place.

“How come you’re still here?” said Quinn. “Isn’t it siesta time for you?”

Whitfield looked up from his clipboard and said, “I never saw you smoke before. When did you pick up that habit? I’ll be damned, Quinn, if that doesn’t sound like a tank.”

“It does sound like a tank. A sort of tinny tank.”

“Odd,” and Whitfield did checks and crosses on the forms he held.

“How come you’re still here, Whitfield, and not home in bed?”

“I take a bath, for siesta.”

“How could I forget! Yes.”

“Some damn transport is late. Wait till I talk to that man.”

Quinn thought about this and grinned. Then he said “I think the tank is coming this way, by the sound of it.”

“He’s on the cobbles. All along the piers we have cobbles, you know.”

“I’m going around the building,” said Quinn, “to see what the cobbles are doing to the tank.”

“To the driver. Can you imagine that driver?” said Whitfield.

Quinn said no, he could hardly imagine such a thing, and the two men walked from the pier through the warehouse and out on the cobbles.

“Oh, sainted heart!” said Whitfield.