The Woman Who Fled

There was a woman who fled to the money. It was in all the papers, you see.

“Cheese Danish, please.”

“Sure thing. Coffee?”

“That’d be great. Black. Thanks.”

The glass counter sliders opposite her slammed shut and she gave a start. Pulling a compact from her purse, she peered at her lips, picking off the fleck of cigarette paper she found. I look like shit. She tucked the compact away, controlling her breathing tightly. Reaching over the glass case, she took her Danish and coffee, paid, smiling, and left the deli.

Out in the searchlight sunshine she clipped nervously over the cracked sidewalk, pausing twice to turn toward a shop window, her eyes casting back over her path, trying to see if anyone was following. She stood for what seemed an hour inspecting the new model radios before moving on to a window full of enameled baking pans.

She thought about making a stop at Jack Bedford’s place, but it seemed far too risky. Stopping to get her breath at an intersection, she fished the stub of a parking lot marker out of her bag and double checked the address. It was just ahead. One more block.

Approaching the attendant’s booth, she stopped again to settle her breathing into a normal sounding rhythm, turned toward the street and tried her voice. “The lawn will need cutting before the weekend,” she said aloud. It was inane, but she knew her voice worked.

Handing her ticket over, she waited while the man found the key to her Ford V8 and pointed over her shoulder to the spot where it was parked. Christ, just a few more minutes.

Making love at the hotel the night before, she had felt safe for the first time in months on the run. They had dared to make some plans: get clear of the mess, let things settle down, maybe a trip back to Havana for awhile. She had given herself to Edward more completely, almost falling off the bed to the floor—they had laughed, she remembered. A free laughter.

In the morning she went down to the desk for toothbrushes, came back and found him, throat slit open in a way that made her cry out now, remembering. She remembered how strange it was; the smell of so much blood, filling the air so quickly. She felt the rise of nausea all over again.

She had followed her gut.

Run.

Getting into the car quickly, she made sure both doors were locked. She took a sip of the cooling coffee, flipped open the glove box door and settled the cup and danish on the ledge. She didn’t want food, really, but felt faint and needed something sweet to carry her.

He had tucked the little black notebook under the front edge of the backseat by the floorboard, wrapped in stuffing he’d pulled out and wedged against the springs, and she hoped it was still there. Looking in the review mirror, she saw the suitcase and caught sight of the sticker for Hotel Rialto, Havana, and winced. She pulled the cellophane from a pack and pulled out a cigarette, her hands shaking so that she had to use both to steady the flame of the match.

She may have driven an hour west, maybe five; her mind was racing too fast to know thought she’d been watching for signs of getting out of Illinois. She found an A&P, bought nylons, a carton of Chesterfields and a ready made sandwich. In the parking lot, she looked around for anyone who might be watching, reached her hand under the backseat and after three tries, tugged it free. There was the book, still in the cotton batting. She mashed the seat back into place, got into the driver’s seat and locked the door. Three blocks further on she refilled the tank at a Conoco. She took a deep breath, straightened herself up, and kept driving.

Reno. Or how far is it to Colorado Springs?

She didn’t know a soul there and no one knew her. Reno would be crawling with the types she was trying to avoid. Wyoming was too remote. She would need to contact the buyer for the book, and that would take a little time. She could just turn it over to the feds, but she and Edward had agreed it would be better to try and cash in, take the money, and disappear.

The land flattened until it was like sheet metal, with nothing but cornfields around her, making her feel safe and watched at the same time. She figured she must be somewhere near Kansas City by now, and at the next tiny roadside motel she pulled out the map again, using hashmarks she made on the back of an envelope to measure out the distance. She figured it was just shy of six hundred miles. She got back on the road and kept going, passing around Kansas City and getting beyond it before scouting out another mom and pop overnight as the late summer settled in. This one had cabins with a hotplate and a communal shower. She booked a cabin, $2.25, and an extra twenty cents for a couple of eggs and some instant coffee for the morning. The sandwich was long gone, and she lamented having no gin.

The motel owner brought in her suitcase and left. She peeled off the Havana sticker and threw it away. Back outside, it was plenty dark, and she popped up the backseat again, retrieving the notebook.

Inside the cabin, she stripped out of her dress and gratefully shed everything but her underwear. The room was too warm and she was too tired and her stomach was in knots but she flipped through the book.

There were entries tracing the sale of enormous amounts of corn sugar, the necessary ingredient in making bootleg whisky. Trace who was buying a lot of sugar and you knew who was making the booze. The back pages, separated from the sugar records, named all the locations of all the stills in three cities, with the names of the cooperative distillers and their contacts. It would keep the revenue men busy for moths, and round up half the hooch makers in the country. She figured it was worth a lot of money to someone. Edward said $20,000 at least. There had been a solid offer for twice that much from someone who just wanted it back, and that’s where she was going to try to hock it. She snapped the book closed and wrapped it with the black band, shoved it under the mattress and lit a cigarette. She didn’t remember putting it out.

The next morning, she lit the hotplate and boiled the eggs, used the hot water to make coffee and got dressed. Taking a look around, she went out to the Ford, sat the suitcase on the ground and turned the key in the door lock, opened it and stashed the case inside on the backseat.

“You’re too easy to find.”

She felt the ends of her fingers go numb and saw them whiten. She caught her breath and turned to look at the man in the dark pants, wide tie and zipped up tan jacket at the opposite rear fender. He was hatless, and the bits of remaining hair circled his head as though smoothed down with fried chicken fingers.

“Do I know you?” she asked, reaching for the cup of coffee she’d perched on the roof of the car. She took a sip, forced her hand to steady. It was still plenty hot.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man said. “I’m gonna need that little book of yours.” He started to come around the car. He had a snubbed revolver in his hand. She waited until he got close enough to make a lunge for her, and threw the hot liquid in his face. He sputtered and shouted a goddammit, stumbling backward. She opened the car door, got in and jammed the key into the slot. The engine roared alive and she gunned it backward, knocking the blinded man down. Grinding into first gear, she felt the man’s legs under her tires, first the fronts, then the backs, before she sped off, gunshots behind her. She looked into the mirror and saw him firing into the air, screaming.

Reno, she thought. Then maybe turn for Mexico. I have time.

The little black notebook everyone wanted was under the backseat. She stashed it there before it got light, slipping out in her bra and underwear, the gravel stinging her bare feet.

She fled to the money—it was in all the papers, you see.