between jobs. This time I wasn't calling the tune, though.
I slept solidly that night.
The next morning was my fifth day since leaving Phoenix. I made another early start and left Highway 90 about thirty miles beyond Seminole, at Milton. On 90-A I hustled along through Galliver, Crestview, DcFuniak Springs, Marianna, Chatahoochee, Talahassee, and Monticello. I was on the homestretch now.
At Capps I turned south on US 19. I picked out two swift-running rivers fifty miles apart, and I threw the old Smith & Wesson into the first one and the old Woodsman into the second.
I saw a sign at the side of the highway late that afternoon. It said Town Limits, Hudson, Florida. I drove
through the main square and found a motel called the Lazy Susan on the south side of town. I'd covered 362 miles since morning. I registered, showered, ate at the motel, went into the lobby and worked my way through a month-old copy of Time, then went to bed early. I wanted to start fresh in the morning.
I had breakfast in town at a place called the Log Cabin. The building looked like stucco over logs. It was early, but the place was busy. The breakfasters were blue-collar, a factory crowd. There wasn't much conversation, even from the good-looking young waitress who wore an engagement ring but no wedding band.
I walked around the square afterward. I'd estimated the town at six or eight thousand the day before. That morning I upped it a little. The store windows looked clean, and the displayed merchandise looked fresh. There were no empty stores near the main intersection. The merchants must at least be making the rent money.
I walked past the bank with its protective iron grille drawn. It was an old building, bristling in its external impression of maximum security. Like the kind of two-dollar watch that used to be called a bulldog.
I bought a local paper at the drugstore, carried it to the little park in the square, and sat down on a bench in the early morning sunlight. The park faced the shabby-looking town hall and the post office. I looked at the post office a couple of times. To be diverted, registered mail almost had to be tampered with by post office personnel. Although of course Bunny's packaged money meant for me might not have been registered when it was intercepted.
The newspaper was a weekly. I read every line of it, including the classified ads. It's a habit of mine. Tips are where you find them. For years, I've had a subscription under one of my names to
they've mostly cut that out. It must have occurred to
someone that they were being too helpful.
I trail the classified section carefully. If there was a tree surgeon in Hudson, Florida, he wasn't using the local paper to attract customers. I folded up the paper and walked back to where I'd parked the Ford.
Main Street in Hudson ran east-west from the traffic light in the square, not north-south on 19. I drove east on Main. When the stores thinned out, I slowed down. The first homes were small, with tiny yards or none at all. No work for a tree surgeon there.
A mile beyond the built-up section of town the area south of Main Street became a swamp. I recalled seeing it listed on a map as Thirty Mile Swamp. From its looks it was no kitchen-garden swamp, either, but a fibrous jungle of cypress and mangrove in brackish-looking water, the trees drearily festooned with Spanish moss. A hand-painted sign beside a shack said 'Airboat for Hire.'
I turned around and started back. Near the edge of town again I turned north and began crisscrossing side streets. Gradually I worked into higher ground and an unproved residential section. I turned finally into a block-long street with only three houses on it. Big houses. Estates. I slowed down again. This was what I needed: property that required upkeep and people with the money to pay for it. I made notes on the edge of my newspaper while I drove around.
I headed back to the town square when I'd accumulated half-a-dozen addresses. I parked in front of the local five-and-dime. Above it a sign fisted a real estate office. I climbed a flight of stairs with my paper under my arm. A young fellow hopped up from behind a desk as I entered. He had on a short-sleeved white shirt with a black tie. Below the executive level the short-sleeved white shirt is almost a uniform in this latitude. Nobody wears a jacket, and after lunch the ties come off. Nobody is ever in a hurry.
'Yes, sir?' the real estate man said briskly. He had a nice smile. 'Jed Raymond, sir. May I be of help?'
'Chet Arnold,' I said, and handed him one of my business cards. 'I just came in to pick your brains.' I looked at the notes on my paper. 'There's a big white Georgian house at Sand Rock Road and Jezebel Drive.' I glanced at Jed Raymond. 'Odd name for a street, that.'
'Old man Landscombe named it, Mr. Arnold. They do say he had his reasons.' Jed Raymond looked up from a quick inspection of my card. 'You want the tree work there?' He shook his head doubtfully. 'Mr. Landscombe died six months ago, and there's an unholy dustup about his will. Three sets of presumptive heirs suing each other. The estate'll probably be in probate for years.' Young Mr. Raymond had a soft drawl and a mournfully humorous smile. His bright, heart-shaped face was under a ginger-colored, conservative haircut. Any woman over thirty would have taken him to raise, glad of the chance.
'Who's the estate administrator?' I asked. 'He shouldn't want the property run down.'
'I believe it's Judge Carberry.' He pronounced it 'Cah'bry.' 'If he's not he'll know who is. You could have somethin' there.'
I wrote the name down. 'How about a fieldstone rancher up on University Place and Golden Hill Lane?'
'Belongs to Mr. Craig at the bank. His daddy used to be in the lumber business. So'd Roger Craig, until he had a heart attack a while back. He came into the bank then. I guess his family owned most of it, anyway.'
I decided to skip the remainder of my list for the time being. A judge and a banker. Better still, a banker who had been in the lumber business. If I could crack either one, I was in business in Hudson, Florida. 'You know your real estate,' I told Jed Raymond. 'Anything in the regulations says I can't buy your lunch one of these days?'
'II there is I'll get it amended,' he grinned. He tucked my business card into his shirt pocket. 'I'll keep this, if you don't mind. I might hear of something for you.'
' Thanks. I'm at the Lazy Susan now. If I change, I'll let you know. D'you happen to have a detailed map of the area?'
He reached in a counter drawer and handed me a thickly folded-over packet. 'This one's even got the projected streets in the new development east of town.' He waved me off when I put my hand into my pocket. 'Hope you do y'self some good locally, Mr. Arnold.'
'Chet,' I said.
'Jed,' he returned with another smile.
I went back down the stairs to the street. I always carry two toolkits with me, a large one to work from and a small one for show. I got the small one out of the trunk of the Ford after tucking two double-bitted axes into the loops on either side of the chest.
When a man formerly in the lumber business saw such a kit, I shouldn't have too much trouble getting into his office to talk to him.
V
I walked back up the street to the bank which was now open.
I was twenty-three when I killed my second man.
Funny thing: it was in Ohio, too.
Massillon.
Five of us had taken the bank on the northeast corner of the main intersection, but one of the boys got trigger-happy inside. During the getaway Nig Rosen and Duke Naylor were burned down in the street before we even reached the getaway car. A mile out of town I scratched a deputy in a cruised trying to cut us off. Two days later the rest of us were flushed from a farmhouse. Clem Powers was killed. Barney Pope and I were bagged.
