Evening star. [volume], August 31, 1947, Page 10, Image 56

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
THE CHARACTERS: Dave, a girl he didn’t know, and a pair of thugs . . .
THE SETTING: Weston’s Tourist Cabins, with a Florida moon . . .
THE STORY: Mystery, with an unforgettable climax
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A Short Story
There was no business — which at Weston’s Tourist Cab
ins, Bar & Restaurant, Clean, Cool, Comfortable — was
situation normal. Sam, who passed as a cook, and I were
talking about the bus accident. It had taken place some
twenty miles away and we’d just heard about it on the radio:
a drunken driver had forced a north-bound bus off the high
way, there had been a couple of persons killed and several
injured, and it was a mess all around. We were talking about
it when the door opened and this girl came in, carrying a suit
case. She stopped just inside, as though there were a law
against her coming any closer.
“Hello,” I said.
She said, “You — own these cabins?”
“With the help of the government and the National Bank.”
“Could I rent one?”
“If you have three bucks,” I said.
I took her suitcase and held the door for her and we went
back outside. That’s when I noticed there wasn’t any car and
I thought. Oh-oh! What gives? But I didn’t figure that what
ever gave could hurt business: a guy can’t lose nothing. So I
led her down to a cabin, and she paid three bucks and signed
the registry card as Dawn Chester.
The name had a phony sound, but the three bucks were
good. I put them in my pocket and went back to the bar and
restaurant.
Sam had missed nothing. He said, “She didn’t have no car,
Mr. Dave?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“How’d she git here?”
The address on the registry card was New York. “Maybe
she walked,” I said.
The two thugs, pistols in hand,
raced madly for Dawn’s cabin—
“I bet she was on that wrecked bus,” Sam said. “I bet she
caught a ride from there.”
"Why stop here?”
“Don’t know; but I bet she was on that bus. She looked
sort of peaked. You notice that?”
“I don’t even know how ‘peaked’ looks,” I said. Sam was
Alabama Negro and I was from Cicero, Illinois. I’d had my
reasons for coming to Florida, and I expect Sam had his. We
were something of a puzzle to each other, but we got along.
A couple of cowboys dropped in. I was still surprised at
finding cowboys in Florida, but in this section of the state they
were all you did find: boots, big hats and all. Even horses
sometimes and sometimes trucks. These had a pair of beers,
and when they left, business got back to average.
Sam and I were talking when the bar door opened and the
girl came in again. She’d changed her clothes. Her dress was
light gray. It didn't fit too well, but it wasn’t bad either. Her
hair was brown and soft looking, and had a natural wave that
kept it close against her head.
“Do you serve food?”
“Sam calls it that,” I said. “Locally, there seems some
doubt.”
She sat in a booth, and I stood behind the bar. Her back
was to me, and I could just see the top of her head. Her hair
was the same color all the way to its roots, which is a nice
way for hair to be.
I came out from behind the bar. “Miss Chester?”
She didn’t look up.
“You want something to drink before your dinner?”
“Oh! I didn’t realize you were speaking to me. No, thank
you.”
I tried once more, when I was serving the food. I said, “Did
you hear about the bus accident?”
She looked up, quick, and then down again. “I heard some
thing about it,” she said, and began to eat.
When she’d paid and gone back to her cabin, I stared at
the door. “Sam ...”
“Yessur?”
"That was a phony name she signed on the registry card
and I’ll bet she’s never seen New York. And whether or not
TW—S-Jl-47