you very much, Rube said swiftly. "Won't keep you any longer, sorry to've troubled you, and he pressed the button to break the connection. Then released it, dialed information, got the area code for Vermont, and dialed long-distance information. "I am sorry, we have no listing for a John McNaughton. As though he could be seen, and as though he'd expected this, Rube nodded, took down the Manhattan phone book, and began leafing through the H's for Hertz Rent a Car.
CHAPTER 4
JUST PAST NINE O'CLOCK NEXT MORNING, he turned off the throughway onto an asphalt-paved county road. Ten more miles, then off onto a narrower, winding, weed-bordered road, once paved but potholed now, chunks of asphalt missing. The final eleven miles took over half an hour. Out of a last slow curve, and the road turned into concrete-paved Main Street, Winfield, Vermont.
Rube drove slowly through a block, head ducked to stare ahead through the windshield, then swung into an angled parking space. He got out, feeling in his pocket for meter change, but every meter flag in the block showed red, no other car parked; and on ahead for three blocks, only two cars, both pickups. Hell with it, he thought, probably don't even bother collecting anymore.
On the sidewalk he stood glancing both ways. Nothing moved in the entire five-block length of Main Street, no one in sight. The walk lay silent in the morning sun, his foreshortened shadow slanted toward the curb; he turned to walk on, hearing no sound but his own footsteps.
In the block ahead, a man in blue jeans, dark plaid shirt, and a yellow good-old-boy visored cap walked out from a storefront, and on across the walk. He was young, big, wore a thick Zapata mustache, was heavy and big-bellied. He climbed up into a red pickup with enormous tires, and when he slammed his door the tinny crash bounced between the storefront walls, the only sound in the street till he started his engine and drove off.
Rube walked on past a men's clothing store, one of its two display windows paved with work shoes, cowboy and pull-on boots. Past two bars into w'hich he could not see. Past storefronts boarded over with plywood sheets so weathered the outer layers were separating in narrow swollen bulges. Most of the buildings he passed were two stories, a few three. Some of the upper windows were labeled: a doctor, a lawyer, a chiropractor. Rounded bay windows hung out over the walk at some corners, their separate roofs steeply conical. He glanced down the side streets as he crossed them: houses, wooden and old. Many had porches elaborately ornamented at the eaves, but the ornamentation was often broken, pieces missing. None of the houses had been painted in a long time, and a few were covered over with green asphalt shingling. The front windows of one were curtained with a gray blanket and a sun-faded quilt. The lawns were gone, only chopped-down weeds and winter mud marks, often tracked by car wheels. Cars stood on a few of these former lawns, others on dirt or cinder driveways. All were old, big, American. All sun-faded, dented, some listing. A new high-wheeled pickup stood parked in the street, one set of wheels up over the curb.
On past a little stucco movie theater, its shallow poster-display cases empty, the glass broken, its marquee letters reading, Closed. At a corner, a sin all grocery store, door open. Just inside, a low showcase crowded with bottles: dozens of brands of whiskey, gin, vodka, brandy. All were half-pints, and the sliding glass doors of the case were padlocked. Rube walked in, nodding at the middle- aged clerk. "Do you have a city directory?
The man shook his head, eves amused. "Isn't any.
"Is there a city hall?
"Nope. No more. No city anvmo re, friend. We're just county now. Who you lookin' for?
"John McNaughton.
The man shook his head. "Nope.
Out on the street corner, Rube stood glancing aro)und again. Just ahead the street divided to angle right and left around a little square slightly higher than
CHAPTER 4
JUST PAST NINE O'CLOCK NEXT MORNING, he turned off the throughway onto an asphalt-paved county road. Ten more miles, then off onto a narrower, winding, weed-bordered road, once paved but potholed now, chunks of asphalt missing. The final eleven miles took over half an hour. Out of a last slow curve, and the road turned into concrete-paved Main Street, Winfield, Vermont.
Rube drove slowly through a block, head ducked to stare ahead through the windshield, then swung into an angled parking space. He got out, feeling in his pocket for meter change, but every meter flag in the block showed red, no other car parked; and on ahead for three blocks, only two cars, both pickups. Hell with it, he thought, probably don't even bother collecting anymore.
On the sidewalk he stood glancing both ways. Nothing moved in the entire five-block length of Main Street, no one in sight. The walk lay silent in the morning sun, his foreshortened shadow slanted toward the curb; he turned to walk on, hearing no sound but his own footsteps.
In the block ahead, a man in blue jeans, dark plaid shirt, and a yellow good-old-boy visored cap walked out from a storefront, and on across the walk. He was young, big, wore a thick Zapata mustache, was heavy and big-bellied. He climbed up into a red pickup with enormous tires, and when he slammed his door the tinny crash bounced between the storefront walls, the only sound in the street till he started his engine and drove off.
Rube walked on past a men's clothing store, one of its two display windows paved with work shoes, cowboy and pull-on boots. Past two bars into w'hich he could not see. Past storefronts boarded over with plywood sheets so weathered the outer layers were separating in narrow swollen bulges. Most of the buildings he passed were two stories, a few three. Some of the upper windows were labeled: a doctor, a lawyer, a chiropractor. Rounded bay windows hung out over the walk at some corners, their separate roofs steeply conical. He glanced down the side streets as he crossed them: houses, wooden and old. Many had porches elaborately ornamented at the eaves, but the ornamentation was often broken, pieces missing. None of the houses had been painted in a long time, and a few were covered over with green asphalt shingling. The front windows of one were curtained with a gray blanket and a sun-faded quilt. The lawns were gone, only chopped-down weeds and winter mud marks, often tracked by car wheels. Cars stood on a few of these former lawns, others on dirt or cinder driveways. All were old, big, American. All sun-faded, dented, some listing. A new high-wheeled pickup stood parked in the street, one set of wheels up over the curb.
On past a little stucco movie theater, its shallow poster-display cases empty, the glass broken, its marquee letters reading, Closed. At a corner, a sin all grocery store, door open. Just inside, a low showcase crowded with bottles: dozens of brands of whiskey, gin, vodka, brandy. All were half-pints, and the sliding glass doors of the case were padlocked. Rube walked in, nodding at the middle- aged clerk. "Do you have a city directory?
The man shook his head, eves amused. "Isn't any.
"Is there a city hall?
"Nope. No more. No city anvmo re, friend. We're just county now. Who you lookin' for?
"John McNaughton.
The man shook his head. "Nope.
Out on the street corner, Rube stood glancing aro)und again. Just ahead the street divided to angle right and left around a little square slightly higher than
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