element was there because he needed the money. But why should Ferd Zogbaum be hard up for money? He was a single fellow and eligible for his NIT. He could go all year without selling any of his pieces and never be really up against it, particularly since mobile town life was comparatively cheap and Mexico, in particular, considerably less expensive than the States. NIT, these days, was enough that anyone could live-it-up in Mexico or some of the other Latin American countries to the south. And more and more people were discovering the fact every day as witness the exodus of mobile towns and cities southward.
Al Castro’s home was approximately the size of Bat’s own but since he lived with his well-larded wife, Pamela, the space was really less than he could have wished for. The place was lighted up but the curtains drawn. Bat rang the bell.
Al came, yawning as ever, and opened up.
“Hi, Bat, what’s on? Jesus, it’s been a hot day. I hate heat. Come on in. Have a drink. Me and the old lady’s having a gin and a mixer they call Del Valle down here, based on grapefruit juice. Makes something like a Tom Collins.”
Bat followed him into the mobile home.
Pamela Castro was sitting at the small dining-room table, a tall frosted glass there and a wilted look about her. She was an objectionably fat woman and Bat had never particularly got along with her. She couldn’t see any reason for her husband donating his time as Bat’s deputy when he received no compensation. Theoretically she was a water colorist but in actuality she spent precious little time working at it.
Bat exchanged the usual amenities and turned back to Al Castro wondering all over again how any man could bear having a wife who outweighed him almost two to one and was a couple of inches taller to boot. Well, his wife was one of the few things that Al Castro never seemed to complain about, so evidently she suited him.
Bat said, “No thanks. I just had a drink and got knocked for a loop.”
“They got strong liquor down here, all right,” Al nodded. “But it tastes like turpentine. Take the tobacco stain right off your teeth. I’ll stick to Stateside grog.”
“It wasn’t the liquor,” Bat said wryly. “It was the bartender. He slugged me with a kid-sized baseball bat.”
Al Castro goggled him. “What’re you talking about?”
Bat told him what had happened and then, “I’m heading over to see Armanruder but whatever he says I think we’d better post a guard tonight. Why don’t you round up a couple of the emergency deputies, say Jake Benton’s boy, Tom, and Luke Robertson? We’ll share watches, four hours on, four hours off.”
“Heavens to Betsy,” Pamela complained in a half whine. “Is this getting to be an all day, all night thing? What do you get out of it, up and down all night? You’ll be too tired to drive tomorrow.”
Al said placatingly, “It’s an emergency, honey. You know how seldom we have to guard the town at night.”
“That was up in the States,” she grumbled. “I bet from now on you’ll be doing it every night, with these spies and all.”
Al didn’t answer that. He turned back to Bat. “Okay, I’ll run over and get Tom and Luke. You want we should carry shooters?”
“Good grief, no,” Bat told him. “That’s all we’d need, is to shoot one of these jokers. We’re not even in our own country. They’d stick you in the slammer until you rotted.”
“Well, suppose somebody takes a shot at me, first?”
Bat made a gesture of resignation with his hands. “In that case, what can you do? Make a beeline for home and get your own gun, but, oh man, tread carefully. For some reason or other, these people are already down on us. Damn if I can figure out why.” He turned to go, saying goodbye over his shoulder to the disgruntled Pamela Castro. She muttered a reply.
Bat made his way across the center area to where Dean Armanruder was set up, not far from the mobile administrative building. The senior member of the executive committee this week had by far the most luxurious mobile home in New Woodstock. His three-section establishment was a far cry from the little trailer homes of the 1930s. Six vehicles in all were involved; three mobile homes which folded quite compactly while underway and three heavy electro-steamers which drew them. Two of the homes were joined, on setting up, to make the quarters which Dean Armanruder and his secretary occupied, and the third home, considerably the smallest, was parked nearby for Manuel Chauvez and his wife, the only two servants in New Woodstock.
Bat Hardin was on friendly enough terms with the retired corporation manager but found no real warmth in the man. In theory, Dean Armanruder dabbled in painting, but in actuality such real professionals as Diana Sward had to repress their shudders if they were unlucky enough to see his latest product.
Armanruder was a phenomenon that has been known to the art colony down through the ages, the outsider who loves to associate with Bohemians#longdash#whatever a Bohemian is, Bat thought sourly.
But then again, who was he to talk? He himself, no artist, had come to New Woodstock to enjoy the Bohemian atmosphere and to associate with artists such as Diana Sward and Jim Blake, and aspiring writers such as Ferd Zogbaum. The only difference between him and Dean Armanruder was that he, Bat Hardin, lived on his Negative Income Tax, while Armanruder probably had to pay enough taxes to support a round number of such as Bat Hardin.
The Armanruder home was one of the few in New Woodstock that boasted an identity screen in the door. Bat activated it and stood there waiting for the door to open.
It did and Armanruder’s voice came through the screen at the same moment. “Come in, Hardin. Good evening. We’re in the salon.”
“Good evening,” Bat said and entered and made his way down the short corridor to where Dean Armanruder and his secretary, Nadine Paskov, were relaxing before the Tri-Di screen which was built into the end wall of the room, taking up most of it. It was the largest screen in New Woodstock and inwardly Bat Hardin was of the opinion that it was
When set up, the mobile mansion had a second floor which telescoped down into the bottom one when underway. The top floor was devoted to sleeping quarters, dressing rooms, closets and baths. Bat had never seen it. The ground floor was living quarters, library, dining room, a surprisingly extensive kitchen for a mobile home, storage space, a large office and a smaller one for Miss Paskov. Nadine Paskov was really a secretary though some snide elements in the colony preferred to doubt that. She also obviously doubled as Dean Armanruder’s mistress, and slept around with just about anybody else in New Woodstock who wore pants. She was possibly the most beautiful woman in town, unless Diana Sward held that honor. The difference between Di and Nadine was largely grooming; the latter’s every pore was in place and the former always looked like a slob so far as makeup and dress were concerned. However, for his money Bat Hardin would take the artist any day.
Dean Armanruder touched a control on the arm of his overgrown chair and the lights went up sufficiently for them to see each other with more ease.
“Sit down, Hardin,” he said. “Could I have Manuel bring you a drink?” He touched another control.
That was the Armanruder style. No automatic bar for him nor even an old-fashioned one which he would have to operate himself. Of course not. When he wanted a drink he didn’t stir from his chair, even though the beverage in question was only a half-dozen steps away. No, he summoned Manuel who was seemingly on duty twenty-four hours a day and could really rest only when his boss was asleep.
Cool it, cool it, Bat told himself. What business of his was it? Armanruder had earned his comforts. You didn’t become manager of a corporation these days because your father owned most of the stock. The wealthy might inherit a concern but few were foolish enough to attempt to operate it themselves. If they did there was a good chance of disaster. You won to the top these days through merit. Armanruder obviously had plenty of it, the type of merit that counted in their ultra-competitive society.
Bat took a chair but said, “No thanks. I’m going to be up half the night and a drink would probably make me that much more groggy.” He nodded to Nadine Paskov, ever the beauty queen, who this evening wore one of the new Cretan Revival gowns, the breasts bared, the nipples painted, red. She looked as though bored by his arrival. He said, “Good evening, Miss Paskov.”
“Hi Bat,” she said, disinterestedly. She finished the drink in her highball glass.
Manuel entered but for the moment Dean Armanruder ignored him. The small, dark-complexioned servant wore a white jacket now. During the day, while driving one of the Armanruder units, he wore a dark suit and a
