The Fourth Durango by Ross Thomas, Sarah Paretsky Page A
Authors: Ross Thomas, Sarah Paretsky
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twenty seconds, she said, “All right.”
Adair edged forward on the couch and used his gravest voice to say, “When you come to the part where it gets nasty, Mayor, as it always does, just keep on going and don’t worry about my sensibilities.” He gave her a small smile. “Such as they are.”
B. D. Huckins said there were nine of them in the Day-Glo General Motors school bus that pulled into Durango that night in 1968. The next morning, four of them decided to stay. The other five wanted to keep heading for the Rocky Mountain Durango in Colorado. A coin was tossed. Those who were Colorado-bound called heads and won both the toss and the psychedelic bus.
Staying on in the California Durango, she said, were herself, then sixteen; her twelve-year-old half sister, Dixie Venable; Sid Fork, eighteen; and a twenty-year-old nut case who some days said his name was Teddy Jones and other days Teddy Smith.
Huckins said Teddy was a drinker and a doper who fried and pickled his brain with acid and gin and anything else he could inhale, swallow or stick in his arm. But Teddy was also the only one who had any money. When he rented a four-room house (more shack than house, she claimed) on Boatright Street out on the eastern edge of Durango in what even then was a rural slum, the other three moved in with him.
She said the communal living lasted three weeks, maybe four. It ended when she and Fork came back from the beach one afternoon. It was a real beach then, she said, with plenty of sand and not anything like it is now. Anyway, she and Fork went in the house and found the twelve-year-old Dixie naked and tied to the bed. Teddy was equally naked and drunk on gin and apparently trying to do it to Dixie with the gin bottle because, Huckins said, he probably couldn’t do it any other way.
Sid Fork picked up something, a sash weight, she thought, and knocked Teddy down with it and kicked him senseless. When he woke up, Fork had all of Teddy’s money, which she remembered as being about $300—almost a thousand in today’s dollars. Fork told Teddy he could have his money back after he got the next bus out of town. She said there were still two bus lines serving Durango then—Greyhound and Trailways.
So that’s what Teddy did, she said. Sid Fork walked him into town, bought his ticket, put him on the bus, gave him back his money and told him if he ever saw him in Durango again, he’d drown him in the ocean.
Although that was the last of Teddy Jones or Smith, she, Fork and Dixie still had to eat. So she and Fork got jobs—he in a gas station and she in a drugstore where the owner-pharmacist, a nice enough old guy of about forty-five, started hitting on her until she told him if he didn’t cut it out, she’d tell his wife.
The three of them managed to get by until late August of 1968 when the gas station where Fork worked was burgled. The owner suspected Fork, of course, she said. But being a class-A shit, didn’t accuse him or fire him or even go to the cops. What he did, she said, was worse. Much worse.
Huckins thought it was two or possibly three weeks later when two FBI suits from Santa Barbara drove up to a gas pump. Sid came out and they asked him for his draft card. That tore it, she said. The gas station owner had turned Fork in for draft evasion and three weeks later he was in the Army and four or five months after that he was an MP in Saigon.
After Fork left, Huckins said she went to the owner of the drugstore and told him if he still wanted to go to bed with her on a regular basis, it would cost him $200 a month on top of what he was already paying her. The pharmacist-owner said he’d like to think about it. Three days later, he asked her to stay after work.
The pharmacist told her he’d maybe come up with a solution. There were these two friends of his, both real nice guys, one of them a lawyer and the other a CPA, and both of them, like him, members of the Durango City Council. And they, all three of
Adair edged forward on the couch and used his gravest voice to say, “When you come to the part where it gets nasty, Mayor, as it always does, just keep on going and don’t worry about my sensibilities.” He gave her a small smile. “Such as they are.”
B. D. Huckins said there were nine of them in the Day-Glo General Motors school bus that pulled into Durango that night in 1968. The next morning, four of them decided to stay. The other five wanted to keep heading for the Rocky Mountain Durango in Colorado. A coin was tossed. Those who were Colorado-bound called heads and won both the toss and the psychedelic bus.
Staying on in the California Durango, she said, were herself, then sixteen; her twelve-year-old half sister, Dixie Venable; Sid Fork, eighteen; and a twenty-year-old nut case who some days said his name was Teddy Jones and other days Teddy Smith.
Huckins said Teddy was a drinker and a doper who fried and pickled his brain with acid and gin and anything else he could inhale, swallow or stick in his arm. But Teddy was also the only one who had any money. When he rented a four-room house (more shack than house, she claimed) on Boatright Street out on the eastern edge of Durango in what even then was a rural slum, the other three moved in with him.
She said the communal living lasted three weeks, maybe four. It ended when she and Fork came back from the beach one afternoon. It was a real beach then, she said, with plenty of sand and not anything like it is now. Anyway, she and Fork went in the house and found the twelve-year-old Dixie naked and tied to the bed. Teddy was equally naked and drunk on gin and apparently trying to do it to Dixie with the gin bottle because, Huckins said, he probably couldn’t do it any other way.
Sid Fork picked up something, a sash weight, she thought, and knocked Teddy down with it and kicked him senseless. When he woke up, Fork had all of Teddy’s money, which she remembered as being about $300—almost a thousand in today’s dollars. Fork told Teddy he could have his money back after he got the next bus out of town. She said there were still two bus lines serving Durango then—Greyhound and Trailways.
So that’s what Teddy did, she said. Sid Fork walked him into town, bought his ticket, put him on the bus, gave him back his money and told him if he ever saw him in Durango again, he’d drown him in the ocean.
Although that was the last of Teddy Jones or Smith, she, Fork and Dixie still had to eat. So she and Fork got jobs—he in a gas station and she in a drugstore where the owner-pharmacist, a nice enough old guy of about forty-five, started hitting on her until she told him if he didn’t cut it out, she’d tell his wife.
The three of them managed to get by until late August of 1968 when the gas station where Fork worked was burgled. The owner suspected Fork, of course, she said. But being a class-A shit, didn’t accuse him or fire him or even go to the cops. What he did, she said, was worse. Much worse.
Huckins thought it was two or possibly three weeks later when two FBI suits from Santa Barbara drove up to a gas pump. Sid came out and they asked him for his draft card. That tore it, she said. The gas station owner had turned Fork in for draft evasion and three weeks later he was in the Army and four or five months after that he was an MP in Saigon.
After Fork left, Huckins said she went to the owner of the drugstore and told him if he still wanted to go to bed with her on a regular basis, it would cost him $200 a month on top of what he was already paying her. The pharmacist-owner said he’d like to think about it. Three days later, he asked her to stay after work.
The pharmacist told her he’d maybe come up with a solution. There were these two friends of his, both real nice guys, one of them a lawyer and the other a CPA, and both of them, like him, members of the Durango City Council. And they, all three of
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