Understrike by John Gardner

baggage from the bus, and meet us at the car out in back. Red Mustang convertible.”
    “ Thank God for that,” said Chicory, her mouth full of hotcake and syrup, when Boysie told her. “I’ve just about had that bus. Or I should say it’s just about had me. Those seats on your tail! Yow!”
    The car was parked at the rear of the Cafe—the sun, already climbing with all systems ‘Go’ on a smooth trajectory, reflecting in a bonnet which looked hygenically clean. Henniger made no move to help Boysie as he humped his Revelation, and Chicory’s lightweight case, over the few yards of parking lot. Behind the wheel sat a tall lean man with grey well-toned hair and glasses.
    “ This is Mr Henniger,” said Boysie affably as they reached the car. Chicory smiled.
    “ Miss Triplehouse.”
    “ Howdy, Miss Triplehouse; you and Mr Oakes in back, please.”
    “ Gee, are we glad to see you,” said Chicory, ducking her head and sliding delicately into the rear seat. “We thought we’d be on that bus till ever.” Boysie stood, looking lost, with the cases.
    “ Better put those in the trunk, hadn’t you, Mr Oakes?” smiled Henniger, still making no move to help him. “It’s unlocked.”
    With the luggage stowed away and Boysie snug beside Chicory, the car boomed out on to the road and began to eat up the miles which lash out painfully between the vast stretch of scrubby New Mexico desert. Henniger shifted in his seat, turning half way towards the couple behind him.
    “ We’re goin’ to a little motel, ‘bout twenty miles off the main Highway here. Got one of the big boys from the Top wants to see ya Mr Oakes. We stay there tonight, then fly ya down to San Diego from Albuquerque in the morning. Ya gotta be there for briefing Sunday noon.”
    “ What’d I tell you, Boysie honey? Albuquerque! Yuck!” said Chicory.
    Boysie reflected that all this piddling about was seriously cutting into his living-it-up time. But then, without the piddling about there might not be any time in which to live it up.
    “ Incidentally, Miss Triplehouse, you’ll be able to fly back direct to New York,” continued Henniger. “You’ve done your job and you’ll be contacted on return.”
    “ To hell with that!” Chicory’s reaction was violent. “I’m goin’ on down to San Diego.”
    “ Sorry, Miss Triplehouse, them’s my orders.” Henniger was firm.
    “ I’m going on down to San Diego of my own accord then. Vacation.”
    “ You’ll go straight back to New York.”
    “ Now look here ... I can do just as I goddam please. I’m a free agent.”
    “ There is no such thing as a free agent.” The voice was clipped. Final. The conversation had finished as far as Henniger was concerned. Chicory opened her mouth to speak again, then thought better of it. They had pulled off the main Freeway, and seemed to be hurtling unsteadily along a disused stage coach track. Boysie put out his hand and felt Chicory’s hot in his. He could sense her blazing. “Why don’t you do something about the little shit?” she hissed in Boysie’s ear. Boysie considered the situation and decided that there was very little he could do in the circumstances. The atmosphere was not unlike that of a Mothers’ Union Meeting at which the chairwoman had just advocated free love.
    Fifteen minutes later they were back on the main highway. No one had spoken since Chicory’s hiss. She still simmered, while Boysie remained perplexed. The two men in front seemed quite at ease. A notice on their right said, “Rio Grande Motel One Mile. TV. Pool. Air conditioning. Twenty Units.”
    The Rio Grande Motel was a two-tiered, pink stucco monstrosity trying to look like a hacienda, built to form three sides of a square. It gave the impression of being a tired oasis in the midst of the hot dry prairie.
    “ Looks a bit seedy,” ventured Boysie.
    “ Old guy who built it thought he’d gotta gold mine—catch passing trade too tired to go on to Albuquerque. Just didn’t