The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (52 page)

“It’s haunted.”

Harvey looked up at him briefly and gave a kind of see-what-I-have-to-go-through smile. “Is that a fact?

“Oh, yes,” the old man said. “Indubitably. The car is haunted. It’s been haunted since the day it came off the assembly line, and every single one of its owners can attest to this fact.”

Harvey continued to smile as he walked around the desk and sat down in his chair. He winked, puckered up his mouth, ran his tongue around inside his cheeks. His voice was quite gentle. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me,” he asked, “
how
the car is haunted...or how I can get it unhaunted?”

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough, “the old man said. He rose and started for the door. “And as for unhaunting it—you’ll have to sell the car. Good day to you, Mr. Hennicutt. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

Harvey remained seated in his chair. “Oh, likewise. . .likewise,” he said.

The old man paused at the door and turned to him. “I think you’ll find that you may have actually gotten the best of the bargain at that.”

Harvey laced his fingers together behind his head. “My aged friend,” he announced in a hurt tone, ‘you do me the ultimate injustice. This little transaction, haunted or otherwise, is my charity case of the day. You dwell on that, will you? Just go ahead and dwell on it.”

The old man pursed his lips. “No, no, no, Mr. Hennicutt. You dwell on it—And I rather think you will.” Then he laughed, and walked out of the office.

Harvey looked down at the registration papers, then shoved them untidily into a basket on his desk, already running over in his mind how he could advertise the model A as one of the cars used on the “Untouchables”—or even, perhaps, plugging it as the actual car used by Eliot Ness in his capture of Baby Face Floyd. He’d shoot a couple of .22 holes in the rear fender and point these out as having taken place during the monumental chase. Three hundred bucks easy for a car with this history and tradition of law and order. His daydreaming was stopped by the sound of the young couple’s voices approaching from outside. He looked out the window to see them walking toward the shack. He immediately replaced his normal expression of avarice by his “third-phase, wrap-’em-up” look—a mixture of parental affection and rock-ribbed, almost painful, honesty It was this look he took outside with him.

The young man pointed to a 1934 Auburn. “How much is that one over there?” he inquired.

A pigeon, Harvey thought. An absolute, unadulterated, bonafide, A-number-one honest-to-God pigeon. That Auburn had been with Harvey for twelve years. It was the first automobile and the last one he’d ever lost money on. He cleared his throat. “You mean that collectors’ item? That’s—that’s—” Harvey’s eyes bugged. For some crazy reason, nothing more came out. He formed the words—packed them up like snowballs, and tried to throw them,
but nothing came out!

After a moment something did come out. It was Harvey’s voice and they were his words, but he was not conscious of actually saying them. “It’s not for sale,” his voice said.

The young man exchanged a look with his wife and then pointed to the Chevy that they had been sitting in. “How about the Chevy?”

Again Harvey felt his mouth open and again he heard his voice. “That one’s not for sale either.”

“Not for sale? The young man looked at him strangely. “But that’s the one you were pushing.”

“That’s the one I was pushing,” Harvey’s voice said—and this time he knew he was saying it—“but I’m not pushing it any more. That’s a heap! A rum-dum. It hasn’t got any rings. It hasn’t got any plugs. It hasn’t got any points. It’s got a cracked block and it’ll eat up gasoline like it owned every oil well in the state of Texas.”

Harvey’s eyes looked glazed and he made a massive effort to close his mouth, but still the words came out of it. “The rubber’s gone and the chassis’s bent, and if I ever referred to it as a runabout, what I meant by that was that it’ll run about a mile and then stop. It’ll cost you double what you paid for it the minute you try to get it repaired—and you’ll be gettin’ it repaired every third Thursday of the month.”

The young couple stared at him incredulously and Harvey stared back. His tongue felt like a red-hot poker in his mouth. He stood there forlornly, wondering when this madness would pass from him. The young couple exchanged yet another look, and finally the young man stammered, “Well...well, what else have you got?”

Harvey’s words came out despite anything he could do to stop them. “I haven’t anything to show you that’s worth your while,” he announced. “Everything I’ve got on this lot should have been condemned years ago. I’ve got more lemons per square foot than the United Fruit Company. So, my advice to you kids would be to run along and head for a reputable place where you get what you pay for and be pleased with it, but don’t come around here, because I’ll rob you blind!”

The young man was about to retort when his wife gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow, motioned with her head, and the two of them walked away.

Harvey remained standing there, absolutely motionless. He found himself drawn to the model A that stood in plain, simple, almost exquisite, homeliness. Harvey blinked, shook himself like a big St. Bernard, and then deliberately, with conscious effort, walked back into the shack.

He sat inside for several hours, asking himself a hundred times just what the hell had happened. It was as if some demon had entered him, fastened itself to his larynx and dictated his language. It was the screwiest odd-ball feeling he’d ever felt. But several hours later the feeling had worn off. What the hell, Harvey thought to himself, what the hell! They looked like the kind of kids who’d be back in the morning, screaming for their money.

But once again, for perhaps the twentieth time, he let his eyes rest on the model A. Haunted, the old man had said. Haunted! Goddamn you, Harvey Hennicutt, you will persist in dealing with kooks.

A few moments later, Harvey’s assistant entered the shack. This was a sallow post-teenager named Irving Proxmier. Irving was an undernourished version of his master, affecting the same sport coat, the hat tilted on the back of his head, and a hand painted tie that showed a hula dancer under a Hawaiian setting sun. But the imitation, of course, was noticeably inferior to the original. The effort showed itself, but only the effort.

“Sorry I’m late, boss,” Irving announced, putting a cigar in his teeth in exactly the same manner he’d watched Harvey do it. “I was checking the junkyard for those ‘34 Chevy wheel disks. I found two of them.” He looked behind him through the open door. “What’s the action?

Harvey blinked. “A little quiet this afternoon.” Then, shaking himself from his deep reflections, he pointed out the window. “That ‘35 Essex, IN. I want you to push that one.”

“Push it is right. It’ll never get anyplace under its own power.”

Harvey lit a cigar. “Knock it down to fifty-five bucks. Tell everybody it’s a museum piece. The last of its kind.” He rose from the chair, walked over to the open door and peered outside. He noticed then that the hood of the Essex was partially open. “Booby,” he announced grievously, you gotta close the hood, booby.” He turned to Irving. “How many times I gotta tell ya that? When ya can’t see the engine for the rust—you’ve gotta play a little hide-and-seek. You don’t go advertisin’ the fact that you’re tryin’ to job off a car that carried French soldiers to the first Battle of the Marne.”

Harvey’s face suddenly looked very white. His lower lip sagged. That strange haunted look appeared in his eyes. He whirled around and retraced his steps over to the desk. “Irv,” he said in a strained voice. “Irv...”

“What’s the matter?” Irving asked. “You sick, boss?”

Harvey felt the words bubble inside and then heard them come out. He pointed out the window. “Put a sign on the Essex. Say it’s for sale as is. No guarantees. And open up the hood wider. Let ‘em take a look at that engine.”

Irving gaped at him. “Ya wanna sell it—or ya wanna keep it around for an heirloom? Why, nobody in his right mind would buy that car if they could see what’s under the hood.”

Harvey sat down heavily in his chair. He felt the perspiration rolling down his face. He opened up the left bottom drawer of the desk and took out a small bottle of whisky, unscrewed the cap, and took a deep gulp. He looked up into Irving’s worried face. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked in a strange, thin voice. “What’s the matter with me, IN? Irv, booby...do I look all right to you?”

Irving’s voice was guarded. “What did ya have for dinner?”

Harvey thought for a moment, then made a gesture with his hands, denying any possible gastronomic connection. He set his face, jutted his jaw, let out a laugh dripping with bravado, and reached for the telephone.

“This is nuts,” he announced definitely, as he dialed a number. “This is...this is power of suggestion or something. That old gleep with the model A! Lemme tell ya, Irv—a real nutsy! Comes in here with this song and dance about a haunted car—”

He heard the receiver lifted at the other end. “Honey,” he said into the phone, “it’s your ever-lovin’! Listen’ baby...about tonight... yeah, I’m gonna be late. Well, I told ya it was inventory time, didn’t I?” He doodled with his free hand, drawing a picture of an old man and a model A Ford. “Of course it’s inventory time!” he continued, “And what I’m gonna be doin’—” He stopped abruptly. Again his face turned white and again the beads of perspiration came on his forehead and traveled in little rivulets down his face. ‘‘& a matter of fact, honey,” he heard himself saying, “I’m playin’ a little poker with the boys after I close up tonight. And when I told ya last month I was doin’ inventory—I was playin’ poker then, too!”

At this moment, Harvey thrust the phone away from him as if it were some kind of animal lunging for his throat. He gulped, swallowed, and it to him again.

“Honey,” he said in a sick voice, “honey, baby, think I’m sick or somethin’. What I just told ya...well, honey...it was a gag...what I mean to say is—”

Out came the words again. “I’m gonna play poker with the boys again tonight!” With this, Harvey slammed the phone down and pushed it away. He whirled around to stare at Irving, wild-eyed.

“What’s goin’ on, IN? What the hell’s the matter with me? I got no control over what I say. I got absolutely no control over—”

Again he stopped, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He rose from the chair, went across the room over to the open door, and stared out. There was the model A, sitting all by itself, several feet away from the other cars. Harvey kept staring at it, and finally turned to face Irving.

“Irv,” he said, his voice strained, “I’m in the middle of a calamity! That old geezer...that gleep l was tellin’ ya about...he said that car was haunted—and he was right! Ya know what, Irv? Whoever owns that car—
he’s got to tell the truth!”

Harvey clutched at his thick hair, yanking it this way and that. He shook his head back and forth, and his voice was agonized. “Irv, booby...do ya dig it? Can ya think of anything more ghastly?”

He released his hair and pounded himself on the chest. “Me! Harvey Hennicutt! From now on—as long as I own that car—
I gotta keep tellin’ the truth!
”

Three days went by. The three longest days that Harvey Hennicutt could ever remember spending. Patsies came and patsies went and Harvey watched them go, quietly wringing his hands or pulling on his hair or just sitting inside his dinky shack, constitutionally unable even to whisper an adjective—let alone make one of his traditional vaunted pitches. Irving, he set to work making signs, and it was a few of these that the assistant brought into the shack and rather forlornly placed around the room. He pointed at them and looked up at Harvey, who sat there, head in hands.

“I finished the signs, boss,” he said.

Harvey separated two fingers to let an eyeball free. He nodded perfunctorily, then covered up his face again.

Irving cleared his throat. “You want I should put ‘em on the cars... or ya wanna read ‘em?”

Once again, Harvey peeked through his fingers at the signs. “Not Guaranteed,” “In Poor Condition,” “Not Recommended,” they announced in turn.

Irv shook his head. His voice was disconsolate. “I’ve heard of low pressure before, boss...but I mean, let’s face it—this is
no
pressure.”