Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

Johnny ate slowly, relishing the good hot coffee and the combination sandwich. He had intended getting a plain ham sandwich, as he wanted to conserve his money, but the smell of cooking had been too much for him.

The counterman leaned on his elbow and stared past Johnny at the broad macadam highway in the glare of the Arizona winter sun. To the counterman Johnny was just another weary hitch-hiker. Hordes of them passed every day; some of them headed for California, some of them headed East. Only one thing about Johnny interested him: he was wearing an old football sweater, and the numeral 7 could still be made out on the faded fabric across his shoulders, though the number itself had been ripped off long ago. The counterman turned from the road to stare languidly at Johnny.

‘Come a long way?’

‘Only from Ohio,’ Johnny grinned feebly.

The counterman whistled. ‘Football sweater you’re wearing, ain’t it?’

‘Yeah. Freshman team at Ohio State.’

‘Make the varsity?’

‘Yeah. I played my sophomore year. Halfback. But my old man ran out of dough.’

‘Hitting for Southern Cal?’

‘Yeah,’ Johnny answered. ‘Los Angeles.’

‘Everybody is.’

There was a loud shriek of tyres and a big, expensive-looking sedan turned suddenly from the highway and stopped at the filling station with a jerk. Two men got out. One was big and broad-shouldered and redheaded; the other was small and frail-looking with a narrow face and black hair.

‘Fill ’er up, Cap,’ called the big man. ‘We chow. Back in a minute.’

‘Boy,’ said the counterman, ‘that car’s been places. Look at the dust all over it.’

The men came in and sat down at the counter. Their well-cut clothes were covered with dust; their eyes were bloodshot and they both looked haggard and done in, the small one especially.

‘Hey, pal,’ said the big one, ‘we want two club sandwiches and a couple o’ coffees. And make it fast, will you?’

The counterman went to make the sandwiches. The little man stared at Johnny for a moment; then he leaned forward and whispered something to the redhead, who turned, stared briefly, then said:

‘Hiya, kid. Hoofing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How’d you like to drive a couple guys to El Portal?’

‘That’s right on my way.’

‘Okay,’ said the big man. ‘Eats, if any, and transportation; maybe a little dough if you give us service. We’re in a hurry.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Red smiled.

‘Buddy, you’ll have to push that hack to hit the road like we want to hit it.’

‘Yeah,’ said the little man, ‘my wife’s sick over in El Portal. We got a telegram saying they thought maybe she might kick off, so I want to get there and get there quick.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m not afraid to open a car up.’

‘Good,’ said the big man. ‘Let’s get acquainted. Call me Red; that’s practically the only name I got. My skinny friend here is George. What’s your name?’

‘Johnny.’

‘Okay, Johnny. As soon as we chow we start.’

The counterman came with their sandwiches. They wolfed them down, then gulped down their coffee. The counterman watched them with raised eyebrows: never in his life had he seen anybody eat so fast. They got up. Red threw a dollar on the counter.

‘Okay?’ he asked.

‘You got some change coming.’

‘Keep it. Go out to a good restaurant and get your lunch.’

The two men walked so fast Johnny could hardly keep up with them.

Red paid for the gasoline, then he and George got into the back seat. Johnny jumped in and started the motor with a roar; this was a real hack; he hadn’t driven one like it since his freshman year in college, when the real estate business was good and his dad was in the big money.

The counterman was standing in the door of the barbecue joint when Johnny drove past.

‘Luck, eh?’ he called.

‘You tell it,’ said Johnny.

In a few moments Johnny had left the little Arizona town and the barbecue joint far behind. In the rear-view mirror he could see Red and George, leaning back against the cushions, their hats over their eyes, their legs stretched out. Those two birds were certainly worn out, all right; they were already half asleep.

Once Red sat up suddenly and, leaning forward, looked at the dashboard.

‘Atta stuff, buddy,’ he said. ‘George was right about you. He said you looked like you wasn’t scared of no blowout. Don’t worry. These tyres are good. Keep moving.’

Johnny nodded and Red lay back. They passed through some Mexican villages and Johnny slowed down. At several places they saw Indian hogans with fat squaws sitting in front of them. There were no towns in this desolate region: only a handful of Mexicans and Indians lost in this gigantic flat valley, hemmed in by gigantic lavender mountains.

For some reason traffic was very light on this national highway and when Johnny saw a car running slowly ahead of him he slackened his pace a little, then gradually slowed down almost to a stop. George didn’t miss a beat in his snoring, but Red sat up at once.

‘Keep moving,’ he said harshly.

But Johnny pointed. A girl hitch-hiker in brown slacks and a green sweater was struggling with two men who were trying to pull her into their car. A third man was inching the car along, keeping up with them as the girl pushed her way forward, trying to get away.

‘She’s doing all right,’ said Red. ‘A little ride will do her good. Keep moving.’

‘No,’ said Johnny, jamming on the brakes. ‘I won’t keep moving.’ He turned and looked straight into Red’s chill grey eyes. He saw Red clench his fists; he saw the huge muscles rippling under his coat sleeve, but he wasn’t intimidated. That girl needed help and she was going to get it.

‘Okay,’ said Red wearily, turning away. Then he grinned and said: ‘It’s your party, Johnny, old sock. Let’s see you go to work.’

Johnny jumped out of the car and ran towards the struggling girl. The men let loose of her when they saw Johnny coming, and one of them drew back his fist.

‘Stay out of this, partner, if you know what’s good for you,’ said one of them. ‘This is my gal and she’s trying to beat it.’

Johnny hesitated. The men looked tough. The girl didn’t; quite the contrary. She reminded him of some of the girls he had gone to school with back in Ohio.

‘What about it, sister?’ he demanded.

‘I never saw these men before.’

‘It’s a lie.’

‘Okay,’ said Johnny. ‘You guys leave this girl alone. Beat it.’

‘Sez you!’ said the man in the car.

The two men, who had been struggling with the girl, jumped Johnny. One of them hit him behind the ear and turned him half around; the other kicked him hard three times. In a moment one of them hit him on the jaw and lie went down. But he was boiling now and came up fighting. The third man jumped from the car and got into the fight. Johnny had never seen so many fists before in his life, but finally he landed a good solid blow and one of the men moved out of the fight, holding his stomach. Johnny went down again. Dazed, he sat looking up at the blazing blue sky. Much to his surprise, Red, with a broad grin on his freckled face, moved into his line of vision.

‘You ain’t doing so good, Johnny,’ he said. Then he turned to the two men who were waiting for Johnny to get up: ‘Now, now; you boys are getting too rough. Mustn’t play rough.’ Then he threw back his head and laughed.

The men looked at each other uneasily. This redheaded guy was big as an ox and looked plenty tough.

‘You, baby,’ said Red, turning to the girl, ‘give us the lowdown quick. Family affair?’