move the camels out of the way, he wanted to back up. Then he said, “Do they know about the alcohol?”
“Oh yes. They are to hide it, not sell. They know.”
Quinn nodded, kicked the starter, geared into reverse. It was a clanking, hard maneuver without tires on the wheels, and gave a weird motion to the truck. Once the truck hit the highway, it sounded like a tank clattering over the pavement. Quinn stopped with the truck pointed towards town. It had been twenty minutes since the driver had gone under and Quinn was a little bit worried. He propped the man up and then got out of the cab. Behind the house the Arabs and Turk were still arguing.
“Since it might take them a while to figure a way of selling the tires,” said Quinn, “give them this as an extra.”
He handed bills over to Turk which amounted to about one dollar apiece. Then he said that the three men and the camels should go.
Quinn did not watch them leave but sat in the jeep, inside the ruined house, smoking. He said nothing when Turk came and thought, I hope I did that with a sufficient, imperial touch, stalking off that way.
“Quinn,” said Turk and started the motor, “did you like the men I picked?”
“I don’t know yet. We’ll see how they’ll work out with the tires.”
“That was very clever of you, Quinn, and they too thought you are very clever. And generous.” Turk drove out of the building and crossed the highway.
“They’ll make more, if they stick.”
“Yes, but they thought you very generous. They know how much you got for the cans which you sold to Whitfield and that you have no other money.”
Quinn did not care to show that this irritated him and said nothing. When the jeep was on the other side of the road Quinn looked back, worrying about the driver in the pick-up truck. The man sat in the cab as if he were asleep.
“And they want to stick with you,” Turk was saying, “because they believe you will do great things.”
“That’s very devoted of them, I’m sure.”
“They know how little money you have and they are sure your greed will make all of us rich.”
The jeep bumped and leaped and made so much noise on the rough terrain that Turk could not hear how Quinn was cursing.
Chapter 13
Quinn got some of his humor back when he stood on the pier and heard the noise come from the distance. It was a clattering metal noise which nobody could place.
“How come you’re still here?” said Quinn. “Isn’t it siesta time for you?”
Whitfield looked up from his clipboard and said, “I never saw you smoke before. When did you pick up that habit? I’ll be damned, Quinn, if that doesn’t sound like a tank.”
“It does sound like a tank. A sort of tinny tank.”
“Odd,” and Whitfield did checks and crosses on the forms he held.
“How come you’re still here, Whitfield, and not home in bed?”
“I take a bath, for siesta.”
“How could I forget! Yes.”
“Some damn transport is late. Wait till I talk to that man.”
Quinn thought about this and grinned. Then he said “I think the tank is coming this way, by the sound of it.”
“He’s on the cobbles. All along the piers we have cobbles, you know.”
“I’m going around the building,” said Quinn, “to see what the cobbles are doing to the tank.”
“To the driver. Can you imagine that driver?” said Whitfield.
Quinn said no, he could hardly imagine such a thing, and the two men walked from the pier through the warehouse and out on the cobbles.
“Oh, sainted heart!” said Whitfield.
The wheels of the pick-up were still round, but this had no visible effect upon the truck as a whole. Each spring-there were four-worked like a pogo stick, and no pogo stick would have anything to do with any of the other pogo sticks. Inside the cab a man was fighting to keep from flying into the roof. What kept the canisters in back from rocketing away was the thick tarp that had been tied across the bed of the pick-up, and this tarp was ripping through at one end. When the pick-up stopped by the warehouse there was a silence of exhaustion.
“Quinn,” Whitfield said quietly. “We are both seeing the same thing, aren’t we? Say yes.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Quinn, have you ever seen anything like it before? Don’t lie to me, Quinn.”
“I won’t lie. I’ve only seen this once before.”
“Thank you, Quinn. I now need my siesta, but first,” Whitfield cleared his throat, “first I must speak to the sainted driver.”
The sainted driver had not yet come out of the cab. He was sitting behind the wheel, gripping the wheel, as if uncertain that the ride was over.
“You can come out now,” said Whitfield. “You’ve made it.”
The driver did not move.
“You can let go of the wheel,” said Whitfield, “and nothing will happen, really.”
The driver moaned, and then got out of the cab. He moved with care and disbelief. Then he closed the cab door carefully and sat down on the running board. Seen from the top, there was a visible lump on his head.
“Will you look at that,” said Whitfield. “Must have struck his head against the roof for some reason or other. Now then, Ali. I say, Ali?”
The man looked up carefully. This showed a bruise under his chin.
“Must have struck his chin on the wheel, repeatedly,” said Whitfield. “Ali, can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have no tires on these wheels, Ali.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you tell me where they are?”
“They took them.”
“Who?”
“The two who took them.”
Whitfield breathed deeply. Quinn said, “Must have struck his head against the roof repeatedly.”
“Don’t confuse matters, Quinn. Ali?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anything happen that you can explain to me?”
“The camel wouldn’t get out of the way and then he hit me.”
Whitfield nodded. Then he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Naturally,” he said. “It would be a he. A female camel would never beat a man over the head. Now then. Ali.”
“That’s all I know, sir. Everything.”
“Well,” said Whitfield, and slapped the clipboard against his thigh, “it is now clear to me that somebody stole the sainted tires.”
And then he thought of something else and went quickly to the back of the pick-up. He unlashed the tarp, pulled it back, and sighed when he saw the canisters. He reached over and lifted two of them at random and sighed again.
“Thank you, sainted heart,” he said.
“Didn’t touch the cargo, is that it?” said Quinn.
“Thank God.”
“What is it, liquid gold?”
“No, but it’s convertible. Ali, drive that stuff into the warehouse. Do you realize you’re two hours late?”
