Warren Murphy - Dr Quake

Wyatt whistled pleasantly as he drove down the mountain highway, past the Cowboy Motel, with its occupants entering their cars, many without luggage. Then past the string of used-car lots and car washes, and then the Aquino shopping center dominated by the Feinstein Department store.

He wondered if the new owner would change the name of the store to Blomberg's. Or maybe Remo's. The guy seemed regular enough but one could never tell with those kind of people. Take his Oriental servant, for instance. It was real obvious the man was no servant. He didn't have enough energy to even take his bags into the house. Sheriff Wyatt, who had driven up to the house, had ordered his deputy to do that.

Come to think of it, the new owner was obviously as queer as a pink banana. Why else have that old Oriental there? He was no servant. Too weak. Probably be dead in a month.

Could those little gooks be beating us in Vietnam? No. Sheriff Wyatt knew who was beating America in Nam. America was beating America in Nam.

But Sheriff Wyatt was a politician too. And as he pulled into the diner near the Curpwell building, he vowed that like his feelings on Vietnam and who was really responsible, he would keep his feelings about Remo Blomberg to himself. Bottled up.

The coffee in the Andropolos Diner was good that morning. Black and bitter and when meshed with globs of sugar from the spoon and swilled with cream-the real stuff, not what Andropolos served his regular customers-it tasted rich and good and solid.

"Pie ala mode. Cherry pie with vanilla fudge, Gertie," said Sheriff Wyatt to the counter girl. She was in her late thirties, the hardening result of too many one-night stands with too many customers who asked what she was doing when she got off that night, and too many "nothing muches."

She was Gertie and they told Gertie dirty jokes and she laughed at them. And they pinched Gertie and Gertie might get mad but Gertie getting mad didn't really count because she was Gertie.

Gertie was the woman who heard all the latest smut.

Gertie was also the waitress at Andropolos' who received the highest tips. And Gertie, as Sheriff Wyatt knew, had one hell of a bank account.

Sheriff Wyatt's ham buttocks crowned the red vinyl counter stool, smothering it in khaki-clad flesh that almost hid the stool top.

He rested his elbows on the counter and burped. Gertie brought him the pie ala mode.

"Heard seven people were killed out at Gromuccfs last night," Gertie said. "A baby too. One of the men said that the kid kept crying throughout the whole thing. The whole night. And then it stopped and when they found it, it was dead. It was a girl. Her mother and her father were killed, too. One of her brothers. Only three kids out of that family lived. Those shacks are a disgrace, you know, Wade." ..

"Look," said Wyatt, his beefy face reddening. "I'm gonna eat this pie. And I'm gonna eat this ice cream. But next time when I order cherry pie ala mode with vanilla fudge, I want cherry pie with vanilla fudge. Not vanilla ripple."

Sheriff Wyatt plunged the fork into the vanilla ripple, its prongs making even runnels through the white and brown ice cream.

"You're a bit much, Wade."

Sheriff Wyatt waved the fork in front of Gertie's face, far enough away, however, to avoid any contact with her makeup. Then he would have to get another fork.

"I'll tell you, this may be the third time this year that I've ordered vanilla fudge and gotten vanilla ripple."

"What about the people who were killed, Wade?"

"Serving me ripple instead of fudge ain't gonna bring 'em back."

"You ain't paying for it."

"I'll pay for it. Bring me fudge."

"We're out. You want another flavour?"

"No. Ripple will do."

Gertie, unwounded by combat, stayed near Wyatt.

"They say the wetbacks are talking about death. A lot of it. That they may go back home. That they got their warnings," said Gertie.

Sheriff Wyatt drained his cup. "Good riddance. Whole pack of 'em."

"Who'll pick the grapes?"

"Americans."

"At those wages?"

"Then they'll get machines. Machines don't stink like wetbacks. You can park a machine in a garage. The machine don't want to move in with you or go to the movies with you. Machines'll take orders too."

"Not nowadays," laughed Gertie.

Sheriff Wyatt laughed too.

"That new fellow who bought Feinstein's?" Gertie said.

"Remo Blomberg?"

"Yeah. I saw him this morning on my way to work."

"At five A.M.?"

"Yeah," Gertie said. "He was out on his lawn doing the damnedest exercises I ever saw."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It was like crazy. I mean, it was dark, so I can't be sure, but it was like he was running fast. Real fast. Faster than I ever saw anybody run. And then it would be like he hit a wall, he changed directions so fast. Like he did it without his legs. Like the cartoons or the old movies. He'd be zipping along here, then zipping along there, then pow, he'd be going somewhere else. Weirdest thing I ever saw.

"And then," she said, "then he lay down on the ground and it was like he was vibrating or something. Then he did the strangest thing I've ever seen. I mean ever. I mean, I've been to the Cowboy and all and I mean ever. He's laying face down on the lawn, and then he's in the air, flipping over backwards. Like a cat. I mean it."

Gertie played nervously with her counter-rag, twisting it and watching Sheriff Wyatt's eyes closely as she told her story.

Wyatt offered his cup for more coffee. Gertie reached behind her to the constantly-heated carafe and poured it. Wyatt added the sugar and real cream.

"What do you think about that?" Gertie asked.

Wyatt beckoned her closer with his fork. He had a bit of information for her.

"He's queer. Fagola. Probably doing ballet."

"No kidding?" said Gertie, shocked. "I'd never believe it."

"You can believe it."

"No kidding," repeated Gertie, quite satisfied with what she had gleaned. She paused. "You know, I know and most of the town knows what really happened at the motel with Feinstein and the other guy. Yeah, I know poisoning and all. It really happened at the motel, naked and all. But they weren't queer, in case you thought so. I know. The two of 'em were with broads."

"No."

"Yeah," Gertie said. "They were doing a real gang number with a bunch of broads."

"In the Cowboy?"

"You know it."

"No."

"Yeah," said Gertie conspiratorially. "With a bunch of broads."

"Oh," said Wyatt dumbly and dropped his fork to his plate. "I didn't know that."

He waited in the diner until he saw Lester Curpwell's silver Rolls Royce pull up in front of the Curpwell building. Let Gertie think whatever she wanted to think. He crossed the street. Wyatt knew how the two men had died. By whose hand. And he didn't like it.

He caught up with Curpwell just in front of the main door.

"I've got to speak with you right away," he said. "Last night was a warning. The earthquake people called me. There are some things we've got to do."

"One thing we've got to do," Curpwell said, "is not talk out here on the street. We'll talk this afternoon. I think it's time that Mr. Remo Blomberg learned about the expenses of owning Feinstein's."

CHAPTER TEN

Sheriff Wyatt himself went to pick up the new owner of Feinstein's. The store had remained open under the vice president's charge, and the new owner had yet to appear there. Curpwell had invited Remo Blomberg himself over the telephone. Wyatt was told to be friendly to sort of let the new man know he was among friends in San Aquino.

Sheriff Wyatt was tired, bone tired, as he drove up the curved driveway to the Feinstein house. Funny. He still thought of it as the Feinstein house. He trudged up the few steps to the front door and rang.

The little gook answered the bell.