On Route 66

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JUST A HUNCHThe Roaring Twenties was one of those memorable, yet strange decades, a mixture of flappers and jazz music, mobsters and prohibition, and stocks and speculators. Herbert Hoover was president. World War I, the war to end all wars, had come to a peace-loving end in late 1918. The boys were back home, whooping it up. People were carefree and wild. The daring engaged in flagpole sitting, barnstorming, and marathon dances. The even-more-daring spent money they really didn’t have. Never mind tomorrow. By 1929, the last year of this mayhem, something ominous loomed on the horizon. Some — the smart ones — saw it coming. But most didn’t.

CHICAGO — OCTOBER, 1929HONEYMOONERS JAKE AND JENNIFER COURTNEY were oblivious to what they were in for as they stepped off the New York-to-Chicago train in mid-afternoon on a chilly, rainy Tuesday to flag down a cab on the street outside the station.

“Where to?”

“The Royal Palace Hotel,” Jake answered the driver.

“Yes, sir.”

They squeezed in the cab’s back seat. The driver whipped the couple’s luggage into the trunk and spun off. Along the way, Jake and Jennifer caught the sights of the busy town they had heard so much about, on this day off between train connections for the western leg of their honeymoon trip to sunny California. The streets in the Loop were packed with people and cars, despite the heavy rain. Exciting place, this Chicago, according to the talkative cab driver. People — mostly outsiders — called it the Windy City. It had over a million people. One writer called it “the pulse of America.” It was an ethnic city of many nationalities. Poles, Germans, Jews, Italians, and Irish. All trying to get along, despite their differences. It was a city of factories and slaughter houses. On the dark side, it was also a city of speakeasies and the notorious Al Capone. The Courtneys nodded at the driver. Who hadn’t heard of Al Capone?

An attractive couple in their early twenties, the Courtneys hailed from New York City, an even bigger jungle than Chicago. Jake was dark-haired, six-foot-two, handsome, and fashionably-dressed. Jennifer was a pretty blonde with slim legs who loved her hats and thrived on attention. Some thought of her as a classy little wench. High-class, high-esteem. Despite a stormy courtship, they were a twosome. Hopefully for life. However, few relatives wondered to themselves whether they’d be lucky to last five years. Both also had money in the family. Jake’s father owned a large, popular department store in downtown Manhattan. Jennifer’s father was a Wall Street stockbroker in a firm he had helped establish in a three-way partnership. Married only three days earlier in a mammoth Catholic service attended by the New York mayor, the Courtneys were out to see America coast to coast before settling down to married life in New York, where Jake would begin his new position in his father’s company as head of personnel.

But for now, they had made up their minds they wanted to make the most of their honeymoon in the quickest time possible.

* * * *

“THERE YOU GO,” JAKE SAID, TIPPING the cab driver by the curb at the Royal Palace Hotel on State Street.

“Five bucks. Thanks, pal,” the driver said, almost expecting the amount.

The couple bent down, snatched up their luggage and hurried their way into the spacious lobby, trying not to get soaked from the pelting rain.

“Do you think we’ll see a real live gangster?” Jennifer asked, flicking rain off her forehead with her free hand.

He stared at her. “Quiet. Not so loud.”

“Why?”

“What do you want? Another St. Valentine’s Day m******e?”

She laughed, bringing to mind the gory newspaper accounts of the much-written-about February gang killing in Chicago. “No, I don’t. But I thought you said some gangsters hang out here. Isn’t that what you said?”

“The clerk at the train station said they did.”

“Oh, her. The brunette with the big chest and low IQ.”

“I didn’t really notice her.”

“Oh, yes, you did.”

“Anyway, so what about gangsters? As long as they don’t bother us.”

They checked in at the front desk.

Ten minutes later, at Room 313, Jake tipped the bellhop two dollars. “I’ll take over. We’re newlyweds.”

“I understand. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jake placed the suitcases inside the door and flipped his wife off her feet and into his arms.

“Again?” she giggled. “You did this once before.”

“I know.”

She caught the twinkle in his eye. “I guess it was a long trip.”

“Oh, yes.” Two days in the coach. No sleeping quarters. Some honeymoon. Oh, yes, too long of a trip for two people just married. “Pucker up,” he demanded.

She smacked him a quick hard kiss on the lips. “Take that.”

Jake whisked her inside and shut the door with a kick. The beige-colored room had a separate bedroom from the other quarters. He walked with her in his arms to the bed and set her down. He whipped her shoes off. They bounced on the bed, undressed each other in record time until they were completely naked, and then ran for the shower, together.

* * * *

JENNIFER HEARD HER HUSBAND TALKING to someone beyond the closed door. Was someone else in their room? She sat up in bed on one elbow and pulled the covers over her bare breasts. A funny feeling cut deep inside her. She tried to make out the conversation, but couldn’t quite distinguish the words. It seemed one-sided. Only Jake was doing the talking. She heard the click of the telephone receiver. Then silence.

Jake returned to the bedroom, clad in a bathrobe, a bottle of red wine and two glasses in his hand. “Oh, hi, doll.”

“Hi.”

“You woke up,” he said. He managed a grin. “Care for some wine?”

“I thought it was illegal?”

He laughed. “Anything goes here in Chicago.”

“Where’d yuh get it?”

“Don’t ask.” He held up the bottle. “Well?”

“Let her rip.”

He poured for her, then him.

She dropped the covers to expose her bare chest. They smiled at each other.

“Nice,” he said, kissing her round, ample breasts.

They clinked glasses and downed a good mouthful. Then he went to the dresser for his cigarettes and matches.

She crawled back under the covers. “What was that all about?”

“What?”

“You were talking to someone.”

He shrugged, lighting his cigarette. “Oh... ah... that. Yeah, my dad in New York.”

“How is he? Anything wrong?”

He approached the bed again. “Fine.”

“So, why did you call him?”

“To let him know we made it safe and sound.” He stood and blew out a perfect smoke ring. “Why the questions, anyway?”

“Just curious.”

“Don’t be, OK?”

“OK.”

“Yuh hungry?”

“Yeah, I’m starved.”

“Get dressed. Let’s go down to the restaurant.”

“I’m with you.”

She reached for her black panties and bra on the floor, while he left for the restroom. Putting on her underclothes and nylons, she decided to let the telephone conversation go for now. Still, something didn’t sit well with her.

The next morning turned out sunny and mild. After breakfast, another strange thing occurred. Instead of heading for the train station, Jake asked the cabby to take them to a Western Union office. Jake flew inside and out again in minutes, while his wife remained inside the cab. Next stop was a Pierce Arrow car dealer five blocks away, where the driver left them standing with their suitcases before he sped off into the steady stream of jammed traffic.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

“You’ll see.” Jake took her by the hand into the showroom. There, he saw a sparkling, red convertible in the corner.

In an instant, a salesman in his forties was on them. “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may. How much for the 4-Passenger Tourer?”

“Jake!”

“Take it easy,” Jake said to his wife.

“Ah... you have good taste, sir.”

“How much?”

The salesman looked towards the vehicle, than back to Jake. “The straight-eight. Water-cooled. Four forward gears. Cast iron heads and block. Three hundred and eighty-six cubic inches. One hundred and twenty-five horsepower at your pedal. Twenty-four gallon gas tank. One hundred and thirty-four inch wheelbase. She’s a beaut.”

“Yeah, yeah. OK, cut the s**t, pal. One last time. How much?”

The salesman tugged at his tie. “The showroom price is two thousand, nine hundred dollars.”

“I see. I’ll give you two thousand, seven hundred in cash, providing I can drive it out of here in an hour.” Jake couldn’t figure whose eyes were wider, the salesman’s or his wife’s. “Well?”

“You mean to tell me you’re carrying around that much cash in Chicago?”

“Right now I am.”

“All right, I’ll go see what I can do.”

“We’ll wait. We’re not going anywhere.”

Less than fifty-five minutes later, the couple were standing in the parking lot next to their spontaneous purchase.

“Where did you get the money?” she asked, opening the passenger side door to admire the plush, black leather interior.

“At the Western Union.”

“I know that, but... where... who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Leave it be.”

“Don’t you think we should discuss these things?”

“OK. I had it saved.”

“What?”

“I love it.” He slid in behind the wheel and looked over the dash at the long, red hood. Under the shiny metal was a straight-eight motor with lots of horsepower. “I always wanted a new Pierce Arrow.”

“You saved it?”

“Huh? Yeah, a secret account.”

She frowned. “A secret account? Which one?”

“Why is everything you say turning out to be a question? Actually, my dad gave me the money. OK? Come on, get in. Don’t be shy.”

There, his father mentioned, again, she thought. She got in and slammed the door behind her. “Why a car? We’re taking the train to California, aren’t we?”

He shook his head. “Not no more, doll. We’re driving.”

She went very still as if in a trance. “Wait a minute, here!” she erupted. “Driving! Are you crazy? Do you realize how far it is to California!”

“Yeah, Chicago to Los Angeles is about twenty-four hundred miles.”

She rolled her eyes. “Jake!”

“Relax, doll. Look.” He reached into the breast pocket of his black, pin-striped suit and handed her a newspaper article he had torn from the Chicago Times.

“What’s this?”

“Read it. Go on.”

Jennifer unfolded the sheet. It was a full-page story with a picture of a mountain scene off in the distance. In the forefront was a paved highway. To the right a gas station. “Route 66.”

“That’s her. The Main Street of America. I like that. The Main Street of America.”

“So?”

“So? It’s the road of the future. Starts right here in downtown Chicago — a few blocks from here on Jackson Boulevard — and goes all the way to Los Angeles. It covers eight states. Missouri, Texas, Oklahoma, Arizona...”

“Is it safe?”

“Is it safe? People travel it all the time. Been around for three years now,” he explained.

“Where would we stay?”

“Major hotels in the bigger cities. They have tourist cabins in the country. Says so in the article. We’ll rough it. Single room with a bed. Showers in a separate building. Outhouses.”

“Outhouses! Not on your life. I might get slivers, or worse, some... some disease!”

“Oh, ease up, doll. Too proud, are yuh, to set your sweet little white fanny down on an outdoor toilet? Come on, it’ll be an adventure. A big camp-out.”

“Oh yeah, like... the Oregon Trail in a chuck wagon.”

“It’ll be a milk run. You’ll see.”

“I somehow doubt that.” Looking down, she began to read portions of the article. The more she read, however, the more she liked the idea of driving all the way to the Pacific coast. She had never done or even thought of doing anything like this before.

“What do you say? Sounds like fun,” he said. “We’ll see places we’ve never been before. We can go to the Grand Canyon!”

“I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

“Atta, girl.”

“How long will it take?”

“A week, I suspect. Remember, that’s one way.”

“Do we have money?”

“I have some left over. Enough to get us there and back, with some to spare.”

She glanced again at the newspaper article. “Says here that most of it isn’t paved yet. Let’s see. A little in Oklahoma. Not at all in Texas!”

“Big deal.”

“Yeah, but... what if the car conks out?”

“What if we get hit by a street car in New York when we go to work? Does anybody think of those things? No. Well?”

“Well, what?”