Get a Load of This

     “You're O.K. with me,” Hienie assured him, “it's just the way I've got when guys get tough. I just gotta pull a rod. Maybe it's goin' to get me into a little trouble one day.”

     “I ain't so tough,” the little guy said rather bitterly. “I oughtta've taken a chance and hung one on you.”

     Hienie grinned. “You're all right. You're a wise guy. It ain't healthy to tap a guy with a rod. Take it from me, pal, I know.” He fumbled for a cigarette and offered one.

     When they had lit up, Hienie said, “What's your name, pal?”

     The little guy looked at him suspiciously. “Joe,” he said, with obvious reluctance.

     Hienie grinned. “A swell name for a swell guy, huh?”

     Joe didn't say anything, he kept on driving. Hienie watched the road for a while, then he shut his eyes and dozed. It was hot inside the cab, so he let himself drift for a while. Then curiosity made him ask lazily, “Say, Joe, what's wrong with the patient?”

     “Aw, she's nuts,” Joe said, leaning forward to switch on the side lights.

     Hienie sat up. “You mean she's crazy?”

     “Yeah.”

     “That's tough. Gee! I'd hate to be a nut.”

     Joe shrugged. “When you're crazy, you don't mind so much. It's goin' crazy that's bad.”

     Hienie thought this over. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess that's right.” He lit another cigarette. “Crazy guys give me the heebies.”

     “You get used to it,” Joe said, rolling down the window to spit into the dark. “It's the tough ones I don't fancy.”

     “Is she tough?” Hienie asked with morbid curiosity.

     Joe hesitated. “Yeah,” he said; “I ain't allowed to talk about the patients.” He slowed down as they approached a gas station. “Keep outta sight, pal,” he said, “I got my job to think about.”

     Hienie sat back. “I could use a drink. Yes, sir, right now I could use a lotta drink.”

     Joe's face brightened. “I could get you somethin' if you've the dough.”

     “The right stuff. I don't want any gut-rot. I want the right stuff.”

     “Sure, the liquor's the McCoy. The guy distils it himself right here. It'll cost you a couple of bucks, but it's panther's spit all right.”

     Hienie dug into his trouser pocket and found two dollars. “Get it,” he said briefly.

     Joe climbed out of the cab and walked stiffly into the office. He came out after a few minutes, carrying a gallon-size earthenware jar. Hienie reached forward and took it from him.

     Joe stood watching. Hienie drew the cork with his teeth and carefully raised the jar to his mouth. He took a long pull and blinked. He coughed, and began to rub his coat front with the palm of his hand. “Yeah,” he said, when he could get his breath, “it's the McCoy all right.”

     Joe shifted about, anxiously eyeing the bottle, but Hienie paid no attention. He took another long pull from the jar, then hurriedly handed it to Joe. “My Gawd,” he gasped, “it went down as far as my boots that time.”

     Joe wrapped himself round the jar lovingly and kept it glued to his mouth.

     After almost a minute, Hienie leant forward. “Hey!” he shouted sharply. “Take it easy. Hey! Lay off, will you?”

     Joe removed himself from the jar with a little shudder. His eyes swam mistily as he handed it back. “Pretty nice,” he said; “that's swell poison.”

     Hienie looked at him admiringly. “You certainly can take it,” he said.

     Joe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I can take it all right, but it sortta sneaks up on me and bonk—I'm out.”

     Hienie wasn't listening, he was busy with the jar again.

     Joe said, when he was through: “I'm just goin' to look at my patient, and then we'll dust.”

     “Sure, give her a drink—it's tough bein' a nut.”

     Joe shook his head. “She ain't to have any liquor. That's her trouble—too much liquor,” he said, going round to the back of the ambulance. When he had paid for the gasoline he climbed into the cab.

     Hienie said, “She O.K.?”

     “Yeah, she's asleep,” Joe returned, starting the engine.

     Hienie offered him the jar. “Just one for the road,” he said.

     Joe grabbed the jar and took a long pull. He handed it back with a deep sigh. “Pal,” he said, blowing out his leathery cheeks, “this is certainly a great little evenin'.”

     After a couple more drinks, Hienie felt so merry he began to sing at the top of his voice.

     Joe said hastily, “You can't do that on this wagon.”

     Hienie continued to bellow, counting his time by waving the jar to and fro.

     Joe got scared and brought the ambulance to a standstill. “For Pete's sake,” he said urgently, “pipe down. You'll wake my patient up and maybe get the cops lookin' us over.”

     Hienie roared with laughter. “Forget it, Joe,” he said, taking another pull from the jar. “Don't be a crab. I bet that nutty dame just loves my voice. Come on, you sing too.”

     Joe said angrily: “Cut it out. No girl's goin' to like the row you're makin'—not even a crazy one.”

     Hienie stiffened. His smile slipped into a heavy scowl. “Yeah? Is that so? O.K., you soft-bellied little runt, we'll ask her and see.”

     Joe shook his head. “Like hell we will,” he said firmly. “You pipe down, or I'll get tough.”