Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6, June 1992

Leo by Ron Abell

In the first place I wasn’t on an interstate, in the second place I didn’t have much of an idea where I was to begin with, and in the third place I didn’t even have a car in the first place. I was hitchhiking. All in all, not one of my better days. Or months. I’d just spent thirty days in alimony jail in Colorado, thanks to a vindictive ex-wife and a hang-’em-high judge. He’d actually sentenced me to six months, which I thought was excessive, but prison space being at a premium these days, I got out in one. Big deal. I was still broke and trying to get to San Diego, where I had the promise of a job in a restaurant. They said I’d be head chef if things worked out, but in the meantime they were going to start me at a salary they could get away with paying in a place where the work force du jour was mostly illegal immigrants. But that’s the way it was. Like I’d told the judge in Colorado, things were tough all over.

So there I was that morning, just me and my backpack on the side of the road in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona. I’d shivered my way through a cold night before up in the mountains, and when I finally got down to a lower altitude, a drunk in a rickety flatbed picked me up outside of Cortez. He muttered nonstop about his dog, or his wife who hated his dog, or his dog who hated his wife, I couldn’t tell which, and after one too many four-wheel drifts that shaved highway death by a whisker, I told him I wanted out.

Which left me in no-wheresville, all by myself in the flatlands looking at a long stretch of empty two-lane blacktop. By then the sun was up and the day was turning into a scorcher. My wind-breaker, which hadn’t been much of an asset the night before when I’d needed it, was turning into a downright liability now that I didn’t. I peeled it off, stuffed it in my backpack, and stood there waiting for traffic so I could stick my thumb out.

Which took a while. I was soaking with sweat and halfway to a heat stroke by the time a car finally stopped. It was a black Lincoln with two men in it, the driver being a hard-looking guy who rolled his window down and asked, “Can you drive?”

“Like Burt Reynolds,” I said.

He jerked his chin. “Get in.”

He climbed over the front seat and plopped himself down in back. It struck me as a rough way to treat the upholstery, but it wasn’t any of my business so I just got in behind the steering wheel. The second man, who was sitting on the passenger side in front, said, “Man, you’re big enough to eat hay.”

I let it go. I wasn’t exactly in love with the company I’d found but what the hell, a ride was a ride. I put my backpack in the well at the passenger’s feet, slid the gearshift into Drive, and pulled onto the highway.

“Wake me in Flagstaff,” the guy in back said. Meanwhile the guy in front picked up my backpack and squeezed it, feeling to see what was inside. It annoyed me, but it didn’t seem worth making an issue over, and anyway he quit in a minute. He dropped the pack at his feet, leaned his head against the seat cushion, and closed his eyes. In no time him and his partner in the back seat were both sawing wood.

The Lincoln’s air conditioning was a relief after the scorcher outside, but my problem was that I was dog-tired myself. With the empty road ahead of me shimmering in heat mirages and with those two guys inside the car snoring, I had to fight to keep my eyelids open. The scenery outside didn’t help a bit, since it was the next thing to total desolation.

When the guy next to me shifted position in his sleep, it pulled his shirt loose and did nothing at all to cheer me up when I saw he had a pistol tucked in his belt. Why, I didn’t know and had no interest in finding out. But it was a .22 automatic, one of those little belly guns, which made it a coincidence because I happened to be carrying one like it myself. Except I kept mine inside my boot and had no plans on using it. Him, who knew?

It was the gun that decided me to part company with those guys. I hadn’t liked their looks to begin with, and suddenly I was liking them a lot less. I came to a speed sign that said forty-five and then one that said thirty-five and then the highway widened into the main street of a little town. It was one of those sandy, sunbaked places you wouldn’t remember five minutes after you’d been there. I pulled the Lincoln over in front of a cafe, and the two guys came awake.

“The hell you stoppin’ for?”

“As far as I go, gents,” I said. “Thanks for the hop.”

As soon as I stepped outside, the blast furnace smacked me. I thought a jolt of caffeine might jump start me back to life, so I went into the cafe. It was a vinyl and Formica joint with a few booths, half a dozen counter stools, and a ceiling fan that was spinning its blades around without doing any noticeable good. I took a stool at the counter and saw on the menu that the place was called Sid’s Hollywood Deli. On the walls there were blowup photos of movie stars.

I was all alone there, but in a minute a waitress came out of the kitchen. She was a strawberry blonde with a lot of voltage in her grin. “Cook’s gone for a few minutes, darlin’,” she said. “Coffee?”

“You’re a mind reader.”

She was lanky and maybe thirty-five, with a redhead’s complexion that didn’t belong in that climate. The badge pinned to her uniform said her name was Jody. She poured me a cup and then, my luck, the two guys from the black Lincoln walked inside, took a booth, and grabbed a couple of menus.

“The hell they doin’ with lox in a place like this?” the guy who’d been asleep in the back seat said.

His partner, the one with the pistol tucked under his shirt, said, “That’s easy. The joint’s called Sid’s.” He told Jody, the waitress, that he wanted the lox, eggs, and onions.

“Hamburger,” the other guy said. “And a beer.”

Jody laughed. “Don’t I wish. Soft drinks only, fellas. Food’ll be a couple of minutes. Sid’s stepped out.”

That was when I left. Those two guys gave me the creeps, and besides, the coffee wasn’t helping me any. The only thing I was a candidate for was some serious sleep. I was hoping for a park bench and a shade tree, but if there was anything green growing in that town, I sure never saw it. I did come across a motel that looked like my kind of place, though. Cheap. The vacancy sign wasn’t lit, but it would have been redundant because there wasn’t a car on the premises. The units were built in a U, and in the middle, where there should have been a swimming pool, there was just asphalt. Hot asphalt.

I walked into the motel office, where a woman at the desk glared at me with what looked like genetic mistrust of the human race. I signed in with my name, Leo Hinshaw, and left the other spaces blank. She didn’t approve. She tapped the registration form with her finger and said, “You need an address.”

“You can say that again.” I wrote down Denver and made up a street number. It beat arguing. She took sixteen bucks and tax before she let me have a room key, meanwhile doing a good job of hiding any enthusiasm she had at having me for a guest. “And it’s a pleasure doing business with you, too,” I said.

The motel room was an oven when I walked in, a hundred and twenty degrees easy. It really wasn’t my day. I switched on the air conditioner, took off my boots, and put my gun, my watch, and my wallet on the nightstand next to the bed. A shave and shower would have felt terrific, but first things first. I needed sleep a lot more. I didn’t even bother turning the bedspread back. I just peeled off my shirt and my Levi’s and collapsed. When I closed my eyes, I saw the highway coming at me, the way it does when you’re on the road, but that lasted all of about two seconds before I went out like a stroke victim.

It was cooler in the room when I woke up but not actually down into the comfort zone, so I knew I couldn’t have been asleep very long. An hour, maybe. What woke me up was hearing somebody moving around the room. I sat up squinting and reaching for my gun, but a voice said, “Don’t.”

I didn’t. There was enough light for me to see the muzzle of what looked like a cannon. The gentleman pointing it at me was wearing a police uniform.

“Leo Hinshaw?”

“That’s me,” I said. “Next time I’ll use the deadbolt.”

“Won’t be a next time.” He was a rangy-looking man with a Wyatt Earp mustache and a set of shoulders. “You’re under arrest for suspicion of murder,” he said, and his voice was tight with anger. He gave me my rights, including the one about a lawyer, and said, “You want a lawyer?”

“No, thanks. My last one got me six months.”

“Let’s do this by the book,” he said. “Ease up and take the position now. Move real slow, or you’re going to grow another belly button where you don’t need one.”

I moved slow. The police special in his hand was a good motivator. He put me against the wall, feet back and legs spread and all my weight on my arms. By swiveling my head, I could just see him out of the corner of my eyes. He was riffling through my wallet with his free hand.

“You got a permit for that weapon?”

“You see one in there?”

“You must think this is some kind of metropolis,” he said. “You walk down Main Street with a pack on your back, a guy your size? And don’t expect anyone to notice you? I’ve got at least three witnesses’ll place you over to Sid’s. There’s eighty-some dollars in here.”

“There better be. It’s all the money I’ve got. I was at Sid’s. Ask the waitress if you want. She’s a redhead named Jody.”

“You shut your mouth. Everybody loved Jody. Two kids, she’s got. Had. They don’t even know their mama’s dead yet.”

That shook me up. Hell, I’m human. She was so full of life. One minute you’re pouring coffee at work and the next minute, boom, you don’t exist any more? No fair. Life’s so cheap these days it’s like a dirty joke. I told the cop as carefully as I could, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the woman, and I’m sorry for her kids. But I haven’t been in town two hours, and most of that time I’ve been right here sleeping.”

“The guys they turn loose,” he said. “For a lousy sixty dollars out of the till. Sixty lousy bucks. Is this gun loaded?”

“There’s a round missing.”

“Big surprise. She was killed with a small-caliber weapon. One shot.”

“I’ve been hitching. I got bored yesterday. I plinked at a fence post.”

“You shut up. I don’t have to listen to you.” Still with his free hand, he rumpled up my shirt and threw it at me. Then he did the same with my Levi’s. It seemed to be a day for people feeling up my clothes.

“You can’t bust me just for being a stranger in town,” I said.

“There’s some people outside,” he answered. “I recommend ignoring them. You’re gonna walk from here straight to the back seat of my unit. We’ll move out brisk.”

“I’m heading for San Diego,” I said while I got dressed. “I’ve got a job at a restaurant promised there. It’s not much of a job, but then again I’m not much of a cook. Maybe you’ve heard times are tough. I left Denver with a hundred and ten bucks and I’ve got eighty left. That’s why I’m riding my thumb. I can’t afford the friendly skies. The gun’s for protection on the road. Maybe I’m dumb to be carrying it without a license. Probably I am. But I figure I’d be a lot dumber not to carry it.”

He tossed my boots over. “Wrong. The dumb thing was using it. Jody named you.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you can zip it up, mister. She said Leo did it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That sure breaks my heart.” He cuffed my hands behind my back. “You were alone with her at Sid’s. That pea-shooter doesn’t make much noise, so nobody outside heard it. Only thing was, Jody was still alive when Sid got back. She told him Leo did it. Period, end of story. Move it out now.”

“Run a ballistics check. You’re wrong.”

“I said move it.” He gave me a shove, so I moved it. Outside, the heat walloped me. On the hot asphalt of the parking lot a crowd was assembled, ten or fifteen people including the crone from the motel office. The cop ushered me through, but before he was able to get me into the back seat of his patrol car, I felt a rock hit me on the shoulder. The cop slammed the door on me and turned to the crowd.

“Knock it off,” he said. “You people disperse.”

Fat chance. He fished something out of the front seat and went back towards the motel room. When he did, the crowd surged and started rocking the car. Since I was cuffed and locked in behind a metal grille, there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I was only glad the car had heavy-duty shocks; otherwise they would have rolled me over in no time. As it was, they had momentum, and another tip or two would have done it. But then the cop came back.

He was carrying a plastic bag with my .22 in it. That’s what he’d gone back to the motel room for. Evidence. He climbed in behind the wheel of the car and drove out of the parking lot, honking the horn to get through the crowd. I heard gravel hitting the roof of the car when we pulled away.

“You’ve got a real bunch of sweethearts in this town,” I said.

“Yeah? Be glad I didn’t feed you to ’em. I told you Jody was well liked.”

“Then why don’t you find who killed her,” I said. Except he thought he already had his man. I was a transient, I was broke, I was just out of jail, I had a gun that matched the murder weapon, and I’d been at the scene. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to make a case out of that. “Where are we going?” I asked him, because he drove right through the main street of town to where it turned into highway again.

“County seat,” he said.

And then I got it. Bingo. I couldn’t catch his eyes in the rear view mirror because of the screen separating us, so I had to make my pitch to the back of his head. Which I did. I told him about the two guys in the black Lincoln and that at least one of them was carrying a .22. I told him they’d been in Sid’s the same time I was. I gave him a description of the two men and told him they were heading for Flagstaff. “You got a radio in this rig? Put out a call.”

“A bushy-haired stranger did it,” he said. “That’s the oldest one in the book.”

“You moron,” I said, “you’re losing time. I told you my gun won’t match. Did you ever work in a deli? I worked in plenty. And you know what cooks call the breakfast that guy ordered? A Leo. A lox, eggs, and onions. An L-E-O. That’s who Jody said shot her. Not me. The guy who ordered the Leo. She was talking to Sid, wasn’t she? He understands deli shorthand. Ask him.”

That got through to the cop, even though I could tell it galled him to lose his number one suspect. He stabbed his gas pedal, turned on his flashers, and radioed ahead to the county seat. After that it still took the rest of the day to prove me right. But the state police picked the two guys up outside of Kingman, and when they ran a records check, it turned out they had rap sheets like phone books. Bailing out on those heavies was the smartest thing I did on that trip.

Actually, it was the only smart thing I did on that trip. Because nothing else came out right at all. The people in that nowhere town just couldn’t find it in their hearts to take a liking to me. Even after I did my civic duty and testified at the grand jury, they still gave me ninety days in the slam for illegal possession of a firearm. And believe me, ninety was the coolest the temperature ever got during that stretch of time, even at night. On top of that, the eighty bucks I had? They fined me fifty of it for falsifying the motel registration. Try getting to San Diego on what that left me, even if the job was still open. Forget it. Like I said, it wasn’t one of my better days.