Hell's Gate

texture of steel wool, followed him everywhere, alternately shocked, frightened, apologetic, and scornful. Yes, she had sold his things. Yes, maybe she had moved a bit quickly. However, there was the back rent. And he was supposed to be dead. She was so sorry. But that was rude of him, leaving without word, making no arrangements about the rent.
        He found three cartons of papers she had not thrown out, Mrs. Dill said they had a great many drawings which she thought she might have framed and sold. After all, he had no relatives. Parents dead. There had not been anyone to contact to claim the corpse. Of course she was sorry she had acted so swiftly. He didn't think she was being mercenary, did he?
        He loaded the drawings in the car and cautioned Intrepid not to bother them. He had to move the dog in the front seat on the passengers side and pack the boxes in the luggage area. He drove off with Mrs. Dill looking after him, somewhat depressed that all those saleable drawings had slipped through her fingers, but happy that he had not thought to ask for the excess money she had obtained through the sale of his furniture and drafting equipment.
        He had lunch in a cluttered, noisy restaurant that, despite its lack of decor and atmosphere, served an appetizing meal. Later, confronted with Intrepid's sad, drooping face, he bought a can of chicken meat dog food and fed him too.
        At ten minutes of five, he called the advertising agency he-or the real Salsbury-had worked for, and talked to Mel Heimer, his boss. He listened to the ranting and raving about his ten-day disappearance, then informed them he did not want the job back. He listened to Heimer's face fall three inches, then hung up.
        He felt no pleasure, particularly. It saddened him a little to know that telling Heimer off was probably the one thing the real Salsbury wanted to do more than anything else in the world.
        There was one more errand he wished to make, and that required him to drive across the city to an art store his phony memory assured him he had visited many times before. As he drove, he listened to Intrepid appraise the passing cars. The little ones were usually worth a stare that turned him around in his seat. The good models drew an easy, low snuffle. When a Cadillac or Corvette went by, the hound bounced in his seat and whuffed at them. He was actually a pretty fair judge of quality; except that he saved his best reactions for beaten up pick-ups and little noisy motorbikes.
        At the art store, Victor walked up and down the aisles for more than two hours, choosing things. Pastels, illustration board, oils, brushes, canvas, solvent, pencils. His fingers touched shelves, came away with what they wanted. He knew, subconsciously, exactly what was needed to start a studio from scratch. Each item gave him a sharp bitter-sweet feeling of déjŕ vu. He also bought a huge drafting table, attachable light, sketch filing cabinet, enlarger, portable photocopier, light tracer. He paid five hundred in cash, wrote a check for the rest. The clerk had looked so nervous (possibly wondering if this was a sadist who piled up a purchase to be delivered and then paid with a phony check, all for fun) Salsbury could not bear paying him by check only.
        At a quarter until nine, he stopped and ate at a hamburger stand, two for him and two for Intrepid. He could not find a water fountain, so he bought the dog a Coke as large as his own. The mutt was so excited about the taste of it that he forgot his table manners and slopped the stuff all over the seat and himself. Salsbury took it away, wiped the spilled portion up, and explained the importance of reservation. When he let the dog drink again, he was much more careful.
        By nine thirty, he was starting the hour drive back to Oak Grove.
        He didn't know what kind of a night it was going to be.
        It was going to be very bad.
        
        A shower, tooth brushing, and flat tire saved his life. The combination of the three served to keep him up and awake much later than he intended.
        The flat tire was first. When he settled the car along the curb, he took off his jacket and set about changing the tire, only to discover, when he brought the jack down after all his work, that the spare was also flat.
        He remembered that a gas station was somewhere ahead, though he could not think how far. He took the spare off the car and set out