Solomon's Vineyard
Jonathan Latimer
Listen. This is a wild one. Maybe the wildest yet. It's got everything but an abortion and a tornado. I ain't saying it's true. Neither of us, brother, is asking you to believe it. You can lug it across to the rental library right now and tell the dame you want your goddam nickel back. We don't care. All he done was write it down like I told it, and I don't guarantee nothing.
KARL CRAVEN
CHAPTER ONE
FROM THE way her buttocks looked under the black silk dress, I knew she'd be good in bed. The silk was tight and under it the muscles worked slow and easy. I saw weight there, and control, and, brother, those are things I like in a woman. I put down my bags and went after her along the station platform.
She walked towards-the waiting-room. She had gold-blonde hair, and curves, and breasts the size of Cuban pineapples. Every now and then, walking, she'd swing a hip until it looked like it was going out of joint and then she'd throw it back in place with a snap, making the buttocks quiver under this dress that was like black skin. I guess she knew I was following her.
A big limousine waited beyond the magazine stand. I stood in the shadow of an apple machine and watched her get in. Her legs were strong, like a dancer's. I was staring at the white flesh above the silk stocking when the chauffeur closed the door and took her bags from a redcap and put them in front. He gave the redcap four bits and climbed back of the wheel. She had been looking straight ahead, but suddenly she turned to the window and smiled at me. Her smile said: We could have fun together, big boy.
The limousine went away. I watched until it was out of sight. Some doll) Maybe the town wouldn't be so bad after all. It was hot on the platform and I felt sweat ooze under my arms. I showed my bags to the redcap and called a cab. The train began to pull out of the station, the engine throwing steam on a baggage truck. I gave the redcap two bits and got in the cab. It had a sign saying: Anywhere in town —50c. The driver didn't bother to close the door.
“Where to?”
“Any aircooled hotels?”
“In this burg?” The driver snorted. “Don't make me laugh.”
“What's a good one then?”
“There's the Greenwood.” The driver turned around and squinted at me. “Or the Arkady.”
“Which is the best?”
“The drummers use the Greenwood.”
“Take me to the Arkady.”
Hot air rose from the brick pavement on Main Street, making the building look distorted. I saw the town was mostly built of red brick. The pavements and the business buildings and even some of the houses were made of red brick. I saw a cop leaning against the front of a drug store. He had on a dirty shirt and needed a shave. Main Street was littered with papers and trash. A Buick went through a red light by the drug store, but the cop didn't move. There were plenty of cars parked diagonal to the curb, but there weren't many people outdoors. It was too hot.
We went by a movie house, turned left where it said No Left Turn, and climbed a hill. I saw a gulley with a shallow stream. The water looked stagnant. In the distance there was another hill with four brick buildings and a smaller white one near the top. There were green fields and grape vines on the hill. The white building looked like a temple. I pointed out the hill to the driver.
“That's Solomon's Vineyard.”
“What?”
“You heard of it,” the driver said. “A religious colony. Raise grapes ... and hell.”
He looked around to see if I liked the joke. I liked it all right. I laughed.
“About a thousand of 'em up there. All crazy. Believe in a prophet named Solomon.” We crossed a square with streetcar tracks and a park. “He's dead. Died five years ago, but the damn fools're still expecting him back.”
About five blocks from the square we came to the Arkady. It was a rambling three-story brick building with metal fire-escapes on the front. There were a dozen or so rocking-chairs on the porch. I saw a sign: Mineral Baths, and that gave me an idea what kind of a hotel it was. A Negro porter saw us and loafed down the steps.
“How much?” I asked the driver.
“A buck.”
“Your sign says anywhere in town for fifty cents.”
He shifted a plug of tobacco to the left side of his mouth. “Don't always believe in signs, mister.”
He had shifty eyes and his lips were stained yellow from the tobacco. He looked like a ball player I used to know. I got out a fifty-cent piece and flipped it in his face. “Give the porter my bags,” I said.
He snarled and I got ready to hit him, and then his face fell apart. He gave the bags to the Negro. There was a red mark where the coin had caught the bridge of his nose. He bent down to pick it off the floorboard and I went up the stairs and across the veranda and into the lobby. The air inside stank of incense. I saw potted palms and heavy mahogany furniture and brass spittoons. Three women were sitting by the reception desk. The clerk was a
