Джеймс Чейз - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

He joined the Greyhound at Sacramento and settled his bulk on the outside seat, next to mine.

He looked as if he had stepped straight out of the 19th century with his Mark Twain moustache, his string tie, his grey alpaca suit and his white Stetson. He was around sixty-five years of age and had a belly on him that could have been mistaken in the dark for a garbage can. He wore his hair long, Buffalo Bill style, and his red face signalled an inner contentment and a bonhomie that are rare these days.

Once he had settled himself, taken a quick look around, he turned his attention to me. As the bus was moving off, he said, ‘Howdy. I’m Joe Pinner of Wicksteed.’

I was aware that his small brown eyes were taking in my shabby suit that had cost two hundred dollars six years ago and was past its best. The small brown eyes also took in the frayed cuffs of my shirt that was showing grime after the long stint in this bus.

I said curtly, ‘Keith Devery of New York.’

He puffed out his fat cheeks, took off his Stetson, wiped his forehead, put on the Stetson, then said in a mild voice, ‘New York? You’ve come a long way. Me... I’ve seen New York: not my neck of the woods.’

‘Not mine either.’

The bus jolted us together. His shoulder hit mine. His was all muscle and hard fat. Mine took the shock.

‘You know Wicksteed, Mr. Devery?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I wasn’t interested. I wanted quiet, but I could see I wasn’t going to get it.

‘Finest little town on the Pacific coast,’ he told me. ‘Only fifty miles from Frisco. Has the finest little hospital, the most prosperous commercial trading, the best self-service store between L.A. and Frisco, even though I say it who owns it.’ He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘You should stop off, Mr. Devery and take a look.’

‘I’m heading for Frisco.’

‘Is that right? I know Frisco: not my neck of the woods.’ He took out a well-worn cigar case and offered it. I shook my head.

‘For a young, energetic man, Wicksteed offers opportunities.’

He lit the cigar, puffed rich smelling smoke, then relaxed back in his seat. ‘Would you be looking for a job, Mr. Devery?’

‘Right.’ I thought back on the past ten months which had been a series of jobs and what jobs! I was now worth fifty-nine dollars and seven cents. Once that was spent, nothing remained. Yes, I was looking for a job... any job. I couldn’t get lower than my last job: dish washing in a crummy wayside cafe... or couldn’t I?

Pinner puffed at his cigar.

‘You could do worse taking a look at Wicksteed,’ he said. ‘It’s a friendly little town... it likes to help people.’

That last remark made me sore.

‘Do you think I need help?’ I asked, a snap in my voice.

He removed his cigar, eyed it, before saying, ‘I guess everyone at some time in their lives can do with a little help.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’ I half turned to glare at him.

‘Well, Mr. Devery, I get the impression you could do with some friendly help,’ he said mildly, ‘but if I’m wrong, excuse me and forget it.’

I turned away and stared out of the dusty window. Over my shoulder, I growled, ‘I don’t ask favours nor expect them.’

He didn’t say anything to this and I kept staring out of the window, and after a while I heard him snoring gently. I turned to look at him. He was asleep, his cigar held between two thick fingers, his Stetson pushed down over his eyes.

It is just on ninety miles from Sacramento to Frisco. I’d be lucky to get there in three and a half hours. I hadn’t had any breakfast and I had a thirst on me that would have slain a camel. I had used up my last cigarette. I was now regretting I had refused his cigar.

I sat there, watching the scenery, feeling pretty low, wondering if I had made the right decision to leave the Atlantic seaboard for the Pacific seaboard. I reminded myself that I still had a few friends in and around New York, and although they couldn’t help me get a job, if things got really rough, I could have screwed them for a loan. The Pacific seaboard was an unknown quantity and no friends to screw.

After an hour or so, I saw a sign post that read: Wicksteed 40 miles. Joe Pinner woke up, yawned, looked past me out of the window and grunted.

‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘Do you drive a car, Mr. Devery?’

‘Why sure.’

‘Would a driving instructor’s job interest you?’

I frowned at him.

‘Driving instructor? You need qualifications for a job like that.’

‘Nothing to get excited about in Wicksteed. We are an easygoing lot. You need to be a good driver, have a clean licence and tons of patience... that’s about it. My old friend Bert Ryder needs a driving instructor. He owns the Wicksteed Driving-school and his man’s in hospital. It makes it awkward for Bert. He’s never touched a car in his life. He’s strictly a horse and buggy man.’ He relit his cigar, then went on, ‘That’s what I meant about helping people, Mr. Devery. He could help you and you could help him. The job’s nothing big: it pays two hundred, but it’s easy and keeps you out in the open air and two hundred is eating money, ain’t it?’

‘That’s right, but maybe he’s found someone by now.’ I tried to conceal my eagerness.

‘He hadn’t this morning.’

‘I could ask him.’

‘You do that.’ Pinner hoisted a holdall that had been resting between his feet on to his knees. He zipped it open and took out a parcel made up with greaseproof paper. ‘My old lady imagines, when I go on a trip, I might forget to eat.’ He gave his rumbling laugh. ‘Will you join me in a sandwich, Mr. Devery?’

For a moment I was going to refuse, then seeing the white fresh bread, chicken breasts and sliced gherkins, I said, ‘Why thanks, Mr. Pinner.’

‘The truth is I had lunch before I got on the bus. It’s more than my life’s worth to take this lot back uneaten. You go ahead, Mr. Devery,’ and he dumped the parcel on my lap.

I went ahead. My last meal had been a greasy hamburger last night. By the time I had eaten the four sandwiches, we were approaching Wicksteed. It certainly looked a nice town. The main street ran along the Pacific Ocean. There were palm trees and flowering oleander shrubs. The people on the sidewalks looked prosperous. On a distant corner was a big supermarket with Pinner’s Super Bazaar in neon lights on the roof.

The bus came to a halt.

‘That’s my place,’ Pinner said, heaving himself out of his seat. ‘You’ll find Bert Ryder’s school a block further on. Tell him you are a friend of mine, Mr. Devery.’

We got out of the bus with five or six other people.

‘Thanks, Mr. Pinner,’ I said. ‘I appreciate this, and thanks for the sandwiches.’

‘You were helping me to get rid of them.’ He laughed. ‘There’s a men’s room in the bus station if you want to spruce up. Good luck.’ He shook hands and walked off towards the store.

Lugging my shabby suitcase, I went to the men’s room, had a wash and a shave and put on my one clean shirt. I stared at myself in the mirror. You don’t spend five years in a tough jail without it showing. My black hair had white streaks in it. My face was gaunt with nightclub pallor. Although I had been out now for ten months, I still had that jailbird look.

I spent a dime on a shoeshine machine, then deciding there was nothing else I could do to make myself more presentable, I set off in search of Ryder’s Driving school. I found it as Pinner had said on the next block: a one-storey building, painted a gay yellow and white with a big sign on the roof. The door stood open and I walked in.