Dick McCue started off like a jet pilot. "What's the hurry?" Mrs.
Goudeket demanded. "Better go slow and we'll get there." She was
feeling uneasier than ever; because though she had heard the rain
pounding on the house, and seen the rain sluicing down the windows, she
hadn't _felt_ the rain until that two-yard dash from the door to the
station wagon that had wet her to the skin.
"Sure, Mrs. Goudeket," he said cheerfully, and slowed down--briefly.
Fast, slow--he could drive that blacktop road down to the highway
in his sleep. This was what he liked; something happening. He never
would have taken the agency's offer of this job if he'd known it would
involve running putting contests for rained-in guests who blamed it
all on him. Girls, dances, a chance to sharpen up his game for the
all-important Inter-Collegiate Medalist next year--the agency had made
it sound pretty great. Of course, he had a lot to offer, too--his
maidenhead, for instance, as far as the world of golf was concerned;
now he was definitely and permanently a pro, and some of the doors in
golfing were forever closed to him. Maybe he should have held out for
more money. But what was the difference; Dick McCue knew well enough
that his game wasn't going to support him all his life; he had a good,
powerful drive and a touch with the putter, but everything between the
tee and the cup was hard work. It made him a splendid golf pro for Mrs.
Goudeket's guests, most of whose future golfing would be either on a
driving range or on one of those miniature courses that were coming
back, but that was as far as his talents went. Dick McCue didn't kid
himself--or anyway, not about his golf.
Mrs. Goudeket cried out and clutched his arm. "Look! Four hundred
dollars worth of topsoil!" But it wasn't four hundred dollars worth of
topsoil any more; it was a lake. She looked at it incredulously. She
remembered distinctly what it had looked like when she and Mr. Goudeket
had taken possession of Goudeket's Green Acres, formerly known as
Holiday Hacienda: It had been a muddy cow pasture, rutted and gullied.
It had taken three days with a bulldozer before they could start
putting the topsoil on--
Mrs. Goudeket swallowed, as she considered where the four hundred
dollars for the next batch of topsoil might be coming from. From the
back seat Sharon Froman called sharply: "Watch yourself, Dick!"
"I see him," McCue said, slowing down. A battered pickup truck was
wallowing around their entrance road, trying to turn around. The driver
was being meticulously careful about staying off the shoulders, which
made it a long process, but finally he got turned around and pulled
over. As the station wagon drew close he leaned out and yelled: "This
ain't the road to Hebertown, is it?"
Dick McCue leaned over his employer to roll the window down and yell
back: "No! You have to turn left at the road, then the second right,
left at the bridge--Look, just follow me." He barely got his head out
of the window before Mrs. Goudeket rolled it up again.
* * * * *
"Follow him! Jeez, I ought to have an airplane!"
Mickey Groff said, "We ought to be nearly there by now. Does it look
familiar?"
"Nothing looks familiar," Sam Zehedi complained, trying to keep the
lights of the station wagon in sight. He stole a look at the dashboard.
Forty-two miles they'd come! Backtracking where the bridge was washed
out, taking a shortcut that had turned out impassable, getting lost on
the country roads down toward the river--forty-two miles, and they'd
started out three miles from town. There was a mile marker right in
front of the store....
No, not any more there wasn't. Sam Zehedi got a sudden cramp in his
belly thinking about it. The important thing was whether the insurance
covered it or not. He had the impression that he was covered for
everything from artillery fire by the Argentine army to glacier damage;
but that was a long time ago when he signed that check for the policy,
and he couldn't remember what it said about floods. Of course, he told
himself valiantly, that guy in the car was nuts; the store couldn't
have been just washed away. It was just that it was so dark and you
couldn't see through the rain from as close as you dared to get in the
car. Probably there was water in it, sure--but was that so bad? Look
at those people in Missouri and places like that, they go through this
every year.
He thought of the new freezer, not yet paid for, and moaned.