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He shrieks, “Ah, you scoundrel... you... you brigand! So you think to elude me. You are contrariwise! He who is the retiree from the Sûreté. Now I have you caught flatfooted and never will you get away again until you pay me my moneys!”

What can a guy do in a situation like that?

I yell, “Scram, ya bum, before I brain ya!”

Yeah, I was pretty mad. Does he flinch? Nix... not a bit. He perches his hands on his hips and taps his foot impatiently.

After a couple of “humphs,” he says, “No... do not tell me. This time it is that you have the amnesia. You do not fool me, for I, Alfred, know who you are. Now, do I get my moneys?”

“No,” I tell him, good and loud.

He smacks his lips a few times. “You say no. How can you sit there and... all right, tell me why it is no.”

“Because I don’t owe ya none. Now scram.”

“Oh, I am distressed. Overcome I am.” He holds his head and shudders. “This country, she is mad. I demand payment!”

Real calm like, I tell him, “Chum, would you like a punch in the nose?”

I get a real hurt look for that remark. “Of course, certainly not. The thought is horrible to me. Why?”

“Because that’s what you’ll get if ya don’t get outa here.”

“Ah ha! Now it is that you will assault me. Very well, we shall see. I assure you that the gendarmerie will not treat the matter so lightly as I. You are practically chained to the wall of the bastille right now!” The jerk snaps his fingers in my face. “Poof! I go, but I shall return... then you will go, as they say in this country, to the hoosegoo!”

Then he stamps off down the car with his chin out further than Mussolini’s, slightly forcefully assisted through the door by a shove from my buddy, the porter. Natch, old toothy grin is my pal from then on. I wave him over confidentially.

“Look,” I whisper, “we got a Section Eight car tagged to this train?”

“Section Eight, Duke, sar?” His face is blank, so I circle my finger around my temple and he gets the idea, then he makes like it was quite a joke. “No, sar, not so’s I recollect. Very funny, Duke, Sar.”

So I shrug my shoulders and go back to my mag. It’s only ten minutes before we get to Washington, where I change to the Great Southern Special, then I’ll be out of this rolling booby hatch.

That’s what I thought.

I had a half-hour layover so I walk up to the reservation desk to see if I can do any good about getting myself a bunk for the night instead of doing my sleeping at right angles to myself.

Do any good? Man, the guy at the desk gives me a pair of wide eyes, then all of a sudden I am with what amounts to the presidential suite on wheels. He’s all splutters and spluts, so I don’t get half what he’s talking about. But I sign my name, he gives me a very knowing smile like he’s been let in on a state secret, and the merry-go-round starts to twirl again.

What a vacation!

Two porters grab my bags and zip off, but instead of following them, I duck into a normal looking place where a bored babe in gingham slides me a plate of bacon and eggs, no questions asked, and I get some of my strength back.

I shouldn’t’ve taken so long to eat. Before I know it I hear my train being announced and I rip out of there on the double. You know what the squeeze is like in a train station. Sixty-five people trying to get through a four-foot doorway at the same time. That’s where they got the name bottleneck — opening the gates is like pulling the cork. Everybody jams together, then pop... they get blown through. Sometimes they lose their clothes, sometimes their baggage. Just as I was compressed into the breech I thought I lost my head.

A millimeter away I am staring at my own face! It takes one look at me and says, “Eek, I am seeing double! You are not me, so who am I?”

But before I can think of an answer to that one, someone pulls the trigger and I am shot through on the way to the train. Luckily, one of the porters gets me, or I would have ended up with the engineer.

At half past twelve that night, I pop straight up in my berth. I flip the shade up so I can see my reflection in the glass and say, “That you, Joe?” The image nods back vigorously, but I hold my hand under my chin just to be sure it’s my own skull doing the bobbing, then try on a few grimaces for size. When I’m sure I’m not suffering a case of overdue battle fatigue, I throw my hands up and flop back to sleep.

Okay, now do you blame me for trying to get out of there on the fly when we hit Memphis? But do you think it did any good? Huh! Before the train has jerked to a stop, I am down at the wrong end, tossing my bags out on the platform and jumping for it.

I don’t know what I expected, but it sure wasn’t a million bucks worth of southern fried chick in a gray twill suit, with a face to make you stop breathing and a figure to give you artificial respiration.

She has the prettiest little drawl, but the way she looks at me makes me feel like I just crawled out from under a rock.

She says, “I figured you’d have to come this way. Fortunately, Pam has a cold and couldn’t meet you.”

I try to talk but can’t think of anything to say. Southern-fried motions with her beautiful blonde head. “The car is out back. Come along.”

She doesn’t need a leash, I heel perfectly. I’m far from being even a medium-size guy, but this dish comes to where I’d hardly have to bend my head to kiss her. She has more dough on her back than I have in the bank, but already I have ideas about keeping her in buckskins. I think to myself that maybe this isn’t going to be such a bad vacation after all. When we get to the extra deluxe super sports special that she obligingly calls a car, I change my mind.

She turns her head and can’t keep the sneer out of her eyes.

“I want you to understand something,” she tells me. “It is three days until the wedding. During that time I’ll do everything in my power to make my silly sister see the light and chase you back to wherever you came from. If that doesn’t work, maybe a little violence will help.” Then I get the world’s nastiest look. “You’ll stay a lot healthier if you take the hint now,” she reminds me.

About that time I get my voice back. It isn’t as strong as usual, but I can make a speech with it.

“Now, look, sis,” I grind out, “ordinarily I’m a fairly bright boy, but I’ve been swinging at curves ever since I left home only hitting nothin’ but pop flies. Just what in blazes goes on around here? I try to take a vacation and I get treated like a king, threatened like a criminal, then tossed back to the dogs like a college freshman at the senior prom. I even talk to myself face to face and that ain’t logical. At first I thought it was me, but now I think the whole world is bats but me. Am I or ain’t I Joe Moran with a little garage up in Holly Corners? Is this or ain’t it a vacation where I’m supposed to have a good time? And just who the hell are you?”

Think that makes an affect? Nuts!

She says, “You can stop being incognito with me, Alex. I can see you’ve spent a good deal of time being indoctrinated in colorful American expressions, but for the time being you can put your garage away and just be sure that my sister is one curve that isn’t going to be tossed at you. Incidentally, I’m Pam’s big sister. You know — the grouchy one... Vi. Now let’s go before the brass band Mother brought along finds out you’ve taken a powder. Daddy is waiting to have a prenuptial chat with you... alone.”