Free Detour by Martin M. Goldsmith Page A

brutal, swollen up with their own authority which they abuse. Instead of being public servants, they bully the public and treat ordinary citizens like criminals. In spite of the law to the contrary, in a station-house a man is guilty unless he can prove an alibi. Now, after my experiences with the law in Dallas, this gentlemanly treatment came as a surprise, until I remembered that I was sitting in an expensive automobile. Cops know dough and influence go hand in hand. For all this fellow knew, I was a friend of some big shot official who controlled the strings which transferred little shots on and off these gravy jobs.
    I dug into the wallet and found the papers. The cop glanced at me and then at the description on the license, checked the registration with the plates, and handed them back with a nod. I took the car out of gear.
    “Carrying any fruits or vegetables?”
    “No.”
    “Any livestock, poultry?”
    I thought I'd play it funny and then maybe nobody would notice I was nervous and shaking to beat the band. “I don't think so, officer,” I said. “But if you should happen to find a couple of Maryland chickens back there, let me know.”
    The copper smiled and went back to help one of the inspectors who was fooling around, trying to open the rumble. I pressed the button for him. He stuck his head in and pulled out a carton of canned goods, a blanket and a big alligator-skin traveling bag. He poked around for a minute in the carton and put it back where he had found it. The bag he took over to the booth to inspect.
    Then I remembered and went cold. My heart began to pound like a trip-hammer. Suppose there was more of that marihuana in the bag? That would be poetic justice, wouldn't it? Me being nailed on a Federal narcotic ticket for what he had been carrying... But I guess Haskell wasn't that dumb. If there was any more stuff in the car, it wasn't in the bag. The inspector re-packed it, snapped it shut and tossed it back into the rumble. I knelt on the seat and banged it before he changed his mind and decided to take another look.
    “Just visiting California, Mr. Haskell?”
    “Yes, just visiting.”
    God, it was funny being called Haskell.
    “Well, remember, if you're employed and stay more than thirty days you have to get California plates.”
    “All right, officer. But I'll only be in California a short time.”
    “How are things back in New York, anyway? I haven't seen the place in over ten years.”
    “Oh, the same as always. They've got a few more buildings up, that's all.”
    “Well, I'd sure like to take a trip back, one of these days. I've got a brother there now. He's in the liquor business.”
    “Is that so?” It seemed as though everybody had relatives in New York. New York was made up of brothers and sisters and cousins of people in Arizona and California.
    “It's O.K. You can go ahead now.”
    They slapped a sticker on the windshield and waved me on. I damned near stalled the car for the second time on account of my shaky knees which, for the life of me, I couldn't get under control. My heart didn't stop thumping until I'd covered the two and a half miles into Blythe.
    I couldn't drive any farther without some sleep. I was completely pooped. Cops or no cops, I knew I had to hit the hay and hit it hard, even if they got me for it. I would have preferred driving on through as far as Mecca and sleeping there, because Blythe was too close to the Arizona border for comfort; but that would mean another ninety or a hundred miles, so I said to myself, nothing doing.
    There was an auto-court on the left, half a block off the main stem, and I pulled into it. It was just a group of ten or twelve shacks with places to park cars alongside, but it spelled home sweet home in big letters. Actually, what it spelled was: The Morning Glory Tourist Rest—Day or Weekly Rates.
    When I sounded the horn, a girl came running out of the shack marked OFFICE and hopped on the running-board. Even in my overwrought