He belched, thinking that after today he would never again have to fix his own breakfast.
14
In the sweltering, glass- and steel-enclosed cab of the armored car, Old Man Phillips — his first name was Cornell — removed his battered uniform cap and placed it on the seat. He wiped his lined face, thinking that this was the last time he would have to bake through the day in an oven on wheels. He would receive no gold watch when he retired, had no family to spend his extra leisure time with — but he had had enough of working.
Turning his head slightly, Phillips glanced through the small window separating the body of the truck from the cab. Julio Silvera sat on the small seat that hinged down from the wall. A sawed-off shotgun rested across his knees. Phillips sighed. He felt a faint pang of guilt, closing up shop this way, leaving the kid high and dry. Not that there was anything he could do. It was fate that the Army had decided to transfer the payrolls themselves from now on. And there was nothing anybody could do about fate...
When Phillips returned his eyes to the road he saw the flare and flashing red light.
“What’s up, Mr. Phillips?” Julio’s voice, filtered through the bulletproof steel mesh of the voice vent, had a recorded sound.
“Don’t know.” Phillips brought the heavy truck to a stop, engine idling, and glanced alertly over the surrounding terrain. “Looks like the Sheriff. Got a flare in the road. Must be a wreck up the highway somewhere.”
“See anything?”
“Not a thing.”
Wibber crossed in front of the truck, dabbing at his neck with his handkerchief, and slowly approached the gun vent in the door of the cab. Phillips watched him. He had never cared much for the sheriff. He looked at Wibber’s uniform, soaked through with perspiration, and imaged that he could almost smell his body odor through the gun port. His voice sounded surprisingly loud through the vent as he said, “What’s the trouble, Sheriff? Wreck?”
“Uh-huh. Bad smash-up about two miles up the road. Some bastard rammed a produce truck pulling out of the Wilbert place. Cabbages all over the place.” He laughed. His eyes were little round holes of heat in the perspiring face. “Guy following the first car barreled right into the wreckage. Got the road pretty well blocked.”
“Anybody killed?”
“All but one. They’re trying to cut him loose with acetylene. Take another hour probably. Passenger cars can get around by driving on the shoulder, but the sand is soft, so we’re routing the trucks and heavy vehicles over the old Murray Road.”
“That’s kind of a long way around, ain’t it?”
Wibber shrugged. “Better’n waiting here all day. Not that I give a damn. You can do what you want.”
Without further words, Phillips released the clutch, backed the truck a few yards and turned onto the connecting road.
Wibber watched until the truck disappeared around a turn in the road. Then, working quickly, he scuffed out the flare and tossed the dead end into the brush. He had been lucky. Only a few cars had come along and he had waved them through without explanation. And there had been no other trucks.
He whistled happily as he drove back toward town.
15
At exactly ten-fifteen Bernie White settled his bill at the diner and, pausing long enough to purchase cigarettes from a vending machine, went outside and stood by his suitcase near the edge of the highway. It was a beautiful day.
Three minutes later Lila and Sammy Travis picked up White in the Thunderbird convertible. The radio was playing. White tossed his suitcase in the rear seat, jumped in beside it. Then the three of them drove to where Womack had parked the tractor-van on the old Murray Road.
Lila stopped just long enough for Travis and White to get out. A few minutes later she was back on the highway heading for El Centro.
Womack was having trouble with the truck. At least, to anyone who happened along on the road, it would appear that way. The heavy, left-hand hood was raised and Womack, a greasy towel spread over the fender, was working on the engine with a big wrench.
Without speaking to Womack, Travis and White went around to the rear of the van and, opening the big double doors, jumped up into the interior. Then they closed the doors behind them.
They found two flashlights in a rack just inside the van. Moving quickly, but with practiced precision, the two men made a last minute inventory.
At the far end of the van, near the cab, an army cot had been set up and bracketed to the floor. Two blankets lay folded on it. Underneath was a box of medical supplies. White flashed his light quickly inside. On top was a package containing a half dozen morphine surettes. At one end of the cot were two large jars of drinking water and several cardboard cartons of food.
“No beer?” White’s gutteral laugh sounded very loud in the closed van.
“In a couple of hours you’ll be able to buy all of the beer in the world. A swimming pool full of beer, with dames in it, swimming back and forth naked.”
“Man! I’d dive right in. I’d—”
Travis dug out a key, unfastened the lid of a government issue foot-locker, opened it. They shined both of the lights inside. It was the stuff Travis had swiped from the Army: two carefully-oiled submachine guns, two .45 automatics, an assortment of ammunition clips.
Travis removed one of the submachine guns and cradled it in his arms. Closing the footlocker, he crossed over to where an acetylene tank and two cutting torches were secured by rope and metal hooks to the side of the van. Smiling thinly, he patted the side of the tank, then he motioned for White and the two men jumped back down to the road.
Womack was still pretending to work on the engine. He was surprisingly calm. In fact, he wasn’t at all nervous, and that fact alone seemed to disturb him. He should have felt something. The knowledge that there was danger in what he was about to do, that he might actually die during the next few minutes, should have terrified him. But he felt good. Felt fine.
Travis came over and grinned at him. “Jittery?”
Womack shook his head.
“Good.” Travis looked at White. “How about you?”
“Not me.” White smiled at him wryly. “It’ll be just like at the Bulge. Only them Kraut tanks had thicker skins.”
“Remember, anybody panics...” Travis caressed the stock of the submachine gun to make clear his meaning. Then, motioning for White, he walked through a shallow gully and squated down be-hind two rusted oil drums that had been placed in a dense thicket.
White, carrying a long metal device and dragging a heavy burlap sack, knelt beside Travis. It was a good hiding place. They had selected it only after several trips along the road.
Travis looked at his watch.
White wiped his glistening face with a corner of the burlap sack. It left a red welt on his cheek. He said, “You reckon Wibber will handle his end okay?”
For a long time, Travis didn’t answer.
He looked at his watch again. He dug out a handkerchief and mopped at his face.
Then, when he saw the armor-plated truck appear several hundred yards down the road, he smiled thinly and said, “Don’t worry about Wibber. Just make sure you get under that truck when I open up with the chopper.”
16
It was exactly ten fifty-one when Old Man Phillips brought the armored car to a stop several yards behind the apparently stalled rig.