“Now, wait a minute. That’s a pretty old picture. You can tell that.” I scanned the news photo again hunting for anything that would tie to the guy in the cabin. I think I prayed. And my prayer was answered in the pale eyes you could hardly see and the Oriental almond shape of them. My heart started skipping like a dollar watch, but I didn’t say anything, just “Maybe you’re right, Mary Ellen. That moon-face isn’t the one.” She smiled at me and tightened the belt of her uniform and I knew that Henderson and stardom were playing leapfrog with her imagination.
Tires rasped on the sparse gravel outside, and we both walked in back of the counter. In a minute, Stan Clark bulled into the room wearing his best smile and his Sunday blue serge. The smile drooped when he saw Mary Ellen behind the counter. “Aw, heck,” he hecked, “you’re not even ready yet.”
“Ready?” she said casually, showing more interest in the sandwich board than in Stan, “Ready for what, Mr. Greyhound?”
“Well, for crying out loud! Don’t tell me you forgot about our date!” He did look like a stunned ox, at that!
“What date do you mean, Stan?”
“You mean you forgot about the conference championship down at Toledo U.?” Stan was holding his temper in his mouth like a hot potato, and I was so embarrassed for the guy that I pretended to be busy at the sink. “The basketball game!” he groaned. “The biggest game of the season!”
“Gee, Stanny. I forgot all about it. I’m sorry.”
He looked like a funeral director at that. “Gee. I bought two tickets and everything. And they were tough to get, too!”
The big fellow was so miserable standing there holding those tiny stubs in his meaty hands that I knew she would pity him and go. Even if he was a dumb square. “Let me change, then...” She looked at me uncertainly, hoping I’d say something, but I didn’t, then she went in the back room to change her dress. Stan looked like a convict with a pardon, grinning as he tucked the tickets back into his wallet. It was hard to believe I was like that once... me, Sam MacCrae, twenty years ago, before the girl switched her valentines and married that insurance man from Cincinnati. That smashed me up a little bit. Then I put my faith in something more reliable than romance. Dollar signs. And the trolley lunch cart. But the old flame did better than I, I guess. She had four kids. And I got a busted grill and a rusty sink. Nuts.
I drew a cup of joe for Stan and folded up the paper. I didn’t want him to talk about the gunman. But the paper reminded him of the headline, I suppose, and he said, “Did you hear about the reward, Sam?” I said no. “That market chain is offering five thousand dollars for any information at all that’ll lead to an arrest. Not bad, eh?”
The fire in my head leaped up again. “Five thousand, eh?”
“That’s right. It’s right there in the Times. Page three.”
I unfolded the paper and found the story along with a picture of the man who got shot. “LARGE REWARD FOR KILLER POSTED,” it said.
Mary Ellen called me just then and I went out back. She was standing near the utility closet we stash almost everything into. The bare electric light bulb threw a sick glare on her face and yellowed the edges of her new coat and her white fuzzy beret.
“Why didn’t you say something?” she whispered. “You know I don’t want to go out with him. I don’t want to go out with anybody tonight. Not tonight!”
“Sure you do,” I said. “Get out of this grease box and have fun. You’re only young once. Go on, now, don’t keep him waiting.”
“And what about Henderson?” she said.
“So what about Henderson?” I shot back. “You can see him in the morning.” Stan hollored out just then and Mary Ellen jumped like a jack-rabbit.
“Maybe he’d like something to eat,” she said.
“Yeah, sure. Go on, now.” She started away. “Wait a minute.” She stopped. “I wouldn’t say anything to Stan about Henderson. He might not like the idea. I’m sure he won’t!”
Pure disgust at that. She pecked me on the cheek and left.
I was glad business was slow. It gave me a change to think. I took my time steel-wooling the sink and mopping the floor. It was starting to smell under the floor boards in back of the counter, so I leaned them against the cabinets and scrubbed the concrete with lye soap, flushing it clear afterwards, and mopping it dry. Once I had a colored fellow to do things like that. When I had money.
The tan leather bag bombed into my mind again. The twelve G’s jabbed me like a needle. Money could square everything. All the bum years. Once I thought I could hit it real big like those big boys. Howard Johnson. What the hell had gone wrong? I had the guts and the drive. I poured time and muscle into this dump. What had gone wrong?
Easy answer. No breaks. No dough. That’s it. Dough. Take any flop and there’s the reason. The lousy dollar sign.
I looked out across the road at Jim Parrish’s place. There’s a success story for you! But money built it. Not brains or guts or muscle. Just money. If my Trolley Lunch was big enough... bright enough, I’d give that blowhard a run for his money. There’s nothing like dough to knock out competition. And Parrish had it! If I had a few bucks twenty years ago, I never would have lost Grace to that insurance man. But that’s another story and what the hell am I thinking of that for now? I scowled at the “Drivers’ Dream”. All those flashing signs! Looked like Coney Island! But there was only one big rig parked outside his place. That made me feel good just thinking about his overhead.
Fred Chanlek from the filling station dropped in and tried to pull me into an argument about socialism. Finally, he gave up, paid his tab and left.
I helped myself to a cup of coffee and sat at the counter like a customer. It was only nine o’clock. One of the fluorescents started to flicker in the overhead socket. A few days and that would bloop out. More money out. Always money out. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, like the song says. The idea is to get rich. Then you get richer. A law of nature. A little money is the magnet for a lot of money. Now, if I had some money I’d shut this dump and move to Florida. That’s what any guy with brains does, go to Florida. Everything makes money there. Motels. Pools. That’s a good racket. Swimming pools. Or maybe a frozen custard stand on a busy highway with cute car hops. I’d call the place “MacCrae’s Main Line.” That’s a good name. Now the “Trolley Lunch”: that’s corny and old hat. Trolleys are dead. But that was my brother Joe’s idea. He thought a folksy name would pull in the truckers. Well, it did for a while.
A siren screamed up the road. Cops tightening the net on Klegman. It wouldn’t be long. Cops had issued an all-points bulletin and the roads were jammed with bluecoats. I wondered about Klegman. Maybe he was a money-nut like me, without talent or schooling or connections. A nothing. And maybe he saw his chance and grabbed and a goof got in his way and he cut him down. That’s the breaks. And Klegman had the moxie to grab his chance. God! Think of that jackpot. Twelve thousand dollars. If I worked forever I’d never make that much coin. You got to take a chance. Mary Ellen did this afternoon, rolling her eyes and wiggling her keester like a Water Street tramp. Henderson. Never heard of him. Not in the same league with Zanuck, or DeMille, or Preminger. But maybe he wasn’t in the same league with anybody.