"Goddamn it!" Scott went on. "I should have my head examined! Freda warned me . . . my wife. You know something? I don't listen to women. Women are all piss and wind. They yak for the sake of hearing their own voices. But after eight months of this, I'm beginning to think Freda has more sense than me. A year ago I was hauling for the Florida Citrus people. That paid steady, and it wasn't hard, but I have this bug: I can't work with people. When some punk of an overseer starts sounding off, I flip my lid. I have to work on my own and for myself." He glanced at Johnny. "You with me or aren't you?"
"I'm with you," Johnny said quietly. He took out his pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?"
"Why not?"
Johnny lit two cigarettes and passed one to Scott.
"So I've saved some money and I bought this truck and I think I'm in business." Scott went on. "I say I'll haul anything. So okay, I get landed with this shrimp contract. There's no let up. I've got to get these goddamn shrimps up to Richville every day or they can sue the pants off me. And what do I get out of it? That's what Freda asked and I wouldn't listen to her. So . . . I've found out. I clear a hundred and fifty bucks a week. That has to take care of me, my wife, repairs to the truck, the rent and all the other extras and I'm now finding I'm working my goddamn tail off for peanuts."
"You have yourself a tough deal," Johnny said.
"You can say that again." There was a long pause, then Scott said, "And you? What's your racket?"
"Call me a bum," Johnny said "For years I've been a rentcollector and suddenly I could take it no more. I sold up everything I owned: my car, a T.V. set, stuff . . . you know and I'm here. I've lived north all my life. So I've come south. When my money runs out, I'll get a job, but not until my money runs out."
"You've got no wife?"
"No."
"Yeah . . . a man is free without a woman. You're lucky. Get a woman and you have to work."
"You got Lids?"
"I wanted a couple but Freda's against it. I guess, now looking back, she was right. The way we live . . . no place for kids."
"There's time . . . you're young."
Scott laughed. "I guess, but they won't come now. Not on this shrimp haul."
He lapsed into moody silence. Tired by his walk and lulled by the roar of the engine, Johnny dozed off. He slept for half an hour, then came awake with a start. The truck was pounding down the freeway: on either side were mangrove trees and jungle. He glanced at Scott, saw his sweat-glistening, exhausted face and saw the tension in his hands and arms as he held the wheel.
"Suppose you let me drive?" Johnny said, "and you take a nap? What's the matter with that?"
"Could you handle her?" Scott looked hopefully at Johnny.
"I can handle anything on four wheels."
Scott slowed, pulled on to the verge and stopped the truck.
"Could I sleep!" he said. "You keep going. When you see a signpost marked Eastling, wake me up. Okay?"
"Nothing to it." They exchanged seats, and even before Johnny had started the truck, Scott was asleep.
So Johnny drove, careful not to exceed the speed limit, aware that if some maniac caused an accident, he would be in more trouble. Suddenly, after eight days in hiding, with nothing to do, he felt relaxed. He was now doing a job and he realized that was what he wanted to do.
He thought about what Scott had told him. Eight hours a day in this hot truck and the pay off: one hundred and fifty dollars! His mind shifted to all that money waiting for him in the left-luggage locker! $186,000! But when would he get it? Would be ever get it? The organization was now looking for him! That meant hundreds of people throughout the south who had some connection with the Mafia would be warned to look out for him. One never !mew who was employed by the Mafia and who wasn't, but he was certain that there would be always someone in a bar, a cafe, even a garage, a cheap eating-house, a cheap hotel, a motel who might have Mafia connections. When he finally reached Little Creek which Scott had said was where he lived, what was he to do? A sudden stranger! Even with his beard, he would be investigated. He was sure, knowing how the Mafia worked, there would be a reward out for him. He looked at the sleeping man lolling in the corner of the cab. Very few brains there, he thought. An individualist: a man who had worked on his own because he couldn't submit to discipline. Johnny understood that, but because of this failing, this man had got himself into a rat race that made him less than a slave.
Johnny switched his mind from his own troubles and thought about what Scott had told him. He got up at 05.00, loaded up crates of shrimps, then belted up the freeway, four hours there, four hours back, got home at 19.00, in time for dinner, a look at the telly and then bed: six days a week for one hundred and fifty dollars! At the present cost of living, what did that mean?
Suddenly, he could smell the sea. He sniffed at it the way a man will sniff at an outrageously expensive perfume. The Sea! His mind flashed to a white, beautiful forty-five footer . . . his! Once he had got all this money, waiting for him in the left-luggage locker, he would go to some ship builder and talk boats. His heart beat excitedly as he imagined the moment when he had signed the papers, paid the money, then walked on the gang plank and on to the deck. His! Then he thought of the danger: going back, getting those two heavy bags out of the left-luggage locker, then getting out of town. Not yet! He would have to be patient. He would have to remain in hiding until the heat had really cooled off. Patience! Discipline! He would do it. Suddenly he felt confident. Sooner or later, Massino and the Mafia Dons would get bored trying to find him. He would keep in touch with Sammy who would alert him of any danger. When Sammy finally told him that the heat was off, then he would go back, but not before.
Ahead of him, he saw the signpost: Eastling, and he slowed down. Reaching across, he shook Scott awake.
"Here we are," he said. "Eastling."
"Pull over and stop," Scott said, shaking himself awake. "Phew! Seems only five minutes." He dug sleep out of his eyes. "I'll take her."
They changed seats.
"Would there be somewhere for me to sleep?" Johnny asked.
Scott looked at him.
"I've a spare room: cost you five bucks a day and all found. Want it?"
"You have yourself a deal," Johnny said.
Scott engaged gear and drove the truck on to the freeway.
While Johnny was driving Scott's truck, Massino was holding a meeting in his office. Present were Carlo Tanza and Andy Lucas.
Massino had just explained to Tanza that the lead they had on this old guy Giovanni Fuselli was a washout. It was only with difficulty that Massino contained his rage and he kept glaring at Andy who had been responsible for this waste of time.
"What we've got to remember is Johnny didn't have the money with him when he left town," Massino said. "It was Andy's idea he was working with someone else and we thought it could be this Fuselli, but it wasn't. Toni and Ernie are sure Fuselli is clean. So . . . one of two things. Either Johnny was working with someone we don't know about or he panicked and left the money stashed somewhere in town." He looked at Tanza. "What do you think?"
"There's a third possibility," Tanza said. "He could have put those two bags on a Greyhound bus. The station is right across the street. No problem there for him. You buy a ticket, stick the bags on a bus and they'll deliver to any Greyhound station on their route. I know that's what I would have done. I wouldn't have been nutty enough to stash the money here where I would have to come back for it, and from what I know about Bianda, he's far from nutty."