I paused, turned and stared at him.
‘Lay off me, Ross,’ I said quietly, ‘or if you want to make something of it, we’ll go to the cop house and talk to McQueen.’
‘I’m reporting this car,’ he said, then putting his thumbs into his gun belt, he stalked away.
The Frisco express was pulling in as I reached the platform. Marshall was one of the first to get off. His face was flushed, but he seemed sober enough.
‘Hi Keith!’ He threw his arm around my shoulders. ‘It’s been a heavy morning. Okay with you?’
‘Fine.’ My mind switched to Beth. ‘All fixed.’
‘Let’s eat.’ He came out into the sunshine and walked over to the Plymouth.
‘Frank... I’ve had Deputy Sheriff Ross on my tail. He says this car isn’t road worthy and he’s putting in a report.’
Marshall regarded the car and grimaced, nodded and dropped into the passenger’s seat. There were some twenty to thirty people coming out of the station and they were all trying to catch his eye, smiling and waving at him, but he ignored them.
As I drove off, he said, ‘Get another car, Keith. Something top class. I’ll leave it to you. I’ve got credit now. The sky is the roof.’
‘Don’t you want to handle it, Frank? Buying a car is important.’
‘I’m busy.’ He scowled. ‘Let’s eat. We’ll go to the Lobster Grill.’
I had heard of this restaurant... the best in town.
It took us only five minutes to reach the restaurant and only two minutes to be bowed to a corner table. The grapevine was working. The Maître d’ and all the waiters showed they were dealing with millionaire material. Marshall loved it.
We ate our way through a complicated dish of lobsters and sole. He didn’t talk, but kept frowning as he shovelled the food into his face. I could see he was far away in his thoughts and probably didn’t even know what he was eating.
When we were through, he shoved aside his plate, then looking at his watch, he said, ‘I’ve got a date with that creep Olson. You go buy a car, Keith.’
‘But what kind of a car?’
He got to his feet, settled the check, then started to the door.
‘Buy something right. I’ll leave it to you. A status symbol.’
So I drove him to Olson’s office, left him there and then drove to the Cadillac showroom.
When I said I was buying on behalf of Mr. Frank Marshall, the salesmen practically got down on their knees.
They said they had something very speciaclass="underline" a hand built job that had just come on to the market. It was a sleek drophead in cream and blue with every gimmick a car builder could dream up. They were so anxious to sell it, they didn’t even ask me to sign anything. I screwed them for the Plymouth, told them to contact Mr. Marshall for payment, then getting into this beauty, I floated her out on to Main Street and that caused a sensation.
I was sitting in her, listening to the stereo radio when I saw Marshall come out of Olson’s office. I tapped the horn. It gave off a soft, melodious sound, then I waved to him.
He came swaggering across the sidewalk while people stared. He paused, then walked slowly around the car while I held the passenger’s door open. He went around the car three times. He practically stopped the traffic. Everyone now was staring and cars drew to the kerb so the drivers could also stare.
On his third walk around, I said, ‘Is it okay, Frank? We can get rid of it if you hate it.’
He gave his great bellowing laugh.
‘Keith! You’re my people! This is my car! Where the hell did you find it?’
Aware that there was now quite a crowd staring, I eased him into the passenger’s seat, shut the door, ran around and slid under the driving wheel.
‘You asked for a car... you’ve got it.’ I started the motor, turned up the stereo radio and drifted away, leaving the crowd gaping after us.
‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a car!’
I touched the gas pedal and the car surged forward with all the power that eight cylinders can give out, then I throttled back. I was having as big a ball as he was.
‘What did it cost, Keith?’
I told him.
‘Chick feed.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘A million dollars! Goddamn it... I could buy ten of these cars if I wanted to.’
‘But you don’t.’
‘That’s right.’ He rubbed his hand over his face. ‘I could do with a drink.’
As if I hadn’t thought of that. I opened the glove compartment and took out a half of Scotch and handed it to him. He clamped the bottle to his mouth and drank the way a baby sucks milk.
He had killed the bottle by the time I had reached the house.
There was no sign of Beth. I helped him out of the car. He lurched up the steps and I watched him enter the house, then I drove the car into the garage. I sat for some minutes, fingering all the gimmicks, wishing the car belonged to me.
Do me a favour... drop dead.
I got out of the car, then as I was about to close the garage swing down door, I saw the length of the car was just that much longer than the Plymouth and the door wouldn’t close. I got back into the car, started the motor, then edged the car forward until the front bumper touched the end wall. Leaving the motor running, I got out of the car to check if the door would now close. It did, but only just. I slammed down the garage door, then as I walked back along the length of the car to turn off the motor, I became aware of the smell of fumes from the exhaust. Even while I had been checking the garage door and then shutting it, the buildup of fumes was surprising. I leaned into the car, turned off the motor, then opening the side door that led into the kitchen, I moved into the house.
Beth wasn’t in the kitchen. I guessed she was somewhere in the big garden. I walked along the passage and into the living room...
Marshall had found another bottle of whisky. He was sitting at the oval table by the window, papers spread before him and as I walked in, he poured a big shot of Scotch into a glass.
‘Sit down, Keith.’ He waved to a chair by the table. ‘You know a million dollars sounds fine, but when you get all these goddamn taxes, a million shrinks.’
‘That’s a fact, Frank.’ I sat down, ‘But it is still money. You should have at least six hundred thousand to call your own by the time the tax boys have taken you to the cleaners. If you invest a sum like that, you get income and capital appreciation.’
‘I don’t need to be told.’ He sat back and stared glassily at me. ‘I’m on to a real hot tip: Charrington steel. The stock now stands at $15. I know Pittsburgh steel are taking Charrington over. Some six years ago, they tried, but came up against a S.E.C. rap, but I’ve got inside information that this time the merger is going through. Charrington steel shares will treble overnight.’
I stared at him...
It had been Charrington steel that had landed me in jail. During the time I had spent in a cell I had often thought about that set-up and I realized that some of the members of the board had spread the news of the merger so cleverly, so expertly that suckers, like me, had been caught. Now, it seemed, they were at it again. They had let six years slide by: now according to this fat drunk, they were at it again: beating the drum, whispering about a merger, forcing up the stock price.
‘Now, wait a minute, Frank,’ I said. ‘I know all about Charrington steeclass="underline" that’s one company you don’t invest in. They’re crooked. That merger will never jell.’
He squinted at me.
‘I know what I’m talking about. I’ve had a straight tip. What do you know about it?’
‘Six years ago, they tried to merge with Pittsburgh. They spread the tale and the punters moved in. S.E.C. killed it and thousands of punters lost their money and I was one of them. Anyone crazy enough to speculate in that stock will get caught... no fooling, Frank.’