It was as I was driving down the main street of Palm Bay that my plan to get rid of Odette’s body blew up in my face.
At the intersection, I spotted a cop, standing by the traffic lights. The lights flicked to red when I was within forty yards of them. I eased down on the brake, bringing the Packard to a smooth standstill.
I sat motionless, trying to behave as if I didn’t exist, aware the cop was idly staring at me because he had nothing else to stare at.
It seemed to me, he and I were the only two people left on earth. The gay neon lights of Palm Bay flashed on and off, entirely for our benefit. The heavy, yellow moon floated in a cloudless sky and shone down on us. There was no sign of any other person in the broad, long, long road.
I stared at the red light, willing it to change to green. It seemed symbolic to me: it screamed danger to me, and I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ached.
The cop cleared his throat, then spat in the road. The sound made me start and I looked quickly at him.
He was swinging his night-stick aimlessly, and he was staring at me. He was a big, solidly built man with a round ball-like head that seemed to sit on his vast shoulders as if he had no neck.
Would the lights never change?
I felt sweat on my face and I shifted my eyes back to the glaring red warning sign just ahead of me.
Then it flicked to green.
I took my foot off the brake and with infinite care, I pressed down on the gas pedal, meaning to move smoothly away, doing nothing to incite the cop’s criticism.
The car moved forward, then there was a sudden jarring sound and the car jerked sharply to a standstill.
I shifted the gear from ‘drive’ to ‘neutral’, and then back to ‘drive’. I pressed down on the gas pedal.
The engine roared, but the car didn’t move.
I sat there, with panic crawling over me, knowing that at long, long last, and after years of good service, the gearbox had finally packed up. Some cog had lost its final tooth, and now I was stuck with a cop within ten feet and me and Odette’s dead body in the trunk behind me.
I couldn’t move nor think. I just sat there, gripping the driving wheel, not knowing what to do.
The green light flicked to red again.
The cop took off his cap and scratched his shaven head. The light of the moon played on his red, brutal face. He was of the old schooclass="underline" a man of about fifty. He had seen everything bad, everything rotten and he had been, and still was, hated by those he also hated. He was a man who would rather get you into trouble than out of it.
I slid the gear lever into reverse, hoping I could move the car from the middle of the road to the kerb, but the reverse gear didn’t respond.
The red light flicked to green again.
The cop stepped off the sidewalk and came over.
‘Planning to sleep here the night, buster?’ he said in a hard cop voice that went with his face.
‘Looks like I’ve got a bust gearbox,’ I said.
‘Yeah? What are you going to do about it?’
‘Is there a garage open anywhere close?’
‘I’m asking the questions, buster. I’m asking you what you are going to do about it?’
‘Get a tow,’ I said, trying to keep my voice under control.
‘Yeah? And what’s going to happen to this heap while you’re fixing a tow?’
‘Maybe you’d give me a hand and we could push it to the kerb.’
He rubbed his night-stick against his thick, red ear and he squinted at me.
‘Yeah?’ He spat into the road. ‘Do I look the kind of mug who pushes cars belonging to unlucky punks? I’ll tell you something: I hate cars and I hate punks who own cars. Get this goddam heap off the middle of the road or I’ll book you for obstruction.’
I got out of the car and tried to push it, but it was standing on a slight gradient and I couldn’t move it.
I pushed until the sweat rolled off me and the cop watched, his ball-like head cocked on one side, watching.
‘You need some iron in your bones, buster,’ he said, and slouched forward. ‘Okay: relax. You can consider yourself booked. Let’s have a look at your licence.’
The effort of trying to move the car had left me breathless. I handed him my licence and I had enough sense to give him also my brand new Press card. He stared at the Press card, then at me, then back to the Press card.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘I work for District Attorney Meadows,’ I said. ‘I’m Lieutenant Renick’s man.’
‘Renick?’ The cop pushed his cap to the back of his head. ‘Why didn’t you say so before? The Lieutenant and me were buddies before he got promoted.’ He fingered the Press card doubtfully, then gave it back to me. ‘Well, I guess it won’t kill me — I’ll give you a hand.’
Together we shoved the car to the kerb.
The cop surveyed the car, an expression of disgust on his face.
‘A bust gearbox, huh? That’s going to cost you plenty to put right, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so.’ My mind was racing. What was I going to do? I didn’t dare leave the car in a garage. The only possible thing was to get the car to my garage. But then what was I going to do with Odette’s body?
‘Well, I guess you guys who own cars must expect to spend dough. Me — I wouldn’t own a car if someone gave me one,’ the cop went on.
‘Is there a garage anywhere around?’ I asked, wiping my sweating face with a handkerchief.
‘About a mile up the road, but it’ll be shut. If a squad car passes and spots this heap, they’ll have it towed to headquarters, and then you’ll get booked.’
Across the way I saw an all-night drug store.
‘I guess I’ll phone,’ I said.
‘Best thing. I’ll stick around. Tell the guy I want him to move the heap. I’m O’Flagherty. He knows me.’ He took out his guide book and gave me the telephone number of the garage.
I went over to the drug store and phoned the garage. There was a long delay before a man’s voice, sleepy and surly, came on the line. He demanded what the hell I wanted.
I told him I wanted a tow and that Officer O’Flagherty had given me the garage number.
The man cursed fluently, but finally he said he would come.
I went back to the Packard.
‘He’s coming,’ I said.
The cop grinned.
‘I bet he cursed.’
‘He certainly did.’
‘When you see the Lieutenant, tell him I think of him,’ O’Flagherty went on. ‘He’s a fine man. He’s the best man we have had on the force.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Well, I guess I’ll be on my way. See you some time.’
‘I hope so, and thanks.’
His red, hard face split into a grin.
‘We guys have got to stick together,’ and nodding, he started off down the road, swinging his night-stick and whistling under his breath.
I lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. I was in such a panic I could scarcely breathe. When I got the car into my garage, what was I going to do? There was Nina to think of. How was I going to move Odette’s body without being certain Nina wouldn’t suddenly walk into the garage just when I was doing it? I couldn’t do it in daylight. Nina never went out at night. I was in such a jam, I couldn’t think straight. My mind was seething with panic.
After a ten-minute wait, the breakdown truck arrived. The garage man was a little guy, thin as a bean stick and Irish to his backbone. He was in such a rage, he didn’t speak to me but got in the Packard, tested the gears, got out and spat in the street.
‘Busted gearbox,’ he said. ‘A two-week job, and it’ll cost plenty.’
‘I want you to tow me home,’ I said.
He stared at me.
‘Don’t you want me to repair the goddam thing?’