Putting one hand rather dramatically against his stomach, he turned and walked slowly toward the sign marked Rest Rooms. A couple of the little gold stick-on letters had fallen off. The men at the table relaxed, started on their fresh beers.
Inside the john, Jake waited until its only other occupant finished his business, zipped his fly and departed. Then he closed the simple latch lock on the door.
There was the necessary window at the back. It was open, but a screen kept Arizona’s small winged wildlife outside. Jake inspected it quickly. It balanced loosely on a couple of snaps. He tugged at them with his fingers, but they were tighter than they looked. He couldn’t budge them. His pocket knife, however, made short work of them.
He pushed hard with one hand and grabbed with the other, managing to catch the screen before it fell to the ground; not that anyone in the busy cafe was likely to hear anyway, but he didn’t see any point in taking unnecessary chances. He let it drop carefully. It landed soundlessly outside the john.
Putting one foot on the nearby urinal, he grabbed the sill with both hands and pulled himself up and through. Twenty years ago it would have been easier. Now his belly held him back for a minute. He’d worked hard all his life, however, and that accumulated tolerance paid off now as he worked his way through the opening.
A minute later he was standing next to the side of the building, quietly thanking the architect for complying literally with the law that required bathroom ventilation. Windows were superfluous in most South Arizona buildings; an antagonist of air-conditioning. So there were none facing the dining area, and no way for anyone inside to see him race around the structure and into the parking lot.
He slid behind the wheel of the Galaxie and fumbled with the ignition. His eyes shifted constantly from the keyhole to the cafe’s front door. The gouge on the side went unnoticed. He turned the key and the engine made a sound like a tired lawn mower. No burst of energy came from beneath the hood.
Phoenix, he thought frantically, just get me to Phoenix, old blue. Then we can both rest. But not here. Don’t die on me here.
“Hey, Ed?” Archer pointed toward the back of the restaurant. Two farmhands stood in front of the door to the men’s room. One had been trying the handle. Now he stopped and started pounding on the door with the flat of one hand.
Royrader rose and led his companions away from the table. The half-finished beers were quickly forgotten.
“What’s the problem?” he asked the frustrated farmhand.
“Hell, I don’t know.” He nodded toward the door. “Some joker’s been in there for ten minutes. He’s got the door locked, and I’ve got to pee like a Russian racehorse.” Turning away from Royrader, he resumed his pounding on the door. “Hey man, come on out of there! Your time’s up!”
Royrader exchanged a look with Archer, then Snyder. The latter pushed the irritated hand aside and kicked out hard with one boot. Other diners looked up and there was a faint protest from the vicinity of the cash register which the three men ignored.
“Hey, partner, I ain’t that desperate,” said the startled farmhand.
The door flew inward with a slam. Snyder went in first, followed quickly by Royrader and Archer. They saw the gaping window right away.
“Dammit,” Royrader muttered under his breath. They piled back out through the john and back into the cafe, ignoring the comments of the other diners and the protest of the woman manning the register.
Then they were outside again, squinting through the glare and heat of the late summer sun. The Galaxie was gone. Archer pointed to his left, up the road.
“There he goes!”
“Christ,” Royrader snapped as they headed for the pickup.
“If he gets into truck traffic we’ll have a helluva time trying to pull him over.”
It was at least ten miles from Buckeye to the point where the Los Angeles-Phoenix traffic began to bunch up on its way into the valley of the sun. Once he entered real traffic, the old man would be surrounded by eighteen-whèelers and tourists, not to mention the ubiquitous highway patrol cruisers. At least they had one thing in their favor, Royrader thought as they piled into the pickup. The quick look-over they’d given the old man’s car indicated he didn’t have a CB. He couldn’t call for road help.
The pickup roared, sending dirt and ants flying as it rumbled out of its parking space and tore out onto the street.
“Take it easy, Ed,” Archer advised him. “We’ll catch him.”
“Yeah,” said Snyder, leaning out the opposite window, the wind making him squint as he tried to see up the road, “that’s no four-barrel he’s pushin’.”
“It’s not that.” Royrader’s expression was grim as he gripped the wheel hard. “I just don’t like being taken for a sucker, especially by some dumb old geezer out of L.A.”
“Don’t get your ass in an uproar,” Archer advised him. He was staring through the dusty windshield, trying to see up the road. “We’ll be all over him in a minute. Just think about the envelope and all that sweet green stuff.”
“Yeah, the envelope.” Thinking of the money did make him feel better. He was a lousy third-string foreman at the plant. His days were spent clad in hardhat and coveralls, white gunk and choking grime. Of course, dirty as it was, that work was still a lot cleaner than what he was into right now.
Hell with it. Too late for second thoughts. If not him and his buddies, Lasenby would’ve found three other guys for the job, and in less than five minutes. Times were tough.
He tried to blot out thoughts of anything but the overstuffed envelope heavy against his chest.
IX
Jake held the accelerator pedal to the floor, but the old Ford didn’t respond the way it used to. It had been a long time since any real speed had been required of it. Jake didn’t know much about cars, but he did know that you couldn’t coax rpm’s out of an engine that no longer had the strength to manufacture them.
He could see the pickup coming up fast in his rear-view mirror. Its occupants’ identity was masked by the glare off the glass, but it didn’t take much guessing to imagine who they were. They’d discovered the trick he’d pulled on them in the washroom. That wasn’t so bad. What was bad was that they’d discovered it about ten minutes too soon.
He strained to see a possible refuge, but there was nothing here. No gas station to pull into, no motel, nothing but scrub and pavement. He was trapped on a desert road only a few miles from the safety of big-city traffic.
A few dirt roads and narrow side streets branched off the main highway, pointing toward neat frame houses and distant cotton fields. He could imagine what would happen to him if he turned off on any of those. His only hope was to bury himself in traffic, lots of traffic. A highway patrol car was too much to hope for.
For an instant tiny flashes of fire danced behind his retinas and he winced. The little men were at work inside his chest again, banging away with their chisels and saws and hammers. But he couldn’t spare a hand away from the wheel to dig for the nitro bottle in his breast pocket.
His morning dose of calcium blocker had done its job so far, but it wasn’t designed to protect him from the kind of stress he was subjecting his mind and body to now. Keeping his foot on the accelerator and his eyes on the road ahead, he clung grimly to the wheel and tried to shut out the pain.
Despite the Galaxie’s best efforts the big pickup truck loomed steadily larger in the rear-view mirror. Inexorably, it pulled up on him. Then it was cruising alongside. The man who leaned out of the window and shouted at Jake tried to keep a smile on his face. He only partly succeeded.
“Hey, old man, pull over!”
Jake didn’t answer him, didn’t look at him, continued to stare resolutely straight ahead. Where were the police? Where was the highway patrol? Jake didn’t even consider what kind of story he’d tell them. If they arrested him he was bound to be better off than he’d be if he gave in and pulled over. Or would he be better off? Cops could be manipulated too. He’d read about what some of the big corporations could do. How far did young Huddy’s reach extend?
“Come on, old man!” The man in the truck was shouting insistently. “Just pull over. We just want to talk to you, that’s all.”
