“No,” he said. “More like twenty-five hundred.”
“It sounds as if you sold your car.” Milt chuckled. “That’s about one used Mercury. In fact it’s exactly what I paid for this Mercedes, and it was used when I got it. Of course, you don’t need two hundred. You could pick up sixty; that would be about right, for a shop the size of yours. But the problem is, will they sell sixty of them at that price?”
“Sixty would be a big help,” he said. A lot bigger help than twenty-five. So maybe is had been worth it after all, the long drive, all the difficulty tracking down Milt Lumky.
“I understand they’ve been retailed at around a hundred and eighty dollars,” Milt said. “To compete with the Smith-Corona. You’d have to figure on some kind of guarantee, I suppose. That’s something I know nothing about. You better investigate that pretty thoroughly.” He fooled with a crumb of food and then he said, “Maybe I could loan you some more money. Enough to take the warehouse as is. If they won’t break it up for any decent price.” He eyed Bruce. “I mean Susan. For Susan. Not for you as an individual.”
“It could be a wedding present,” Bruce said jokingly, and then he realized what he had said.
At once the man’s face tilted back and expressed, for him to see, his different reactions. “You and Susan?”
“Yes,” he said.
Milt said, “When?”
“Just a few days ago.”
They sat in silence.
“No kidding,” Milt said, in a subdued voice. “I can’t get over it. Well, congratulations,” he said, sticking out his hand. They shook on it. His hand was damp and trembling. “You know, I had a hunch about it that night when I dropped by and you were there. But I dismissed it. Were—you married men?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“It’s amazing. I didn’t think she’d get married again so soon. Well, you live and learn. That’s certainly no lie. I’ll pay for your meal.” He picked up the two checks and slid back from his stool. Without another word he walked to the front of the café and got out his wallet to pay the cashier.
Bruce, joining him on the sidewalk, said, “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you right off the bat.”
“You told me right off,” Milt said brusquely. “It seems right off,” he said, as he got into his car. His face had a gray, pushed-in quality. “Maybe I’ll phone her up and congratulate her,” he murmured, sitting at the wheel without starting the motor. “No, I have to see these people.” He examined the dashboard clock. “It’s about paper cups or something. Can you imagine driving thousands of miles to sell some guy in a small town on buying paper cups? Selling’s a hell of a strange business.”
“That’s true,” Bruce said, feeling uncomfortable.
“Reach around back in the back,” Milt said. “There’s a long thin carton. Full of cups.”
After Bruce had found it, Milt opened it and made sure that the cups were intact.
“You stay here,” he said, climbing out with the cups. “I’ll go drop them off and then come back. It’s that hotel down a couple of doors. I’ll tell them to call us if they want the cups. They ought to be able to decide.” He went on, leaving Bruce and the car and his satchel.
Time passed and at last he returned, without the cups.
“That’s that,” he said, sliding in. He started up the motor and began backing out into traffic. “Let’s head for home. The hell with Montpelier, Idaho.”
A Greyhound bus honked at him. With a savage swipe at the horn ring he honked back.
As they drove back, through farmland they had seen only an hour or so earlier in the day, Milt sat hunched over, his chin out, his eyes fixed on the road. The car radio, which he had turned on, blared out and destroyed the possibility of conversation. Milt gave every indication of having gone into a glowering lethargy; his control of the car became dim and he did not respond quickly to changes in the traffic. But finally he roused himself, shut off the radio, and took hold of the wheel with both hands.
“I’ll drive back to the Coast with you,” he declared.
“To Seattle?”
“Yes,” Milt said. “We’ll get you your typewriters.”
“Terrific,” he said.
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
He said, “It depends on whether we take both cars. It’d be faster if we took one and alternated the driving.”
“I have to get back out here again,” Milt said.
“I’ll drive back out here with you.”
They discussed me choice of cars. The Merc, being larger, might be more comfortable. And in it they could make better time. On the other hand, the Mercedes would use less gas.
“How do you feel about somebody else driving your car?” he asked Milt. “I don’t care who drives the Merc.”
Milt said, “Parts would be easier to get for your car. Tires and fuses and shit like that.” He gave no direct answer to the question.
In the end they decided on the Merc; he who was not at the wheel could stretch out and sleep more easily in the larger car.
An hour or so later they re-entered Pocatello. A funeral in progress blocked their movement; car after car with headlights on passed haughtily in front of them, protected by special police wearing brilliantly shiny uniforms and helmets. Milt, at the wheel, stared at it silently at first, and then he began to curse out the cars. “Look at them,” he said, interrupting himself. “It must be the mayor.” The cars, most of them new and expensive, passed into what seemed to be a public park but which was probably the town’s finest mortuary. “The goddamn dead bad-smelling dirty nasty-minded mayor of Pocatello.” His voice rose. “Look at the lacquered helmets on those cops. It’s like living in Nazi Germany.” With the window down he said loudly out into the street, “Bunch of goddamn Nazi S.S. men strutting around.”
The police paid no attention to him. Eventually the last car of the funeral procession passed before them; the police blew their whistles, and traffic once more began to move.
“Fuck,” Milt said, starting the car up and gunning the motor in low.
“Actually we didn’t lose much time,” he said, but Milt did not respond.
When they reached the house they parked the Mercedes in the doorless garage and started transferring their luggage from the back seat and trunk to the Merc.
While they were doing that a car drove up to the curb. Its door opened and Cathy Hermes hopped out, slammed the door; and waved good-bye. The car, a 1949 Chrysler, started off and made a left-turn at the corner.
“Her husband,” Milt said, lifting an armload of samples from the back of the Mercedes. “He drives her home from work and leaves her off. This is home.”
Her brown cloth coat flapping behind her, Cathy hurried toward them. “Are you back so soon?” she called, clutching her purse and beginning to run. “What are you doing? Are you going to go somewhere in his car?”
Milt said, “We’re taking off again.”
“Where?” She reached him and placed herself in front of him, keeping him from carrying any more to the Merc.
“Seattle,” he said.
“Now? Right away?” She breathed rapidly, frowning at him in the late-afternoon glare. “What’s the rush? I thought you weren’t starting back for three more days. You were going to rest around here until Tuesday at least.”
“I’ll be back,” he said.
At that, she fluffed up and said in her tiny insistent voice, “You’re not supposed to take such a long trip at one time. You know it’s too hard on you. Why do you have to go with him anyhow? Are you leaving the Mercedes here?”
“You can use it,” Milt said, setting her to one side so that he could load the samples into the Merc. “Here’s the key.”