Two flats and one spare. I tucked my chin down and started towards the faint light up the side road.
It was the place all right. The light came from the tilted skylight on the garage roof. Big double doors in front were shut tight, but light showed at the cracks, strong white light. I tossed the beam of the flash up and read: «Art Huck — Auto Repairs and Refinishing.»
Beyond the garage a house sat back from the muddy road behind a thin clump of trees. That had light too. I saw a small buttoned-up coupé in front of the wooden porch.
The first thing was the tires, if it could be worked, and they didn’t know me. It was a wet night for walking.
I snapped the flash out and rapped on the doors with it. The light inside went out. I stood there licking rain off my upper lip, the flash in my left hand, my right inside my coat. I had the Luger back under my arm again.
A voice spoke through the door, and didn’t sound pleased.
«What you want? Who are you?»
«Open up,» I said. «I’ve got two flat tires on the highway and only one spare. I need help.»
«We’re closed up, mister. Realito’s a mile west of here.»
I started to kick the door. There was swearing inside, then another, much softer voice.
«A wise guy, huh? Open up, Art.»
A bolt squealed and half of the door sagged inward. I snapped the flash again and it hit a gaunt face. Then an arm swept and knocked it out of my hand. A gun had just peeked at me from the flailing hand.
I dropped low, felt around for the flash and was still. I just didn’t pull a gun.
«Kill the spot, mister. Guys get hurt that way.»
The flash was burning down in the mud. I snapped it off, stood up with it. Light went on inside the garage, outlined a tall man in coveralls. He backed inward and his gun held on me.
«Come on in and shut the door.»
I did that. «Tacks all over the end of your street,» I said. «I thought you wanted the business.»
«Ain’t you got any sense? A bank job was pulled at Realito this afternoon.»
«I’m a stranger here,» I said, remembering the knot of men in front of the bank in the rain.
«Okay, okay. Well there was and the punks are hid out somewhere in the hills, they say. You stepped on their tacks, huh?»
«So it seems.» I looked at the other man in the garage.
He was short, heavy-set, with a cool brown face and cool brown eyes. He wore a belted raincoat of brown leather. His brown hat had the usual rakish tilt and was dry. His hands were in his pockets and he looked bored.
There was a hot sweetish smell of pyroxylin paint on the air. A big sedan over in the corner had a paint gun lying on its fender. It was a Buick, almost new. It didn’t need the paint it was getting.
The man in coveralls tucked his gun out of sight through a flap in the side of his clothes. He looked at the brown man. The brown man looked at me and said gently: «Where you from, stranger?»
«Seattle,» I said.
«Going west — to the big city?» He had a soft voice, soft and dry, like the rustle of well-worn leather.
«Yes. How far is it?»
«About forty miles. Seems farther in this weather. Come the long way, didn’t you? By Tahoe and Lone Pine?»
«Not Tahoe,» I said. «Reno and Carson City.»
«Still the long way.» A fleeting smile touched the brown lips.
«Take a jack and get his flats, Art.»
«Now, listen, Lash —» the man in the coveralls growled, and stopped as though his throat had been cut from ear to ear.
I could have sworn that he shivered. There was dead silence. The brown man didn’t move a muscle. Something looked out of his eyes, and then his eyes lowered, almost shyly. His voice was the same soft, dry rustle of sound.
«Take two jacks, Art. He’s got two flats.»
The gaunt man swallowed. Then he went over to a corner and put a coat on, and a cap. He grabbed up a socket wrench and a handjack and wheeled a dolly jack over to the doors.
«Back on the highway, is it?» he asked me almost tenderly.
«Yeah. You can use the spare for one spot, if you’re busy,» I said.
«He’s not busy,» the brown man said and looked at his fingernails.
Art went out with his tools. The door shut again. I looked at the Buick. I didn’t look at Lash Yeager. I knew it was Lash Yeager. There wouldn’t be two men called Lash that came to that garage. I didn’t look at him because I would be looking across the sprawled body of Larry Batzel, and it would show in my face. For a moment, anyway.
He glanced towards the Buick himself. «Just a panel job to start with,» he drawled. «But the guy that owns it has dough and his driver needed a few bucks. You know the racket.»
«Sure,» I said.
The minutes passed on tiptoe. Long, sluggish minutes. Then feet crunched outside and the door was pushed open. The light hit pencils of rain and made silver wires of them. Art trundled two muddy flats in sulkily, kicked the door shut, let one of the flats fall on its side. The rain and fresh air had given him his nerve back. He looked at me savagely.
«Seattle,» he snarled. «Seattle, my eye!»
The brown man lit a cigarette as if he hadn’t heard. Art peeled his coat off and yanked my tire up on a rim spreader, tore it loose viciously, had the tube out and cold-patched in nothing flat. He strode scowling over to the wall near me and grabbed an air hose, let enough air into the tube to give it body, and hefted it in both hands to dip it in a washtub of water.
I was a sap, but their teamwork was very good. Neither had looked at the other since Art came back with my tires.
Art tossed the air-stiffened tube up casually, caught it with both hands wide, looked it over sourly beside the washtub of water, took one short easy step and slammed it down over my head and shoulders.
He jumped behind me in a flash, leaned his weight down on the rubber, dragged it tight against my chest and arms. I could move my hands, but I couldn’t get near my gun.
The brown man brought his right hand out of his pocket and tossed a wrapped cylinder of nickels up and down on his palm as he stepped lithely across the floor.
I heaved back hard, then suddenly threw all my weight forward. Just as suddenly Art let go of the tube, and kneed me from behind.
I sprawled, but I never knew when I reached the floor. The fist with the weighted tube of nickels met me in midflight. Perfectly timed, perfectly weighted, and with my own weight to help it out.
I went out like a puff of dust in a draft.
SEVEN
It seemed there was a woman and she was sitting beside a lamp. Light shone on my face, so I shut my eyes again and tried to look at her through my eyelashes. She was so platinumed that her head shone like a silver fruit bowl.
She wore a green traveling dress with a mannish cut to it and a broad white collar falling over the lapels. A sharp-angled glossy bag stood at her feet. She was smoking, and a drink was tall and pale at her elbow.
I opened my eye wider and said: «Hello there.»
Her eyes were the eyes I remembered, outside Sardi’s in a secondhand Rolls-Royce. Very blue eyes, very soft and lovely. Not the eyes of a hustler around the fast money boys.
«How do you feel?» Her voice was soft and lovely too.
«Great,» I said. «Except somebody built a filling station on my jaw.»
«What did you expect, Mr. Carmady? Orchids?»
«So you know my name.»
«You slept well. They had plenty of time to go through your pockets. They did everything but embalm you.»
«Right,» I said.
I could move a little, not very much. My wrists were behind my back, handcuffed. There was a little poetic justice in that. From the cuffs a cord ran to my ankles, and tied them, and then dropped down out of sight over the end of the davenport and was tied somewhere else. I was almost as helpless as if I had been screwed up in a coffin.