Black Cat Weekly #5

MR. BIG NOSE, by Martin Suto-2

After lunch he had about five minutes alone near the truck. Smitty took his time to pick his teeth and chew the fat. By that time Norman was already inside the sack, his head pounding, the blood screaming through his body. He thought sure he’d collapse before Smitty got in and drove away to the gate. Here the guards usually kept Smitty a couple of minutes for a cursory inspection. Sometimes they kicked a couple of bags. Occasionally they made a thorough inspection and went through the entire truck. Seconds and minutes seemed like hours. He crouched in the darkness, the distant sound of laughter was muffled in the bag. He waited. He imagined the guards were going through the periodical stiff inspection. He was positive they had dumped a couple of bags on the outside. He heard Smitty swear. He thought it was Smitty. He almost collapsed when a heavy object rammed against him. Through the noise and ringing in his ears, the fog over his eyes, he was dimly aware of being jolted. He revived enough to realize they were running over a smooth paved road. He forced himself to think. How long ago was it that they had hit the highway? But he couldn’t think. His lungs seemed about ready to burst. Savagely the knife in his fist was slashing through the burlap. He peered out through the tail-end and saw the highway spinning out in the distance. They were on the outskirts of town. In a matter of minutes they’d be in town. Ventura had said, “If you make it to this address, I promise you Legget will get you out of the country.”

Abruptly the fields on the roadside merged into hills with clusters of trees. Smitty was slowing down for a signal light. There was no traffic behind them. Norman eased himself out of the back of the truck and darted into the woods.

The stolen suit was of gray conservative cut and filled out his thin figure. The dark plastic rimmed glasses he had stolen from the farmhouse fitted the shape of his forehead after bending the frame a bit, and they didn’t distort his vision at all. With the small overnight bag he had also taken from the house in the woods he sat calmly beside the salesman in the dark green sedan. The salesman was on his way to New York bypassing Buffalo. He was a cleancut young guy of about thirty-three or four, Norman’s age. And he talked incessantly about business. Norman could see he was harmless but he encouraged him to talk about his job, himself, about the state of the world. He didn’t want him snapping on the radio if he could help it. He was a good eight hours ahead of the game unless the guards pulled a surprise inspection.

If this salesman didn’t get too inquisitive they’d get along. He was fair-haired, almost blond, but better looking than Norman. He was athletic looking. Norman knew he was a cinch with the women. Enviously, he stared at the man’s smooth well-proportioned features. Norman wished he had the man’s nose.

Once or twice the man glanced at Norman and grinned. Norman gripped the knife in his jacket pocket. By God, if this clown was laughing at him like Ventura he’d shut him up quick. But the fellow had asked him a question. He repeated it.

“I don’t know beans about optics but I guess optometry is a pretty good racket these days. Or am I off the beam on that?”

“Well, it’s like everything else,” Norman said carefully, “people like the best in what they can buy these days whether it’s a house or a car. And then after that they want the looks to go with the product. It’s the same, I guess, as what makes a woman shop around for a good-looking guy,” he added wistfully. The salesman looked at him curiously for a second. Norman shifted uncomfortably. Now what the hell was wrong with what he had said? He trembled with the urge to order the salesman to stop the car, to put his knife to his throat and watch the fear come into the man’s face.

They drove along in silence. Somehow or other the tension mounted until the salesman lit a cigarette and offered Norman one. Norman noticed the watch on the man’s wrist for the first time. It was a beauty. One of those platinum affairs with a heavy silver interlocking wristband. He forced himself to look straight ahead at the dark ribbon of road winding continuously ahead of their high beam.

After awhile the salesman began again. This time he not only talked about himself but he managed to insinuate a question now and then. Still Norman sensed the man was not prying. He answered matter of factly. He even dozed off now and then. But he awoke with a start when the man snapped on the radio. They were almost on the outskirts of the city. The man began to hum and slap his hand against the steering wheel. He switched stations when a rock ’n roll tune started up.

“That stuff slays me,” he said. A newscaster came on the air abruptly. It was about Norman. He frooze. The driver listened.

When the newscaster came on with his description Norman fingered the knife in his pocket. He withdrew it slightly. His head was pounding. The salesman was shaking his head.

“Pretty clever all the same,” he muttered. It was his voice that shook Norman. It was too casual, too conversational. He had been listening to this guy babbling for a long time now and he knew, he just knew that the man was suspicious. He stole a glance at the salesman. The man was staring at him. Norman felt the ice creep up to his knees.

“Don’t stare at me,” he said. “Don’t stare at me like that!”

Norman pulled the knife out. The driver was saved when he put on the brakes throwing Norman off balance. But the knife thrust caught the driver in the hand, and as he tore away from Norman his watch band snapped. He was gone in the darkness before Norman could get out of the car. In the darkness there was only the sound of Norman’s hoarse breathing, the crickets in the hot grass beside the road, the smell of burnt rubber, and the lights of the town up ahead.

Norman leaped back into the car, tires squealing as he gassed the motor. He had to reach Mort Kane’s apartment and ditch the car before the salesman could sound an alarm.

Mort Kane was downing a glass of orange juice in the kitchen when Norman peered in. He hadn’t slept a wink all night. He must have smoked at least a pack of Mort’s cigarettes. Mort had put him up last night and told him not to worry.

He wasn’t much to look at with his big paunch and homely face but he had what it takes for a friend in need. In a way he was like Ventura but without the big chump’s sarcastic ways.

“Well, good mornin’,” Mort said, grinning from ear to ear. “Feelin’ better?”

Norman tried to grin. He shook his head.

Mort sat down and lit a cigarette. He pushed a coffee container, some doughnuts, and a can of orange juice towards Norman. His eyes belied his heavy body and vacant face. They were dark, sharp and observant. He sat back in his chair with a sigh, glancing briefly at the electric clock above the small freezer fitted into the wall. The sun poured in through the open window. From six stories below came the muted sound of traffic.

“It’s almost twelve,” muttered Norman, sipping the hot coffee. He felt his nerves quiver spasmodically in the ends of his toes. He drank the coffee in gulps.

“Plenty of time,” said Mort. He crossed his legs. “Stay as long as you want. Nobody knows me in this town, and no busybody bulls’ll be around here checkin’ on anybody.”

Norman shook his head.

“I got to keep movin’. Besides they ever find me here you lose all this, have to start from scratch again.”

Mort nodded his head.

“I thought about it. Where you tailin’ it?”

“Hartford, maybe,” said Norman evasively. He trusted Mort but he didn’t have to tell him everything.

Mort blew smoke from his nostrils.

“You’re welcome to stay,” he said again gently. “What’s mine is yours.”

Norman grinned gratefully but shook his head.

“That’s why I came. Everybody knows Mort Kane’s word is good.”

“I can get you a buggy,” said Mort, “and a little cash. You’ll need everything you can get to make it wherever you’re headed. I advise you again to lie low. You’re hot, kid.”

The blood rushed to Norman’s toes. He nodded dumbly.

“More coffee?” he croaked.

Mort heaved himself to his feet. His shoelaces were still half laced. “I’ll go out and get some.”

“Don’t go,” said Norman. His lips were stiff and still dry. “When can I leave?” he said feverishly.

“I’ll get your car tonight.”

“I got to leave this afternoon!”

Mort stared incredulously.

“You don’t mean it!”

Norman nodded. He said, “I’ll make it.” Through a haze he saw and heard Mort. When Mort pulled out a wad of bills and peeled off some large and small he shoved them into his pocket and stood up.

“I gotta lay down for awhile,” he said.

After a few minutes Mort went out. When he woke up he was lying on the livingroom rug. He must have fallen off the settee. Mort was still out. He went to the kitchen and fixed himself some cold cuts and a glass of milk. He ate and wandered around the apartment. He was like a caged tiger. He had to get moving. The address Ventura had given was burning in his mind like a burr in his skin. He had to find Legget. The thought of going back to his cell made him sick. He found Mort’s liquor cabinet but there was only vermouth and gin. Gin was Mort’s drink. Strange a guy like Mort favored gin. He took a glass and poured himself a good slug but couldn’t finish it.

He took out the salesman’s watch and matched the time on the kitchen clock. It was four o’clock. The sky was brown in the west and the breeze had shifted. He went to the mirror in the bathroom and looked at himself. He was a little pale but that was all. He combed his hair neatly and adjusted the brown straw hat Mort had brought him. He flicked an ash off the neat blue summer suit he had also gotten from Mort and went down the rear exit of the apartment house stairs.

Confidently he turned onto the thoroughfare a block away from the apartment house and went east. They’d never find him. They’d never get him back there in the gray cell, the stinking laundry. He was free now and he was going to stay free. He walked along alert for any late model car that had an open window, perhaps an ignition key in the switch. He saw one at the curb a little ways beyond a flower shop and short of a tobacco store. He went by, carefully appraising the sidewalk on the way back. A well-dressed redhead with matching pumps and the ripe figure he’d always admired came out of the flowershop and approached. He shied away from the car, giving the woman a heartfelt glance. It was a long time since he had been close enough to a woman to catch the shade of lipstick she wore. Confused and worried now that her eyes never left his face, he glanced away. He thought she’d never pass him at the rate she was walking. He glanced at her again quickly and the blood froze in his veins. She had an attractive figure but a face that spelled trouble. It was the shape of her mouth that told him. Then he saw her eyes as they came abreast of each other. Somehow or other she recognized him, had seen his face before, heard his description over the air.