The Getaway

14

The tiny area where El Rey is uncrowned king appears on no maps and, for very practical reasons, it has no official existence. This has led to the rumor that the place actually does not exist, that it is only an illusory haven conjured up in the minds of the wicked. And since no one with a good reputation for truth and veracity has ever returned from it

Well, you see?

But it is there, all right.

Lying in a small coastal group of mountains, it suffers from sudden and drastic changes in climate. It is almost impossible to dress for it, the barely adequate clothes of one hour become a sweltering burden the next. And somehow, doubtless as an outgrowth of these climatic phenomena, one is always a little thirsty. Still, many tropical and semitropical climates have these same disadvantages, and worse. And there is this to be said for El Rey's kingdom: it is healthy. Disease is almost unknown. Even such man-created maladies as malnutrition and starvation are minus much of their normal potency, and a man may be almost consumed by them before he succumbs to them.

It is an excellent place in many ways. Healthy. Possessed of a climate to suit every taste. Protected by the largest per capita police force in the world. Yet there is constant grumbling among its expatriate guests. One of the commonest causes of complaint, strangely, is that all accommodations-everything one must buy-are strictly first class.

Not that they are exorbitantly priced, understand. On the contrary. A four-bathroom villa, which might cost several thousand a month in some French Riviera resort, will rent for no more than a few hundred. But you can get nothing for less than that. You must pay that few hundred. It is the same with food and drink, nothing but the very best; with clothes, cosmetics, tobacco, and a hundred other things. All quite reasonably priced for what they are, but still worrisomely expensive to people who have just so much money and can get no more.

El Rey manifests great concern over these complaints, but there is a sardonic twinkle in his ageless old eyes. Naturally, he provides only the best for his guests. Isn't it what they always wanted elsewhere? Didn't they insist on having it, regardless of cost? Well, then! He goes on to point out that less exquisite accommodations and material goods would encourage an undesirable type of immigrant; persons his present guests would not care to be identified with. For if they did, they obviously would not be what they were nor be where they were.

Watching their assets trickle, nay, pour away on every side, people scheme and struggle feverishly to economize. They cut down on food, they do without drink, they wear their clothes threadbare. And the result is that they are just as much out of pocket as if they had bought what they did without.

Which brings us to the subject of El Rey's bank, another cause for bitter complaint.

The bank makes no loans, of course. Who would it make them to? So the only available source of revenue is interest, paid by the depositor rather than to him. On balances of one hundred thousand dollars or more, the rate is six percent; but on lesser sums it rises sharply, reaching a murderous twenty-five percent on amounts of fifty thousand and under. Briefly, it is almost imperative that a patron keep his account at or above the one hundred thousand figure. But he may not do this by a program of skimping and doing without. When one's monthly withdrawals fall under an arbitrary total-the approximate amount which it should cost him to live at the prevailing first-class scale-he becomes subject to certain "inactive account" charges. And these, added to his withdrawals, invariably equal that total.

This is just about as it has to be, of course. El Rey must maintain an elaborately stocked commissary; and he can only do so on a fixed-patronage basis. Such is the rule in almost every first-class resort. A certain tariff is collected from every guest, and whether he uses what he pays for is strictly up to him.

To strike another analogy: no one is compelled to deposit his money in El Rey's bank. But the resort management, specifically the police, will assume no responsibility if it is stolen-as it is very likely to be. There is good reason to believe that the police themselves do the stealing from nondepositors. But there is no way of proving it, and certainly nothing to be done about it.

So the complaints go on. El Rey is unfair. You can't win against him. ("You would argue fairness with me, senor? But why should you expect to win?") He listens courteously to all grievances, but you get no satisfaction from him. He tosses your words back at you, answers questions with questions, retorts with biting and ironic parables. Tell him that such and such a thing is bad, and suggest a goodly substitute, and he will quote you the ancient proverb about the king with two sons named Either and Neither. "An inquiry was made as to their character, senor. Were they good or bad boys, or which was the good and which the bad. And the king's reply? 'Either is neither and Neither is either.'"

People curse him. They call him the devil, and accuse him of thinking he is God. And El Rey will nod to either charge. "But is there a difference, senor? Where the difference between punishment and reward when one gets only what he asks for?"

Most immigrants to the kingdom come in pairs, married couples or simply couples. For the journey is an arduous one, and it can seldom be made without the devoted assistance of another. In the beginning, each will handle his own money, carefully contributing an exact half of the common expenses. But this is awkward, it leads to arguments, and no matter how much the individual has he is never quite free of the specter of want. So very soon there is a casual discussion of the advantages of a joint account, and it is casually agreed that they should open one. And from then on-well, the outcome depends on which of the two is the shrewder, the more cold-blooded or requires the least sleep.

And whoever is the survivor, and thus has the account at his disposal, will not be alone long. He will be encouraged to seek out another partner, or one will seek him out. And when their association terminates, as it must, there will be still another.

The process goes on and on; inevitable, immutable. As simple as ABC.

Mention was made of El Rey's police; the protection they provide the populace. But this is a word of broad implications. If one is to protect, he may not annoy. He must remember that life belongs to the living. He will be wise to refrain from stepping over the line of his obvious duty to harry down a miscreant who may not exist.

Sluggings are unheard of in El Rey's dominion. No one is ever shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, strangled, or brought to death by the usual agencies of murder.

In fact, there are no murders. Officially, there are none. The very high death rate derives from the numerous suicides and the immigrants' proclivity for fatal accidents.

The fine swimming pools of the various villas are rarely used. The horses in the public stables grow fat for want of exercise, and the boats stand rotting in their docks. No one fishes, no one hunts, no one plays golf, tennis, or darts. Briefly, except for El Rey's annual grand ball, there is almost no social life. Anyone approaching another is suspect or suspicious.

Doc hardly knew what to do with himself. One day, a few months after his arrival, he took a walk up into the hills; and there, nestled in a pleasant valley and hidden from the city, he came upon a village. The one street was attractively cobblestoned; the buildings were freshly whitewashed. Drifting to him on the breeze came the smell of roasting peppery meat. The only people in sight were two men down near the end of the street, who were sweeping the cobblestones with long-handled brooms. Doc recognized them; he had nodded to them a time or two in the city. He raised his hand in a half-salute. But not seeing him apparently, they finished their sweeping and disappeared inside a building.

"Yes, senor?" A blue-uniformed carabinero stepped out of a nearby doorway. "I may be of service?"

"Nothing," Doc smiled. "I thought for a moment that I recognized those two men."

"The streetsweepers? They are friends of yours?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. Hardly know them as a matter of fact."

"I see. Well, they are newly arrived, those two. They will live here now, in case you should wonder about their absence from their usual haunts."

Doc looked around; commented on the pleasing appearance of the place. The carabinero agreed that everything was indeed well kept. "It is required. Each resident contributes such labor as he is able to."

"Uh-huh," Doc nodded. "It's a cooperative, right? The labor is contributed in lieu of money."

"That is right, senor."

"Mmm-hmm." Doc took another appreciative look around. "Now,! was wondering. My wife and I have a very nice villa in the city, but…"

"No, senor. You would not be eligible for admittance here."

"Well, now, I don't know about that," Doc began. But the officer cut him off.

He was sure that Doc was not eligible. When he became so, he would be notified. "You may depend on it, senor. Meanwhile, perhaps you would like to walk around-see what your future home will be like."

Doc said that he would, and they started down the wide, sparkling street. Smoke rolled up from the chimneys of the houses, but no one stood in their doorways or looked out their windows, and hardly a sound came from any of them. The high dry air seemed unusually warm, and Doc paused and mopped his face. "Where's the cantina? I'll buy the drinks."

"There is none, senor. You can buy no drinks here."

"Well, some coffee then."

"That neither, senor. No drink or food of any kind."

"No?" Doc frowned. "You mean everything has to be brought out from the city? I don't think I'd like that."

The officer slowly shook his head. "You would not like it, senor. But, no, that is not what I meant. Nothing is brought from the city. Nothing but the people themselves."

The words seemed to hang suspended in the air, a brooding message painted upon the silence. The carabinero seemed to study them, to look through them and on into Doc's eyes. And he spoke gently as though in answer to a question.

"Yes, senor, that is the how of it. No doubt you have already noticed the absence of a cemetery."

"B-but-" Doc brushed a shaky hand across his mouth. "B-but…"

_That smell that filled the air. The odor of peppery, roasting flesh. Peppers could be had anywhere, for the picking, the asking, but the meat_

"Quite fitting, eh, senor? And such an easy transition. One need only live literally as he has always done figuratively."

He smiled handsomely, and the gorge rose in Doc's throat; it was all he could do to keep from striking the man.

"Fitting?" he snarled. "It-it's disgusting, that's what it is! It's hateful, hideous, inhuman…"

"Inhuman? But what has that to do with it, senor?"

"Don't get sarcastic with me! I've taken care of better men than you without…"

"I am sure of it. That is why you are here, yes? But wait-" he pointed. "There is one who knows you, I believe."

The man had just emerged from one of the houses. He was well over six feet tall, some five or six inches perhaps. And his normal weight should have been- indeed it had been-no less than two hundred and fifty pounds. But what it was now could not possibly be more than a third of that.

His eyes were enormous in the unfleshed skull's head of his face. His neck was no larger than Doc's wrist. It was incredible that he could be alive; but, of course, the climate is very healthy in El Rey's kingdom and many people live to a hundred years and more.

He staggered toward Doc, mouthing silently in his weakness. In his helpless silence, the exaggerated slowness of his movements, he was like a man caught up in some terrifying nightmare.

"Pat-" Doc's voice was a sickened whisper. "Pat Gangloni." Automatically, he recoiled from the apparition; and then, bracing himself, he stepped forward deliberately and took Gangloni into his arms. "It's all right, Pat. Take it easy, boy. You're okay now." He patted the skeleton's shoulders, and Gangloni wept silently.

The carabinero watched them, an unaccustomed sympathy in his eyes.

"A sad case," he murmured. "Oh, but very sad. He is unable to resign himself. Already he has been here far longer than many."

"Never mind that!" Doc turned on him angrily. "Can you get me a car-a cab? Something to get him out of here?"

"We-el, yes. It will take a little time, but I can do it."

"Well, do it then! Go on!"

"Your pardon, senor." The carabinero didn't move. "You would take him out of here, you said. Out of here to where?"

"Where? Why, to my home, naturally! Someplace where I can take care of him. Get him back on his feet."

"And then, senor?"

"Then?"

"You will continue to provide for him?"

"Why, uh-" Doc slowed down a little. "Well, yes, of course. I suppose so. I mean-uh. -

"You would be required to, senor. As long as you were able to provide for yourself. It would be so pointless otherwise. So cruel. Inhuman, as you said a moment ago."

Gangloni began to shudder violently. He could not talk, but he could hear; like the man in the nightmare, he knew what was going on. Doc made a feeble attempt to free himself, and the skeleton arms tightened around him.

"He is a good friend, eh? You owe him much." The carabinero was sympathy personified. "I can understand. In this one, I would say, there is an inner fineness. He is a man of beliefs, principles-distorted and twisted perhaps, but…"

Doc abruptly broke free of Gangloni. He backed away on the cobblestones; grimacing, mumbling apologetically.

"I–I'll have to come back later. I-you know. Make some arrangements first. T-talk with my wife. Sure it'll be all right, b-but-but you know. How women are,I mean. I–I-_Pat! Don 't look at me like that! Don 't_…"

He turned and began to run.

On the suddenly chill breeze the carabinero's voice followed him.

"_Hasta la vista, senor_. Until we meet again."

You tell yourself it is a bad dream. You tell yourself you have died-you, not the others-and have waked up in hell. But you know better. You know better. There is an end to dreams, and there is no end to this. And when people die they are dead-as who should know better than you?

El Rey does only what he has to. His criminal sanctuary is a big improvement over most. He does not kill you for your loot. He gives you value for your money. He runs a first-class place, and he could not do so if you were allowed to be miserly. Nor can he permit you to linger on when your money is gone. There would be no room for newcomers if he did; and allowed to accumulate, you and your kind would soon take over. You would be in his place, and he would be in yours up on that cobblestoned street with its sparkling whitewashed buildings. And he knows this. He and his native subjects know it. It explains their delight in irony, in symbolism; in constantly holding a mirror up to you so that you must see yourself as you are, and as they see you.

No, it is impossible to deceive yourself. The kingdom is there, maps and officialdom to the contrary. It is there, call it what you like. All things considered, it is probably the best place of its kind. And its bad features, such as they are, derive not from El Rey but his guests.

He will not cheat you. He will not kill you. He cannot and will not provide for you, but he will not put an end to your life, no matter how long you live. And in that strangely salubrious climate, you seem to live an eternity.

In El Rey's dominion there is one night of the year- the night of the annual grand ball-when there are no «suicides» or fatal "accidents." Everyone is politely but thoroughly searched before entering the _Palacio del Rey_, where the fete is held. Everyone is advised that any misfortune to a guest will be regarded with great displeasure. It has been many years since any such misfortune occurred, and the victim's plunge from a fourth-floor window actually was accidental. But everyone present was fined heavily, and the supposed instigator of the accident-the woman's husband-suffered total confiscation of his bank account. So today, not only does no one make an untoward move, but everyone shows the greatest concern for the welfare of everyone else. Raise your voice slightly, and you are immediately the target of a hundred anxious eyes. Reach suddenly for a handkerchief or cigarette, and a dozen people move toward you.

Very distinguished in white tie and tails, Doc McCoy stood on the promenade border of the great ballroom; beaming out over the swirling assemblage of dancers, bowing to this couple, smiling at that one, courteously inclining his head toward another. Perfectly groomed, his temples touched with gray, he was the very picture of a gentleman at ease, of well-bred charm. But he had seldom been less at ease, or more thoroughly miserable.

His physical discomfort-his numbed feet and aching back-was largely attributed to the wives of El Rey's two chief justices. Neither of the ladies was over five feet tall, yet their combined weight was considerably more than a quarter of a ton. And they were as near to being inexhaustible as anyone Doc had ever met. He had danced with them by turns, murmuring exquisite apologies as they walked giggling on his feet, whispering compliments as his back screamed at the constant bending. Oh, he had buttered up the ladies, but good; for they were known to be ogres in private, and virtually the masters of their henpecked husbands. Then, while he was silently congratulating himself, he had seen Carol dance by in the arms of the chief of police. And he knew that his agonized efforts had been wasted. The chief of police against the chief justices; if there was any advantage, it was on Carol's side. She might suffer for it, perhaps, if he became one of the dominion's suicides or accident victims. But that would do him no good whatsoever.

It was now more than an hour since he had seen either her or the chief of police, and his anxiety was growing. He would have to think very fast, or this might well be the last grand ball he would ever attend.

He made a final survey of the ballroom. Then turning, apparently unseeing as a fat feminine hand waved to him across the throng; he strolled slowly down the palm-bordered promenade. And for some reason his mind went back to that long-ago day in Kansas; to the picnic grounds where he and Carol had gone after leaving the train.

"… _need to get acquainted again, Doc. Wejustabout have to!_"

Doc smiled wryly to himself. Get acquainted? Oh no, they didn't need to. What had actually troubled them was that they knew each other too well. They lived by taking what they wanted. By getting rid of anyone who got in their way or ceased to be useful to them. It was a fixed pattern with them; it was them. And in the event of a showdown, they would show no more mercy toward each other than they had toward so many others…

Wrapped in thought, Doc sauntered down the promenade, absently glancing through the doorways of the innumerable parlors, drawing rooms and bars. From one of them, fat Ike Moss called a muffled greeting to him; gestured, his mouth stuffed, to a long delicacy-laden table. But Doc smilingly shook his head, and passed on. Ike Moss, he thought distastefully. How gross, how completely lacking in a sense of propriety could the man be? Only last week his wife had drowned in her bath, yet here he was dressed to the nines, and gobbling down everything in sight.

Probably raided the icebox after he finished her off, Doc thought. And he chuckled silently at the picture that came into his mind.

He came to a small billiard room; started on past it. Then he paused abruptly, straightened his shoulders, and went through the doorway.

Dr. Max Vonderscheid was at the one pool table. His dwarfed hunchbacked body was dressed in rusty black, the tails of the ill-fitting suit almost touching the floor. And his gray leonine head rose only a few inches above the table. But still he appeared austerely handsome and dignified; and he sent the pool balls caroming about the green with almost magical accuracy.

He pocketed the last two with a difficult doublebank shot. Doc applauded lightly, and Vonderscheid set the cue on the floor butt down, and leaned on it looking at him. "Yes, Herr McCoy? I may be of service to you?"

His speech was almost unaccented; Doc had observed that it almost always was except when he was around El Rey. He and El Rey were seemingly on very good terms, the latter making extraordinary concessions to the doctor with regard to rent and other expenses. Still, Vonderscheid had to have some kind of income, and he couldn't have much of a practice here.

"Yes?" There was a peculiar gleam in the hunchback's eyes. "You cannot, perhaps, make up your mind?"

"Sorry," Doc said hastily. "I was so absorbed in watching your game that-but, yes, I believe you can be of help to me. I, uh-the truth is I'm very worried about my wife. I don't think she's at all well."

"I see. So?"

"Well-" Doc lowered his voice. "It's of a highly confidential nature, Doctor. I'd want to discuss it in absolute privacy."

Vonderscheid turned and glanced around the room, his gaze lingering for the merest moment on a palmsheltered corner nook. Brows raised, he turned back to Doc again. "This would seem to be private enough," he said. "Yes, this should do perfectly. So what is it about your wife, and why do you bring the matter to me?"

Doc began a cautious explanation. He had not nearly finished when Vonderscheid interrupted with an impatient gesture. "If you please, Herr McCoy! So much talk for so commonplace a deed! You want me to examine your wife, yes? To suggest that she would do well to have one, with no mention that it is your suggestion. And then you wish me to tell her that she is in need of an operation. To convince her of it. And during the course of the operation, I am to…"

"No point in spelling it out," Doc said quickly. "After all, a great many people die in surgery. Now if you'd, uh, care to give me an estimate of your fee…"

"If I did it, there would be none. To remove either you or your wife from society would be both pleasure and privilege. Unfortunately I cannot do it. My name is Vonderscheid, not Katzenjammer. I am a doctor, not an assassin."

"Now just a moment," Doc frowned. "I'm afraid you misunderstood me, Doctor. You surely don't think that I…"

"If you please!" Vonderscheid cut him off with a bang of a cue. "Do not ask me what I think of you or your wife, of what you have done with your good bodies, your strong minds, your unlimited opportunities. If only half so much I had had, or poor Rudy Torrento…"

"So that's it," Doc said, angrily sardonic. "You and Rudy were friends, so naturally…"

He broke off. Vonderscheid had moved back a step, stood gripping the cue with both hands. He wagged it with an ominous movement, and Doc discovered he had nothing more to say.

"You are quite through, McCoy?" The doctor grinned at him furiously. "Then I will finish. Rudy was my friend, yes. He was insane; he had been brutalized almost from birth; he had been made into what he was and he could not have been anything else. He had never had a friend, so I became one to him. I did not regard him as a criminal. No more, merely because I have broken laws, do I consider myself one. So! So that is all, Herr McCoy, except for two things. Your wife approached me only a few minutes ago with a proposition similar to your own. In fact, she should still be here," he pointed to the cluster of potted palms. "So in case you should wish to condole with one another…"

He laughed wickedly, tossed his billiard cue onto the table and walked out.

Doc bit his lip. He remained where he was for a moment, and then, with a kind of dreary nonchalance, he walked around the table and skirted the palms.

Carol had a portable bar drawn up in front of her. Silently he sat down at her side, and silently she fixed him a drink, her eyes warmly sympathetic. "He was pretty rough on you, Doc. I'm sorry."

"Oh, well," Doc sighed. "I hope he wasn't equally nasty with you, my dear."

"I don't care about myself. I've been told off by experts. But someone like you, someone that everyone has always liked…"

She gave his hand a soothing pat, and Doc turned to her with thoughtful wonderment. "Do you know," he said, "I believe you really love me."

"Love you?" she frowned. "Why, of course I do. Don't you love me?"

"Yes," Doc nodded slowly. "Yes, Carol, strangely enough I love you very much. I always have and I always will, and I could never love anyone else."

"And I couldn't either. I-oh, Doc. Doc!"

"And it doesn't make any difference, does it, Carol? Or does it?"

"Does it?" She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "T-tell me it does, Doc, and I'll tell you it does. And what the hell difference will it make?"

Doc nodded vaguely. He refilled their glasses. In the palace tower a great bell began to toll the hour of twelve. And in the ballroom the band struck up the strains of _Home Sweet Home_.

"Well," Carol said. "I guess it's just about over, Doc."

"Yes," Doc said. "Just about over, Carol."

"You!" she said, and her voice was suddenly angry, frightened, tortured. "I'll drink a toast to you, Doc darling!"

"Why, how kind of you," Doc said, and he touched his glass to hers. "What will it be!"

"To you! To you and our successful getaway!"

"And to you, my dear," Doc said. "And another such victory."

About the Author

James Meyers Thompson was born in Anadarko, Oklahoma, in 1906. He began writing fiction at a very young age, selling his first story to _True Detective_ when he was only fourteen. In all, Jim Thompson wrote twenty-nine novels and two screenplays (for the Stanley Kubrick films _The Killing_ and _Paths of Glory_). Films based on his novels include _Coup de Torchon (Pop. 1280)_, _Serie Noire (A Hell of a Woman)_, _The Getaway_, _The Killer Inside Me_, _The Grifters_, and _After Dark, My Sweet_. A biography of Jim Thompson will be published by Knopf.