“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Ten-thirty. Want to stop for a beer?”
“Sure,” I said.
There wasn’t any trouble finding a roadhouse. The trick was in finding one that had room to spare in the parking lot. We had to cut back away from town to a dump that was supposed to look like a log cabin and the only reason there was a half empty parking place was because of the lack of gambling facilities inside. There wasn’t any blue sign in the window, either.
It was almost eleven by then so I told Logan to order for me while I put in a call. I could see the clock on the wall and held my nickel back until the time was right, then spun my number. It rang once and a voice said, “Yes?”
It was a woman’s voice, a nice deep, controlled voice that painted pictures of what was on the other end of the line.
“I’m calling about a certain piece in tonight’s paper.”
She didn’t offer any information except, “Go on.”
“I’m a ‘J. Mc’.. if it helps.”
“That helps some.”
“Johnny McBride is all of it.”
“Yes, Johnny, you’re the one I meant.” There was just the slightest pause between her words. “See Harlan, Johnny. You must see Harlan.”
Then she hung up. It happened so fast I turned the receiver around and stared at it before I put it back. On second thought I took out another nickel, dropped it in and dialed the operator. When she answered I said brusquely, “This is Tucker, city police. I want a numbed traced. 5492. Want me to wait?”
“Just a minute please.” I waited, then: “That number is a pay station on the corner of Grand and the boulevard.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I didn’t get it at all. I went back to the bar and had my beer. Logan was curious without asking questions so I told him that it wasn’t for me and he seemed satisfied.
We had another beer and halfway through it the door to the men’s room on the other side of the bar opened and a little guy with a funny walk came out. He kept his head down and edged in to where he left his drink and started working it over.
Logan wanted another round, but I shook my head. The little guy over the way was collecting his change and I did the same thing. Across my back the muscles were lumping up into hard knots and my fingers wouldn’t hold still. Not ten feet off was the son of a bitch who tailed me last night, the same boy who had gotten away from me up at the quarry.
I made it look casual as possible because I didn’t want Logan in on it. I gave the guy about thirty seconds, got outside in time to see him stepping into a car and hustled over to Logan’s Chevvy. I managed to mumble something about never having driven a late model like his and he told me to go ahead and try it.
That was nice because I was able to tail the guy all the way back to town without getting wise. And for a change I even got a break. There was a red light showing when we came to the Circus Bar and the guy had to stop for it. I had a chance to say good night to Logan, hop out and make my own heap before the light changed and picked the guy up as he drove past.
He swung down the main drag with me right behind him and he never got wise to the tail job for a minute. When he slowed up and started to crowd the curb I knew he was looking for a parking place, so I pulled ahead of him, found an empty slot before he did, and backed into it. About a half a block down he got a place too, parked the car and walked back toward me.
I let him pass. I gave him a hundred feet of space between us then took up the tail again. This was even easier than driving. The drizzle was steady now, blowing in from the west, but neither that nor the flashes of lightning in the sky were doing anything to hamper business.
Place after place was a madhouse of noise that overflowed to the sidewalk. People were changing spots constantly hoping for a change of luck. Most of them had a slight edge on and were in a hurry to get back to the bars and the tables. I had to weave through them to keep up with the guy and finally stayed on the outside near the curb where there was a narrow open lane.
He turned into the gaudiest spot on the street. It had a canopy extending from the doorway to the curb with an admiral in full dress uniform helping the patrons from the cabs. It had a fancy French name with tiny gilt letters on the windows that proclaimed, “Edward Packman, owner.”
And Eddie Packman was the guy Vera West had seen at the station just before she ran. Or so Jack said anyway.
The bar was fifty feet long with the crowd four deep behind the rail. A dozen bartenders tried to keep up with the orders, moving with short, jerky motions like comedians in old-fashioned movies. The rest of the room was just one big gambling casino jammed to the rafters with more people than the fire laws allowed trying their luck on anything that came along.
They even had mouse games. The women screamed, the men cheered and the live mice ran into holes that paid off at six to one. But there were about two hundred holes in the board and only three mice to each game so the house could not lose at all.
My little guy was half the bar away finishing a beer. When he set the empty back on the bar he backed through the mob and walked down the back. A flight of stairs went up and disappeared into a dimly lit alcove. I watched him until he was out of sight and took it easy with my drink.
A half hour later he was back. This time he didn’t stop for a drink. His face had a peculiar set to it; pleased, but still showing the signs of recent anger. He went past me, out the door and started back to his car.
I was right there again when he pulled away. He turned right at the corner, right again on a street that was without much traffic and kept going until he intersected the highway. You could see that there wasn’t a car in sight going either way and I didn’t expect him to make a stop just because the sign said to. He jammed on the brakes and I had to yank the wheel to cut around him and for the first time he saw my face. His mouth dropped and he let the clutch out so fast the car hopped ahead like a jackrabbit.
I gave the Ford all it would take and screamed out on the highway. His taillight was a tiny red eye going like hell, but the Ford was up to it and closed the distance down fast. We were both up past the eighty mark, taking the turns with the tires whining and I was getting edgy enough to curse myself for not having taken him sooner. On the straightaways I could pick up on him, but the Ford was too light to make the turns and he was holding his own.
Then there was a nice long straightaway and I pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and crouched there trying to keep the Ford on the road. I would have had him if I hadn’t seen the lights of a truck sweeping around a curve about a mile ahead. I knew damn well I wouldn’t make it and eased on the brakes, but the guy in front of me tried to take it wide open.
He went into the turn skidding, started to recover, lost control for a second then all he was was a blur tumbling end over end through the fields in a horrible screeching noise of tearing metal and breaking glass. I overshot him by a half mile, turned around and pulled off the road where he went into the weeds.
Fifty yards away I found the wreck upside down with one crazily bent wheel still spinning foolishly. He was half out of the car because that was all that was left of him. The top half.
It was still alive, too.
It kept saying, “Doctor... doctor.”
I bent down and said, “Who sent you after me? Listen to me... who sent you?” I lit a match and held it up so I could see his face, cupping my fingers over it to keep off the rain. “Tell me, feller. It’s too late for a doctor. Who sent you after me?”
The eyes got some recognition in them briefly. He mumbled, “... Doctor... need... doctor,” then the rain put the match out anyway, but it didn’t matter because the guy was dead.