That seemed a funny thing for him to say. Then he said something not funny at all.
“You know, you’re the third... interestin’ feller who stopped here to ask directions out to Strutt’s today.”
I chuckled. “By ‘interesting’ you wouldn’t happen to mean ‘lowlife,’ by any chance?”
His white gas-station uniform was as crisp as his smile was rumpled; both he and his jumpsuit were protected by the canopy over the pumps.
“I recognize you from the papers, Hammer. You’re no lowlife. What I would call the boys who stopped for directions... each in his own vehicle over a kinda staggered bit of time today... is hardcases.”
“Like me?”
His grinned was stained. “I don’t think any other hardcase is quite like you, Hammer. Should I check the paper out tomorrow, you think?”
“Maybe. But sometimes interesting stories fall through the cracks.”
“Like interestin’ fellers do?”
“Like interesting fellers do... sometimes. If I handed you a five-spot, would you be offended?”
“Damn straight I would. I’m the owner. I catch any of my help takin’ a tip, I kick ’em in the ass.”
“I bet you do.” I gave him a little salute, which he returned with that rumpled smile, and pulled into the rain, which was getting more insistent.
The third farmhouse after I took the blacktop into the country had the STRUTT mailbox. Neighbors seemed spaced pretty far apart out here. I slowed a little for a look. A silo and a barn indicated somebody was farming this land, though apparently not the rental resident of the big, rambling, ramshackle house, white faded to gray. A long gravel drive bordered on one side by trees and on the other by indifferently tended grass widened into an apron, where four cars were parked close to a covered front porch.
I drove perhaps half a mile before tucking the Ford into a cornfield’s access, rows of dried brown stalk stumps dripping and leaves shuddering under what was now a near downpour.
For a while, I just sat there. The rain drummed on the roof of the car, steadily, like a drum and bugle corps minus the horns. Thunder would rumble, then roar, and lightning would light up the cornfield, where those leaves seemed to shiver in fear.
What was going on back there?
What could be going on?
My hunch was that Harry Strutt was part of that bank robbery crew, and this was a planning session. But the hardcases who stopped one at a time at that filling station had needed to find out how to get to Strutt’s. Curiouser and curiouser, somebody said.
If Strutt was part of the heist crew, why did they need directions to his place?
What if, now that Kraft was on a morgue slab, they needed a new driver, and Kraft’s pal Strutt had been elected? Thal Lockhart had indicated Strutt was a stunt driver, too.
The rain kept up its rhythm and I just sat there wondering whether to dance or go home. Come back another time, maybe. Or sit it out and wait till Strutt’s guests took their leave...
After all, the bank heist crew, if that’s who these cars belonged to, was not the point of my country sojourn — talking to Strutt was; the goal was getting him to own up to training Vincent Colby for that hit-and-run farce.
What did rounding up some (presumed) bank robbers have to do with the job at hand? Not a damn thing.
But I was an officer of the court, wasn’t I? Didn’t I have a responsibility to check this out and, if my assumptions about them were right, haul their sorry asses in?
Still, I sat there for maybe fifteen minutes sorting through my several shitty options, waiting for the rain to let up, which it never did. I prepared to brave the storm. Should I ditch the raincoat, to give myself more freedom of movement, and maybe leave the porkpie fedora on, to keep at least a little of the rain off me? Out of my eyes, anyway?
But I left the raincoat on, and of course the hat, with the brim down all the way round, and walked down the blacktop with my 1911 Colt .45 in my right-hand raincoat pocket, my left hand gathering the lapels of the coat as tight and protective as I could manage. The only break I got from God or nature or somebody was that I wasn’t walking straight into the rain — it was at my back, and actually seemed to be prodding me, pushing me along.
When I turned down the gravel lane, I veered off along the tree line. That sheltered me somewhat from the downpour, and from getting much water in my eyes for that matter. A whipcrack of lightning would occasionally light the landscape up in momentary white.
When I got closer, I saw that the cars were recent models, their beautiful paint jobs pearled with raindrops — a Chrysler Conquest, a Corvette, a Mustang GT, a Firebird. Parked alongside the house was an older model Camaro — Strutt’s ride, probably.
This might mean the veteran thieves, with their successful run of bank knockovers, were spending money like they won the lottery. On the other hand, the vintage car might indicate Strutt wasn’t part of the crew yet, or at least was its newest member — driving a Camaro ten years older than these ’88 models his visitors had arrived in.
At the end of the stand of trees, I paused, my left hand still clutching the raincoat collars tight, wondering what my next move should be.
Knock?
And when Strutt answered the door, with his guests hiding out somewhere, upstairs maybe, give the guy a story and talk myself inside? But Harry just might recognize his unexpected guest — from my notoriety in the media, or maybe knowing I was involved in the Vincent Colby affair. I was the guy who found his pal Roger Kraft’s body, after all.
Or, hell — when he answered, I could just shoulder in with my gun, ready for whatever might happen!
Neither was much of a plan. Strutt could come to the door with a gun at the ready himself, and his guests could be nearby, also armed and poised to respond. I would never get across the threshold without assembling an impressive collection of slugs of various calibers in assorted locations in my body.
The sun was up there somewhere, but you’d never know it, the growly grayness invaded by swarming black clouds turning late afternoon into near midnight. And the yellow glow from the windows said the lights were only on toward the front of the house, and along one window on this side of the house, at the rear.
I did some recon.
Moving quickly, staying low, hugging the house as best as I could, keeping below the windows, I made my way around the entire structure. Finally I sneaked up onto the typical farmhouse front porch, happy to get out of the rain. The windows were tall with curtains that didn’t quite meet, allowing me to peek in.
The living room was sparsely furnished in a bachelor pad style not suited to the age of the house or its somewhat rundown condition. An overhead light fixture was dim, and an end table lamp didn’t add much. Riding a wall was a velvet painting based on a Playboy centerfold, and hugging that same wall was a projection TV.
No humans present, not even loosely defined.
The only illumination elsewhere was in the kitchen — from a window alongside the rear of the house I could get a low view, looking up, of some appliances and cupboards. And I could hear talk in there, normal levels of speech made murmurs by the pounding rain and occasional thunder. Taking off my hat, I risked standing on tiptoe and doing the window-peeking bit for a few seconds, getting a quick but complete eyeful before ducking back down.
Slamming the porkpie back on, wiping the rain rivulets from my face, I took stock of what I’d seen.
Five men were seated at a round table in a cramped kitchen, including the host, who looked older than his mugshot — though his back was to me, he was talking to the guy next to him. Strutt had dark hair with a pony tail and a scruffy beard, and wore a black wife-beater t-shirt that showed off muscle-builder biceps.