Erl Gardner - The Last Bell on the Street [story]

The clock on the dash shows 7:49. The smudge of smoke ahead will be Robinsvale county seat, 10.6 miles.

The needle on the gas gauge is jammed over against the E, and has been for the last five miles. The cars a good-looking heap. Originally, it cost plenty. Now there are two overdue installments on it, and the only reason were still driving it is that the finance company doesnt want it either.

We have four bits between us and Petes got that. He also has a million-dollar front and a line of sales talk that would make the Statue of Liberty drop the lamp to grab a fountain pen.

Pete figures our individual financial depression is because Lady Luck has taken a powder. Pete calls her The Dame. He says she runs out on a guy once in a while just to see if he can take it. Just keep your chin up and keep punching doorbells until you come to the last bell on the street, and shell come back, Pete claims. Me, Im not bothering about Why. My stomach keeps paging my throat to ask, When do we eat?

The old gas hog tops a hill, sputters, coughs and goes dead. Pete kicks her into neutral and starts coasting. Hes promised me well eat on that last four bits, and Im holding him to it. Weve poured enough dough through the gas tank.

We round a turn and theres a service station. You can tell from the way its painted that its a company service station and the kid in charge wont have any discretion in the matter of credit. We coast right on past. The grade flattens out and the gas hog slows down. Theres a wide place in the road.

We can leave it here, Pete.

The old hog is barely crawling, but Pete shakes his head. We can get her around that next bend, he says, and maybe The Dame will give us a tumble.

Theres a little more slope here and the hog picks up speed. Then we see the sign, George C. Fox, Reclaimed Tires. To one side is a sheet-iron building with a sign, Mothers Restaurant, and a couple of gasoline pumps in front.

Pete lifts his hat. George, my boy, opportunity is about to knock on your door. Poise your index finger over the No Sale key on your cash register. Here we come!

Save it, I say, until youve got a customer.

Pete says reproachfully, George is our customer. Stick around, Ed. This is going to be good.

It has to be, I tell him.

Pete slips the key to the gas cap into the glove compartment. The gas hog limps up to the pumps.

Pete jumps out, fumbling around in his pockets, his back toward the restaurant. The door opens and a Jane comes out. Shes class, with red hair, blue eyes and a white apron. I breathe easier. Petes a riot with dames.

Pete hears the screen door creak. His hands are circulating through his pockets like the vanes on a windmill. My gosh, Ed! My wallet! Its got the key to the gas cap in it. I must have left it in that night club.

I know its up to me to get his signals. I say, good and loud, Was that hundred bucks in it?

Pete gives me a hurt look. Hundred bucks! It was five hundred and sixty dollars. Well telephone. Then, apparently, he realizes for the first time someones behind him. He turns around with the old Quint smile, and freezes in his tracks.

My stomach feels cold. One look at Petes face, and I know the answer. Hed have made the build-up with old George C. Fox, but not with the Jane.

Her eyes are sympathetic. Theres a telephone in the restaurant.

Pete gives her a ghostly semblance of the Quint smile.

That wallet, he announces with conviction, is gone forever. In the meantime, the cap is locked tight on my gasoline tank; Im stalled in front of your pump.

Perhaps you could pull over and get a locksmith.

Good idea, Pete says... Pull her over, Ed.

I put her in gear and let the starter drag the heap into the shade. The redhead says, We dont ordinarily cash checks, but perhaps father

Pete laughs. Oh, we still have money. Well eat first and worry about the car afterward.

I almost pull the door off its hinges getting out. Im afraid he might grandstand that fifty cents for gas, the way hes looking at the Jane. Pete sticks a shoulder in front of me and slows me up long enough to hold the screen door open for the girl. We follow her in and sit down at the counter. Pete looks at the menu printed over the mirror.

Two hamburgers, he says, and coffee.

With onions, I tell him, an eye on the price list.

With onions, he says.

The girl opens the icebox and starts the hamburgers sizzling. Her eyes keep playing tag with Petes.

Wheres your dad?

Pete asks.

She laughs. Dad ducked. He thought you were someone else. She goes to the back door and calls, Coast is clear, dad, and comes back to the hamburgers.

After a minute, the back door opens. The big man who comes in has work-stooped shoulders, and eyes two shades lighter than the girls. They match his faded blue work shirt.

The redhead says, Dad, this mans had the worst luck.

The mans bushy eyebrows crawl together. He says to Pete, We dont cash checks.

No ones asking you to, Pete says, sliding the four bits out on the counter.

The man gets apologetic then. Sorry, but Arlene is always falling for some hard-luck story. I thought perhaps

Pete says, I never hand out bard-luck stories, which is the truth. Im annoyed over losing the key. I never have any trouble making money.

The man says dejectedly, Try making some for me.

They dont know Pete. I cross my fingers hard, hoping that whats coming next isnt going to interfere with the first meal Ive had in eighteen hours.

Pete says, Okay, make you all or any part of a hundred thousand on a fifty-fifty basis. How does that sound?

The mans suspicious. He doesnt say how it sounds, but the girl laughs. Thatd be swell. Make another hundred thousand for me and

A car slides up outside. The girl stoops so she can look up under the awning. Oh, my gosh, dad! Its him! Duck!

Fox stands there helpless. Outside I hear a car door slam. Its half a dozen steps to the back door and Down behind the counter, Pete says, and Fox drops as though youd jerked him with a string.

A guy with knife-edged creases in his trousers, a bright necktie and an off-color diamond scarf pin breezes in, says, Hello! Hows my little strawberry patch? Youre more beautiful every time I see you. Ive got a friend in pictures in Hollywood and

Pete swings around. Hi, buddy. Who you with?

The man stops talking and sizes Pete up. Dan Preston, Amalgamated Distributors, he says.

Pete slides from his stool, his right hand stuck out and all of the Quint personality going into action.

Im Quint Peter R. Quint.

They shake hands.

Who you with? Preston asks.

Quint doesnt bat an eyelash. Im taking charge of sales for George C. Fox, he says.

Theres a second or two of silence, broken only by the sizzling of hamburgers. The redheads staring, open-mouthed. I hear a noise back of the counter that could be made by Fox starting to get up, and scrape my foot against the tongue-and-groove to cover up. You got to hand it to Pete. Show him a doorbell, and hell punch it.

Thats fine, Preston says. You can give me the order whichll reinstate Fox under his contract. I wrote him. The factory said he either had to fish or cut bait.

Pete takes it in his stride. Well fish.

Preston doesnt grin any more. The factory thinks Fox had better let another agent take over. Hes so far behind on his contract minimums now that

The girl interrupts indignantly. Those minimums! Dad didnt know anything about the tire business when he signed that contract. Your man wrote in the minimums and said

Preston quits kidding her. Im sorry, Miss Fox. I havent any discretion about contracts.