Alan Cook - Honeymoon for Three

Through his outside mirror he could see the cop approaching, looking large and dark and menacing in his broad-brimmed hat. Alfred cranked down his window and tried to compose himself. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket.

The cop came up to the window and said, “Do you know how fast you were going?” He spoke slowly, with a drawl.

“No sir.”

“Thirty miles over the speed limit. May I see your driver’s license?”

Alfred handed it to him. He unhooked his registration from the steering column where he kept it because California law required it to be visible. He gave that to the officer, on request.

The policeman studied the documents. “You Californians think you can come out here and drive any way you like. We got laws here, you know. It’s not just cowboys and Indians.”

His head was right at the window. Alfred heard him sniff the air. He smelled the vomit. Alfred had driven for a while with the window open, trying to get rid of the smell, even though he froze doing it.

“Would you step out of the car please?” the officer asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

Alfred complied. The cop asked him to walk a few steps.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No sir.”

“You don’t look drunk. But that’s a healthy odor in your car. Actually, more of a nauseating odor. I don’t see how you can stand it.”

“I…I was feeling sick. Something I ate.” Actually, he hadn’t eaten. His hunger pangs had returned.

“I’m going to have to ask you to follow me to the station. Here are your options. Since you’re from out of state, we can’t just let you go. You can post bail and then leave. Or you can stay the night and go up before the Justice of the Peace in the morning.”

Alfred knew he’d better be on his best behavior. The officer went back to his car and made a U-turn. Alfred followed him. Five minutes later they were at the police station. Alfred took some of the money from the glove compartment and placed it in his wallet before he got out of the car. The station was located in a small building. Inside, one other officer sat at a desk. The cop who had stopped Alfred explained the situation to the other one.

The second officer grinned amiably and spoke to Alfred. “Well, son, bail is fifty dollars. You can pay that now and go merrily on your way. Or you can stay with us tonight, courtesy of the Bozeman Police Department, and talk to the JP in the morning. We got a spare cot in the room there.”

He indicated a small room with an open door. Alfred could see an army cot through the doorway.

“What will the fine be?”

“Probably about twenty dollars.”

So he could save thirty dollars and have a free place to stay tonight. That was tempting. Reality intruded. The man at the store had undoubtedly been found by now. Some kind of a bulletin must have been issued. Didn’t cops trade information with each other? Since he was coming from the direction of the shooting, he would be a natural suspect.

A teletype machine started clanking next to the seated officer. Alfred could read some of the words that were printing on roll paper from his side of the counter. He saw the word “store” and the word “robbery.” He made out the word “murder.” My God, the man was dead. He had killed him. He had to get out of there. Fortunately, the officer was ignoring the teletype at the moment. But he would be reading it soon enough.

“Well, I’ve got an appointment in Billings tomorrow.” Alfred tried to look casual and sound important. “I’ve got a deal going. I’ll post bail.”

He produced his wallet and counted out fifty dollars. That was a good chunk of his take. He chafed while the officer took his time about completing the paperwork, trying not to get sick again. When it was finished, he forced himself to walk, not run, to his car and drive away at a moderate speed.

Alfred knew he had to ditch his car and get another one. He hated the thought, but he had to do it. And he had to do it damn fast, before he turned south toward Wyoming and gave away his direction. The cops had recorded his license plate, and the two-tone Ford Fairlane was too distinctive, anyway.

The car was paid for and it was his. He had a lot of good memories associated with this car. It had always been faithful to him, unlike the people he knew. But now it had to go. It would be a magnet for the cops now that they had his license number and description. He hadn’t meant to kill the man. If only the fellow hadn’t acted so suspiciously…

Alfred cruised slowly through the next town, wondering how to go about acquiring another car. He wasn’t skilled at breaking into cars, and he didn’t know how to hot-wire one. He drove into a residential area where cars were sitting on streets and driveways in profusion. He parked the Ford. Taking the gun and the rest of the money with him, he strolled along a street.

Even though it was Friday night, all was quiet. A few of the houses had lights showing through their curtains. He kept looking up and down the street for signs of people as he cautiously tried a few car doors. They were locked. Even if he got into a car, he wouldn’t know what to do next.

Maybe it would be enough if he switched license plates. That would be easy to do; he had a screwdriver in the toolkit in his trunk. That would enable him to keep his car, at least until he got back to Los Angeles. Then he would worry about the next step.

He turned around and was walking back toward his car when he saw lights coming down the street toward him. He assumed the appearance and pace of a casual stroller as the car went by him. It turned into a driveway just a few doors past Alfred and immediately stopped. The driver’s door opened, and a teenage boy got out. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door. He handed a girl out of the car. At least he had manners. They walked together up to the front door. He could see them kissing.

The girl opened the door to the house. She was saying goodnight. Alfred was about to turn back toward his own car when he saw the boy follow her inside. The door closed behind them. What impressed Alfred was that the driver’s door of the car was still open.

He had to check. This might be too good an opportunity to pass up. He strolled across the street, keeping his eyes on the door of the house. He walked quickly up the driveway to the car and glanced inside. He saw the key in the ignition. This must be a low-crime area.

He glanced at the house again. If the boy came out now, he would say he was shutting the car door. There was no movement from the house. Alfred quickly got into the car. It was a Ford Falcon with a manual, three-speed transmission. Fortunately, Alfred had learned to drive in a car with a manual transmission.

He put the gearshift into neutral and released the brake. The car coasted backwards down the inclined driveway and into the street. Alfred turned the steering wheel and stopped the Falcon when it faced the direction in which he wanted to go. He started the car, shifted into first gear, and drove slowly away, hoping that the engine noise wouldn’t arouse the suspicions of the owner.

He made several quick turns and then headed out of town. After a few minutes, he stopped behind another car in a deserted area. He would make this a foolproof operation. He got out and opened the trunk. He found a small toolkit, mostly by feel. With the help of the car’s dome light, he located a screwdriver inside the kit. It took him five minutes to switch his plates with those of the parked car.

Now he had Montana plates, but not the ones the police would be looking for. The aluminum-colored plates with the outline of the state of Montana blended in nicely with those of the other cars on the road. They wouldn’t attract the attention that California plates would in this part of the country. The parked car from which he had taken the plates had the dirty windows of a vehicle that hadn’t been driven for a while. It might be days or weeks before the switched plates were discovered.