COOKING RIGHT ALONG, WITH THE TOP DOWN AND THE breeze whistling past his hairy, slightly pointed ears, on a fresh new mission, feeling fit and frisky in the warm early-spring afternoon, Dangerfield, the account man, the closer, motored into the valley at the wheel of his beloved MGA, a classic like its driver. Spinning through the curves of the little two-lane, admiring the blooming trees, the blooming shrubs, the blooming daffodils or whatever the hell they were by the roadside, he at first missed the cruiser in his rearview, its blue light going.
Damnation, said Dangerfield. He pulled over.
Dangerfield watched the cop car in his side mirror. Then he smiled. For there emerged from the cruiser not the massive, bull-necked, buzz-cut colossus of his expectation, but a slender young woman who looked to carry no more than a hundred pounds, most of it in the equipment belt which, on leaving the cruiser, she settled atop her narrow hips. She placed a flat-brim state trooper hat on her head, leveled it, and approached the MGA. Dangerfield waited. This was going to be fun.
Is there a problem, officer? asked Dangerfield when the young woman stood at his window.
“No, sir,” said the cop, “but there soon will be. You’re about to run out of road. Pavement ends right up here around the bend. After that, it’s pretty soft for a mile or so, pretty muddy. I saw you heading for it. I thought I’d warn you. A friendly warning.”
Thanks, Sweetheart, said Dangerfield. I’m not worried about a little mud.
“You should be, sir. You’ll never make it in this.” The young officer glanced dubiously over the MGA.
I’ll make it. I always get where I’m going.
The young officer gave him an appraising look. Did she sense something not right about this stop, something off?
“Where are you going, sir?” she asked.
Taft. I’m looking for a Mr. Taft. You know him?
“No, sir, but I know his place. He’s up here past the unpaved section. Like I said, you won’t make it this way. You might go around the other way.”
Sure, sure, said Dangerfield. He smiled at her. Tell me, Sweetheart, he said, are you really a cop?
“Trooper Madison, sir. Brattleboro Barracks. Vermont State Police.”
Reason I ask, said Dangerfield. For a second, there, I thought maybe you were a Girl Scout.
The trooper’s eyes narrowed. “Sir?”
But then, Dangerfield went on, I guess the Girl Scouts aren’t issued three-fifty-sevens, even in Vermont. Or are they? He smiled again, blandly, and nodded at the revolver mounted on the young trooper’s heavy belt.
The trooper didn’t smile.
“May I see your license and registration, sir?”
Dangerfield feigned surprise. Absolutely, officer, but why? I thought this was a friendly warning.
“License and registration, sir, please.”
Dangerfield handed them over. The trooper examined them.
“What kind of a license is this, sir?”
Special permit.
“Wait here, please, sir,” the trooper said. “I’ll have to run this.”
Mind if I stretch while you do that? said Dangerfield, and made to open his door.
“Remain seated, please, sir. Do not exit your vehicle.” Dangerfield sat back. Now for the fun.
The trooper returned to her cruiser. She removed her hat and slipped into the driver’s seat. She bent to her radio. Suddenly, the man in the little car looked to her like all kinds of wrong, all kinds of bad news. She would run his license, if it was a license; and, though she hated to do so, she would call for assistance. She keyed her radio. She looked up and toward the sports car to get a plate number. She looked again.
The MGA was gone. The driver was gone. He hadn’t driven off. He and his vehicle had disappeared. The road was empty. Where the car had been, beside the road, was nothing but the budding woodland and the nodding daffodils. Dangerfield had vanished.