‘I’m Randy Roache,’ the man said$ and thrust out his hand. ‘Yeah! I sure could use a Scotch.’
‘Harry Mitchell,’ Harry said and shook hands. ‘Let’s all have a Scotch.’
Beaming, Morelli set up the drinks as Maria returned with a bowl of hot water, a towel and some adhesive plaster. She quickly stopped the bleeding and applied the plaster. Randy thanked her, then reached for his Scotch and waved the glass in Harry’s direction.
‘Thanks, pal. They were after my guitar. I ran into them a mile back. I got away. I was just that bit faster than they were. If it hadn’t been for you I’d have lost my guitar and my job.’
Harry sipped his Scotch, then asked, ‘Where are you heading for?’
‘Paradise City. You on the road too?’
‘Yes and going the same way.’ Harry turned to Morelli. ‘How about that apple pie I was promised?’ He looked at Randy. ‘Have you eaten yet? The special here is tops.’
Randy said he would have the special and the two men went over to Harry’s table and sat down while Morelli bustled into the kitchen. Maria began cutting up more bread.
‘If you are heading for Paradise City we could go together,’ Randy said, looking hopefully at Harry. ‘It’s safer for two than for one.’
‘Sure,’ Harry said. ‘Glad to.’
Maria came over with a plate of spaghetti and a vast slice of apple pie topped with ice cream. She set the plates down.
‘Dad says it’s all on the house,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘And the room too.’
‘Oh, now... look...’ Harry began, embarrassed, but Maria shook her head.
‘That’s what Dad says and what Dad says goes.’
She went back into the kitchen.
Harry looked at Randy and lifted his shoulders.
‘Nice people... they didn’t have to do that.’
‘I don’t know I reckon you saved their restaurant. Those junkies were stoned. If there’s anything I can do to even the score just name it,’ Randy said earnestly. ‘If I had lost my guitar, I’d really be in a fix. I rely on it to make a living.’ He forked up some spaghetti then went on, ‘I’ve got a nice job waiting for me at Paradise City. This makes the third season I’ve worked there: a nice, high-class restaurant, lots of style, run by a Mex and his daughter. A bit like this set up here, but much more style and the daughter...’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She has to be seen to be believed.’ He ate for a moment. ‘Say! This is some spaghetti!’
Harry nodded.
‘Some pie too. When do you reckon to start work?’
‘As soon as I get there.’ Randy paused, swallowed, then asked, ‘Are you looking for a job?’
‘Yes. What chance do I have? I’m not fussy what I do.’
Randy regarded him thoughtfully.
‘I might get you fixed up with Solo... he runs this restaurant: Solo Dominico. He will be hiring staff pretty soon. Can you swim?’
‘Swim?’ Harry grinned. ‘I guess that’s about the one thing I can do well. I was a winner of a bronze medal at the last Olympics for free style and diving.’
Randy gaped at him.
‘The Olympics! For God’s sake I You’re not putting me on?’
‘No... straight.’
Randy twiddled more spaghetti onto his fork.
‘When you were in the Army, did you get to Vietnam?’
‘Served my three years out there... what’s that to do with it?’
Randy laughed and patted Harry’s arm.
‘Then I can guarantee you a job. Solo’s son is serving out there. The old man will flip his lid for the chance of talking first hand to a guy just back, and besides, he has to hire a lifeguard for his beach... it’s compulsory by law to have a qualified swimmer and he has a hell of a job finding anyone for the job. Those who can swim well don’t want to do the chores... setting up the umbrellas, keeping the beach clean, serving drinks: those who’ll do the chores can’t swim.’ Randy grinned. ‘Would a job like that be okay with you? He won’t pay much, but it’s dead easy and the food is terrific.’
‘It’d suit me fine. But maybe he’s already fixed up.’
‘It’s my bet he isn’t. The season doesn’t start for another week. Solo is careful with his money. He won’t look for anyone until the last moment.’
‘What’s your job with him?’
‘I take care of the bar and do a couple of singing spots at dinnertime and one at lunchtime. This restaurant is pretty snazzy. Solo gets a lot of the Cadillac trade: it isn’t a dump like this.’
‘Sounds fine,’ Harry finished his apple pie, sighed contentedly and sat back to light a cigarette.
‘How long do you reckon it’ll take to get there?’
‘Depends if we have luck in getting rides. I’m a night walker. It’s safer that way. These hippies travel by day. By walking at night, we’ll avoid them, but there is less chance of getting a ride. I’d say three days if we have luck, four if we don’t.’
‘Well, I’m in no rush,’ Harry said. ‘I like the idea of walking by night... less hot. I sure got burned today.’
‘That’s it. We can walk faster and further at night. Look, suppose we start tomorrow evening, around seven? We can keep here, take it easy all day and then walk all through the night.’
Harry nodded. The idea appealed to him. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
‘I’ll fix it with the girl.’
He went over to the bar where Maria was washing glasses.
‘We figure to leave here tomorrow evening. Would that be all right with you and your Dad?’ he asked.
‘After what you’ve done for us,’ Maria said seriously, ‘anything’s all right with us. If you two want baths, the water’s hot... if there’s anything else, just ask.’
‘A bath would be fine.’
‘I’ll go up and fix the bed. Do you want a bath now?’
‘Why not? I’ll come up with you.’
He went over to Randy who was about to start on the pork chops Morelli had brought from the kitchen. He told him he was taking a bath and they’d meet sometime during the following morning.
Morelli again shook hands with him and again thanked him for saving his restaurant. He watched Harry mount the stairs with Maria.
‘That’s a fine man,’ he said to Randy. ‘That’s a man I’d like to have for a son.’
‘You’re right,’ Randy said and cut into his chop. When Morelli had returned to the kitchen, Randy paused in his eating, his expression suddenly thoughtful. Suppose Solo wouldn’t hire this guy? he thought. There were times when Solo was pigheaded and couldn’t be persuaded. After all, Randy told himself, Harry had saved his life and his guitar. He had better check. When he had finished his meal, he shut himself in the telephone booth and called Solo’s restaurant. He spoke to Joe, the negro barman who told him Solo wasn’t there.
‘This is important, Joe,’ Randy said, squirming with impatience. ‘Where can I call him?’
Joe gave him an out of town telephone number.
‘Where’s that, for God’s sake?’ Randy demanded, scratching the number on the wall of the booth with his fingernail.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Joe said. ‘It’s only if it’s important.’
Randy broke the connection, inserted more coins in the box and dialled the number.
Solo’s deep, growling voice came on the line.
‘Yes... hey? Who is it?’
‘Remember me?’ Randy said. ‘Randy Roache. I’m on my way. I’ve got you a lifeguard, Solo... an Olympic champ. Now listen...’
Chapter Two
They had been walking now for some three hours.
The moon hung in the cloudless sky casting black shadows and sharply lighting the white dust road. The air was still and hot, and on either side of the road dense mangrove thickets made a solid black wall.