'Okay?' Freeman asked as he started the motor.
Johnny thought of Carlo Tanza. This meant the Mafia organization were now hunting for him and they had somehow guessed he was heading south. They had somehow got on to Fuselli. He had a feeling of being in a net. For a moment, the net was above him and around him, but he still had room to manoeuvre.
'Not so good,' he said' and lit a cigarette. 'Don't worry your brains about me. I'll move on tonight.'
Freeman glanced at him, then drove back to the cabin in silence.
When the two men entered the cabin, Freeman said, 'Look Johnny, two heads are better than one. Do you feel like talking or do you still want to handle this on your own?'
For a brief moment, Johnny was tempted to pour out the whole story, then he thought of the danger Freeman could be in. If the Mafia even suspected he had hidden here, they would torture Freeman until he talked, then kill him.
'I'll handle it,' he said. 'You keep out of it.'
'As bad as that?' Freeman looked searchingly at him.
'That's it . . . as bad as that.'
'You'll come out of it, Johnny. There's something about you . . . guts . . . I don't know, but I'll put my money on you.'
'Not too much,' Johnny said and forced a smile. 'I'd hate you to lose it.' He went into his room, shut the door and lay on the bed.
What was he to do? he asked himself. He longed to go south, but if they knew that was where he was heading, wouldn't it be asking for trouble? He considered this. On the face of it, it would be risking a lot, but maybe the risk was worth it. Maybe, after a while, they would decide he hadn't gone south after all and start looking elsewhere. Anyway, wherever he went they would be hunting for him and he wanted so badly to go south.
For an hour or so, he lay there, experiencing a sick feeling of being trapped, then a tap came on the door and Freeman came in.
'I've work to do, Johnny,' he said. 'I won't be back until late. Why not stay on here?'
'No.' Johnny got off the bed. 'It'll work out as you said. I'll be gone by the time you get back. I want to say thanks.' He stared for a long moment at Freeman. 'You may not know it, but I'd be dead by now but for you.'
'I didn't know it was that bad. Those three men . .?' Johnny held out his hand.
'The less you know . . .'
The two men shook hands. There was a pause, then Freeman went away. Through the window, Johnny watched him striding into the jungle, carrying his sack.
So what was he going to do now? He fingered his St. Christopher medal. Why wait until dark? Why not go now? He felt the urge to get out of this suffocating jungle and on to the freeway. He took out his gun, checked it, then slid it back into its holster. Then he picked up his suitcase, looked around the little room, feeling a pang of loneliness to be leaving it, then walked out into the sunshine and started down the jungle path that would eventually bring him to the freeway.
It took him half an hour to get out of the jungle and to the freeway. This long walk made his ankle ache. Once on the freeway, he kept on, limping a little until he was some two miles from Freeman's cabin. Then he paused, leaning against a tree and watched the traffic roar by.
Trucks, cars and cars pulling caravans roared by him. He decided to start walking again. By now his ankle was throbbing and he wondered, with a feeling of alarm, if he had been too confident about his injury. He stopped in the shade and as he was about to sit on the grass to rest an open truck came to a stop some twenty yards from him.
Grabbing up his suitcase, he limped up to the truck. The driver had got out and had the hood up. He was staring at the engine.
As Johnny approached the man, he looked hard at him: tall, lean, around twenty-seven years of age with long nut-brown hair, wearing dirty overalls, and to Johnny, harmless enough.
'You in trouble?' Johnny asked as he reached the truck.
The man looked up.
An odd face, Johnny thought. Thin, narrow eyes, a small mouth, a thin nose and a sour expression which Johnny had often seen: a defeated face.
'Never out of it. I live in trouble. Just a goddamn plug.' He stood away from the truck and lit a cigarette. 'Got to let her cool off. You looking for a ride?'
Johnny set down his suitcase.
'Yeah. Where are you heading?'
'Little Creek. That's my home. This side of New Symara.'
'I pay my way,' Johnny said.
The man looked sharply at him, eyeing Johnny's new khaki drill, his new bush hat.
'Is that right?'
'Ten dollars.' Johnny knew when a man needed money. He had seen that expression over and over again.
'Sure friend, I'll take you. Ten dollars, huh?'
Johnny felt in his pocket and produced a ten dollar bill.
'Let's pay in advance, then we can forget it.' Lean, long fingers took the bill.
