High Hunt. David Eddings
We swung on out of the trailer court and started off down South Tacoma Way, past the car lots and parts houses.
“Go on out to the Hideout Tavern,” Sloane said. He was sprawled in the back seat, his hat pushed down over his nose.
“Right,” Jack said.
“I hear that a man can do some pretty serious drinking in Germany,” Sloane said to me.
“Calvin, you got a beer bottle for a brain,” Jack told him, turning a corner.
“Just interested, that’s all. That’s the way to find out things—ask somebody who knows.”
“A man can stay pretty drunk if he wants to,” I said. “Lots of strange booze over there.”
“Like what?” Sloane asked. He seemed really interested.
“Well, there’s this one—Steinhäger, it’s called—tastes kind of like a cross between gin and kerosene.”
“Oh, God”—Jack gagged—“it sounds awful.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, “it’s moderately awful, all right. They put it up in stone bottles—probably because it would eat its way out of glass. Screws your head up something fierce.”
We wheeled into the parking lot of a beer joint and went inside, still talking. We ordered pitchers of draft and sat in a booth drinking and talking about liquor and women and the service. The tavern was one of those usual kind of places with lighted beer signs all along the top of the mirror behind the bar. It had the usual jukebox and the usual pinball machine. It had the uneven dance floor that the bartender had to walk across to deliver pitchers of beer to the guys sitting in the booths along the far wall. There were the solitary drinkers hunched at the bar, staring into their own reflections in the mirror or down into the foam on their beer; and there was the usual group of dice players at the bar, rolling for drinks. I’ve been in a hundred joints like it up and down the coast.
I realized that I was enjoying myself. Sloane seemed to be honestly having a good time; and Jack, in spite of the fact that he was trying his damnedest to impress me, seemed to really get a kick out of seeing me again. That unholy dead feeling I’d been fighting for the last months or so was gone.
“We got to get Dan some civilian clothes,” Cal was saying. “He can’t run around in a uniform. That’s the kiss of death as far as women are concerned.”
“I’ve got some civvies coming in,” I said. “I shipped them here a month ago—parcel post. They’re probably at the General Delivery window downtown right now.”
“I’ve got to run downtown tomorrow,” Jack said. “I’ll stop by and pick them up for you.”
“Don’t I have to get them myself?” I asked. “I mean, don’t they ask for ID or anything?”
“Hell, no,” Jack scoffed. “You can get anybody’s mail you want at the General Delivery window.”
“Kinda shakes a guy’s faith in the Hew Hess Government,” I said. “I mean, if you can’t trust the goddamn Post Office Department—say, maybe we ought to take our business to somebody else.”
“Who you got in mind?” Sloane asked.
“I don’t know, maybe we could advertise—‘Deliver mail for fun and profit’—something like that.”
“I’m almost sure they’d find some way to send you to Leavenworth for it,” Jack said.
“Probably,” I agreed. “They’re awfully touchy about some things. I’d sure appreciate it if you could pick those things up for me though. If you can, dump them off at a cleaner’s someplace. I imagine they’re pretty wrinkled by now.” I emptied my beer.
“Another round, Charlie,” Sloane called to the barman. “Put your money away,” he told me as I reached for my wallet. “This is my party.”
About a half hour later, a kind of hard-faced brunette came in. She hurried across to the booth and sat down beside Cal. She glanced back at the door several times and seemed to be a little nervous. “Hi, Daddy,” she said. She made it sound dirty.
“Hello there, baby,” he said. “This is Alders’ brother, Dan. Dan, this is Helen.”
“Hi,” she said, nodding briefly at me. “Hi, Jack.”
I looked carefully at her. She had makeup plastered on about an inch thick. It was hard to see any expression under all that gunk. Maybe she didn’t have any expression.
She turned back to Sloane with an urgent note in her voice. “Baby’s got a problem, Daddy.” It still sounded dirty. I decided that I didn’t like her.
“Well, tell Daddy.” Sloane giggled self-consciously.
She leaned over and whispered in his ear for a moment. His face turned a little grim.
“OK,” he said shortly, “wait in the car—drive it around in back.”
She got up and went out quickly.
“Dumb bitch!” Sloane muttered. “She’s been gettin’ careless and her Old Man’s suspicious. I’d better get her a room someplace until he cools off.”
“Is he pretty steamed?” Jack asked. “You’ve got to watch yourself with that husband of hers, Cal. I hear he’s a real mean mother.”
“He just wants to clout her around a little,” Sloane said. “See if he can shake a few answers out of her. I’d better get her out of sight. I’ll have her swing me by your trailer lot, and I’ll pick up my car. Then we’ll ditch hers on a back street. I know a place where she can hole up.” He stood up and put a five-dollar bill on the table. “Hate to be a party-poop but—” He shrugged. “I’ll probably see you guys tomorrow. Drink this up on me, OK?” He hurried across the dance floor and on out, his hat pulled down low like a gangster in a third-rate movie.
“That dumb bastard’s gonna get himself all shot up one of these days,” Jack said grimly.
“He cat around a lot?”
“All the time. He’s got a deal with his wife. He brings in the money and doesn’t pester her in bed, and she doesn’t ask him where he goes nights.”
“Home cookin’ and outside lovin’?” I said. “Sounds great.”
Jack shrugged. “It costs him a fortune. Of course, he’s got it, I guess. He’s got the pawnshop, and a used car lot, and he owns a piece of two or three taverns. He’s got a big chunk of this joint, you know.”
“No kidding?”
Jack nodded. “You wouldn’t think so to look at him, but he can buy and sell most of the guys up and down the Avenue just out of his front pockets. You ought to see the house he lives in. Real plush.”
“Nice to have rich friends,” I said.
“And don’t let that dumb face fool you,” Jack told me. “Don’t ever do business with Cal unless I’m there to keep an eye on him for you. He’ll gyp you out of your fillings—friend or no friend.”
“Sure wouldn’t guess it to look at him.”
“Lots of guys think that. Just be sure to count your fingers after you shake hands with him.”
“What’s the deal with this—baby—whatever her name is?”
“Helen? She’s married to some Air Force guy out at McChord Field—Johnson, his name is. He’s away a lot and she likes her nookie. Sloane’s had her on the string for a couple of months now. I tried her and then passed her on. Her Old Man’s a real mean bastard. He kicked the livin’ shit out of one guy he caught messin’ with her. Put the boots to him and broke both his arms. She’s real wild in the sack, but she’s got a foul mouth and she likes it dirty—you