A Set Of Wheels Page 7

  Norma and I lie stiff for about five minutes. I can tell by a kind of low humming that’s going on in the back of her throat that she is enjoying all this immensely. Like a little hide-and-seek from the coppers is part of her daily life, a favorite game. We hear a lot of running around and some growled orders and responding curses. In the next aisle there’s some rough stuff, I’m sure. Sounds like cops pushing a couple of our guys against some bottles. Cracking glass and angry oaths, shoving, howls of pain.

  Gradually, silence returns to the supermarket. Cars drive away outside, a couple of them with sirens sounding. A last voice or two drifts to us from nearby aisles, the final cops making the final checks. Then they leave, too, and Norma and I continue to hide out for a few moments longer.

  Pushing away the sacks, I feel a crick in my back as I try to slide out onto the linoleum floor. The last cops turned out the lights when they left and now the store seems darker than ever. Norma scrambles out beside me, stands up right away, and starts walking toward the rear of the store. She stops, looks back at me, says:

  Let’s go, lardass.

  And right then I know she’s Lincoln Rockwell X’s daughter all right.

  — 4 —

  Norma leads me to the back door, the one her father had opened with keys from his packed key chain. I peek out. Three cars from the convoy are still out back, parked at odd angles to each other. Nobody’s anywhere near them now. The cops apparently decided to leave no guards. I motion Norma forward and we cross the loading platform. As we go by the three cars, I check each one to see if there’re any keys left in their ignitions. Not key one. Directing me with a gesture of her thin left arm, Norma leads me across the parking lot to the bushes, retracing the route she and her father had taken earlier. Being out in the open like this makes me nervous and I’m checking all directions. Norma doesn’t even turn her head, just strides on in jaunty little-girl steps.

  We reach the edge of the parking lot and work our way through a break in the shrubbery. On the other side of the bushes is a small cement-surfaced playground. Doesn’t look like it’s used very much. Only one or two functional swings, empty chains hanging down from the other places. The remaining seesaw is split in half, both sides touching the patched rubber foundation. The slide looks like if you try it you’ll get metal ass-splinters,

  Daddy, Norma whispers.

  Lincoln Rockwell X answers:

  Over here, honeybun.

  Norma leads me to what turns out to be a sandbox. A fence surrounds a deep square hole in which there’re only a few grains of sand. Lincoln Rockwell X is crouching there. So is Cora. I’m so glad to see Cora safe I break into a smile. Either she doesn’t see it in the darkness or she chooses to ignore it.

  Norma climbs over the fence and into her daddy’s arms. He hugs her to him. She puts her arms around his neck and smears kisses all over his face.

  See, babe, I told ya, he says to Cora.

  Yeah, I see.

  See what? I say.

  I told your ladyfox that I told the kid where to go if there was trouble. Norma’s got more brains than her daddy already and you make any sarcasm about the state of her daddy’s brains and you’ll find a blade in your throat, babe.

  His angry reference to sarcasm tells me that he’s had a chance to chat with Cora for a while.

  So—a little child has fuckin’ led you, he says to me.

  She saved my ass, man, I say, feeling a glow of camaraderie for my old friend.

  Well, he says, I can’t speak well for her judgement there but at least she knows how to get the job done, right?

  Some of the camaraderie feeling leaks away. I lean on the fence, say to Cora:

  You all right?

  Why wouldn’t I be? she says. I just happened to fall into the arms of the man here just as the cops made their noisy entrance. The man knows all the escape routes.

  That’s right, babe.

  He knows the escape routes so well that I’m thinking he might have figured escape into his original game plan.

  What the fuck do you mean by that, bacteria-tits?

  I mean like you mighta set us up, shine-face.

  Lincoln Rockwell X looks like he might take a slice at Cora if he didn’t have Norma squirming in his arms and loving the hell out of him.

  I don’t set anybody up, he says. The mean is in his voice at double its usual intensity.

  Cora laughs. I wish she’d get some sense and stop pursuing this particular subject. She’s always got to make her play against the leader, damn it. I mean, when we’re alone with Lincoln Rockwell X in a deserted playground and there’s nothing but cops and darkness all around us, it doesn’t make no nevermind whether or not Lincoln Rockwell X set us up. It’s all right if he sent out engraved announcements. But Cora goes on prodding him:

  You don’t set anybody up. That is fucking rich. What about our mutual old buddy Lee here? You tell me you didn’t set him up when you dealt him that shitpile of a car? You deny that?

  That’s a different sort of dealing, and I don’t want to stand here arguing the philosophy of legitimate business with a titless wonder like you.

  You did set us up, didn’t you?

  Lincoln Rockwell X gently removes Norma’s arms from around his neck, kisses her almost demurely on the forehead, and sets her down. She immediately grabs his pants leg.

  Look, no-tits, I don’t have to explain a fucking thing to you.

  He towers over her. I can tell she’s trying to stand as straight as possible. She doesn’t realize she’s doing it, but she always glances briefly down at her chest a moment or two after each of his references to her small breasts. He clears his throat, says:

  The deal between Lee and me was up and up. He saw the wheels, he knew he was buying, he knew I was overcharging. That, titless, is business. The setup is part of the contract, dig? Tonight'd be something else. I don’t set up my clients, not to the cops anyway. The only way I set up clients is in my fee, which is always more than I’m willing to accept if anybody’s willing to argue. No matter how much I despise the motherfuckers, these’re my clients and I don’t set them up. Nobody sets anybody up. This crew tonight’s so dumb they probably put out signs. Robbery In Progress, Next Junction. Rip-off, two miles ahead. Well, their dumb is none of my nevermind. Course I know the escape routes, ’cause I know dumb. If I trusted my clients to have smarts, I’d be right there in the slammer with ’em. Got it? Answer me, no-tits! Got it!

  Cora leans sideways, against the fence. I reach out and touch her shoulder. She moves away from my hand.

  Yeah, she says. Guess so. Sorry to step into your shit, man.

  That’s all right, ladyfox. You treat old Lee here well, okay? I wouldn’t admit it to anybody else but there’re moments when I come damn close, damn close, to liking him. Damn close.

  I’d like to believe him. Can I? Probably not. He looks up at me and I can’t tell what the hell he means, either from the look on his face or from his voice. He’s been this way as long as I can remember and all the intelligence units in the world working together would be unable to crack his codebook.

  Well, he says, it’s past teatime for my kid and me. We gotta be splitting, goin’ on down the road. I drop you two anywhere?

  I explain our wheels are parked three blocks away.

  Okay, I will deliver you there in style, he says. Norma and me, we got our own way out of the park. You lead, child.

  Norma takes us through some more shrubbery on the other side of the playground and across a couple of backyards. Out an alley and we’re on a dark street. Lincoln Rockwell X takes over the lead and points us up the block to where a car is serenely parked beneath a willow tree. Branches of the tree hang over and obscure the car from anybody except those who know where to look.

  He is not kidding about the stylish part. His car is one of the late-models. One of the last ever made, he says. Ever. It is two-tone maroon and cream with large windows all around. Inside, the upholstery is genuine leather and the dash
board looks like it belongs inside an airplane. The sound system alone looks like it could receive signals from Aldebaran or Betelgeuse. Cora slides into the middle of the front seat, her eyes bulging with pleasure.

  Man oh man, she says to Lincoln Rockwell X, you must really make a living!

  He laughs heartily and takes the driver’s seat.

  Yeah, pretty-eyes, I can be said to make something of a living.

  She smiles at him. I can see it’s her best smile, the one I’m still waiting for from before.

  Can I drive? she says.

  The air inside the car changes, as if clouds have zipped in the window.

  Nobody drives this buggy but me, Lincoln Rockwell X says. Nobody. Ever.

  Fucking shitface motherfucker, Cora says.

  Suddenly, without warning, he gives her a backhand slap on her near cheek. He hasn’t got enough leverage to really hurt her, but the point is made. Cora stares silently ahead, her eyes moist but stubbornly without any falling tears. Lincoln Rockwell X starts the motor—I can just barely hear it’s running—and the car edges smoothly away from the curb. The droopy ends of the willow tree caress the windshield and pass out of sight.

  The only thing anybody says for at least three minutes is when Lincoln Rockwell X mutters:

  Nobody. Ever.

  — 5 —

  Cora mutters tribal curses at Lincoln Rockwell X as he drives his monster-car away. His last words to me were, you got my number, you need anything call! Norma’s waving out the back window as the car drives up the street and fades out of sight around a tree-lined curve.

  You want to drive back? I say to Cora, interrupting an imprecation that probably would’ve continued to eternity.

  She looks at me for a moment as if she doesn’t understand the question, so I say:

  If you’d like to drive again, it’s okay.

  Some further blankness on her part, then:

  No. You.

  As she slides in the passenger side, she says:

  After being in that supercharged Cadilleac, I can’t drive this piece of junk for a while.

  She actually says that, Cadill-e-ac. I feel like I should apologize to the Mustang for her. Maybe Mustangs understand about Cadilleacs.

  Hit it, Cora says.

  After that fiasco back there, Chuck’s not exactly going to be glad to see us. Maybe we should take off for someplace else.

  I don’t give a shit.

  I just don’t know where. Any suggestions?

  Plenty, but none you’d take.

  We just sit and carefully don’t talk for a minute, then Cora says:

  Hell, no, I don’t want to go anywhere else. Screw Chuck. I want to see Emil again, talk to him.

  Wouldn’t mind a chat with the old man myself.

  So let’s turn the key and make it, huh, Lee?

  I turn the key but that is all that happens. Almost all. The Mustang does manage a couple of chugging noises but refuses to start. I work the gas pedal up and down several times. Cora leans over, looks at the dashboard, then points to the E on the gas gauge.

  It’s empty! she says. How could you be so—

  Don’t Cora! Look, I did fill it. Wait a minute, what am I saying? Filling it was your job, you took care of the car before the briefing.

  That stops her for a minute, as she thinks back.

  Then something’s the hell wrong, she says. I did fill it. I was careful to shake out every little drop. I remember. Clearly. What’s wrong?

  Gas leak in the line, maybe.

  Let’s get out and check.

  Did you put gas cans in the trunk?

  Sure, The Mech gave me an extra. We’re straight, so long as the car works.

  Outside, the evidence confronts us. A broken-off piece of tubing lies near the left rear wheel. The trunk’s lock is broken, there are marks where it’s been pried open. All the gas cans are gone.

  Son of a bitch! Cora says. We been ripped off. Some son of a bitch siphoned off all the gas in the tank then stole the gas cans! What a fucking shitty thing to do. Couldn’t they leave us one can? If they wanted the cans, why’d they bother with the siphoning? What kind of a son of a—

  Take it easy, Cora. It’s done.

  Oh, sure, it’s done. What’re we gonna do? Walk back? Or you got some kind of miracle up your sleeve? Turn your piss into gasoline or something?

  Stop! Let me think for a minute. Let’s both of us think, okay?

  Won’t the noise wake up the neighborhood? No, don’t answer. All right. Think.

  The solution I'm trying to avoid keeps intruding on my thoughts. I have to acknowledge it.

  Got a quarter? I say.

  You kidding?

  No. I ain’t got a cent either.

  Why you want a quarter?

  Phone call.

  What, you want to phone the cops, report stolen gas?

  No. Matter of fact, I was going to phone my mother.

  That stops Cora.

  Your mama! she says.

  Well, she lives about two miles from here, but it’s one of those guarded communities. Only way we can get through is to call her and have her tell the guards to let us in. But we need a quarter to call.

  What’s the advantage?

  No advantage. It’s just a place to go.

  Yeah, what we could use. Well, lead the way. Maybe we can find a quarter in the gutter.

  * * * * *

  The quarter comes easier than we’d anticipated, if not by a route I could favor. We mug a guy out walking his dog. You don’t see that many guys out walking anything these days, and an opportunity’s an opportunity. Cora distracts him and I jump him, hold him down while she goes through his pockets.

  We only want a quarter, she says to the guy. He struggles harder in my grip. The dog, a chubby hairy monster, barks at us but keeps a wise distance. She finds the quarter, hollers Voila!, I let the guy go, and we run like hell away. Looking back over my shoulder, I see the guy start to chase after us. Then his dog trips up his feet and he falls. He hits the pavement with his hand as if the dumb quarter was really important to him, I'll never understand how people can go bananas over small amounts of money. As we realize it’s safe to slow down, and do, I say to Cora:

  Hell of a way to make a living.

  She laughs.

  Ah, the bastard deserves to be mugged. Walking his ugly goddamned dog.

  Why does walking a dog make him an eligible victim?

  Ah, I don’t know. Just that there’s enough dogshit around, you know? What good’s a guy out in the dark of the night contributing dogshit to all the other shit that’s out there?

  You may have a point. Let’s find a working phone.

  That may be the miracle of the week around here.

  We walk a few steps. Out of nowhere comes this car. A nightroamer. Some jerkoff inside looking out like it’s not him that’s trapped in the cage. He just creeps along beside us, doesn’t even roll down his window and shout at us. Cora yells a couple of her choicest obscenities at him. He probably doesn’t hear. He probably has fifty tracks of loud music enveloping him, shell within shell. I’m furious. This is what I bought beatup wheels to get away from. Finally I notice an empty garbage can on its side in an alleyway. Darting into the alley, I pick up the can and hurl it at the nightroamer’s car. My aim is off and it just bounces harmlessly off the side door. But it makes the jerkoff take his face off the glass and zoom away. Cora gives him the finger, but I doubt he sees it.

  We find a working phone. For a minute I’m not sure of the number, then I dial what seems like the thousand digits that compose it. As I hear the ringing inside the receiver, my heart starts to beat faster. The beat seems to be saying, let it not be Harold, let it not be Harold, let it not be—

  But there’s a click, a voice says Hello, and my heart seems to fold up. It is Harold.

  Harold, this is Lee. I—

  Ah-ha, a voice from the dead. And at midnight. Perfect timing. Goodbye Lee.

  Wait a minute! P
lease! I’m in,trouble, Harold.

  So, what’s new?

  Harold has this keen sense of humor always, as if he’s collected every old comedy routine and situation comedy gag in the history of banal humor.

  I need to come over there.

  Over there, over there, send the word, send the word—

  Harold is actually singing a song in my ear! Songs are another part of his comedy repertoire. I wait it out.

  Why do you want to come over here? he says finally. Did the welfare finally go out of business?

  Please, Harold. We can do bits later. Tell the guards I’m coming there and bringing a friend.

  Is your friend human?

  Why do you say that?

  There’s a full moon tonight or perhaps you haven’t noticed.

  You bring anything that howls and I’ll wooden-stake the both of you.

  Will you tell the guards please?

  Of course. I wouldn’t endanger familial harmony. I'll wake your mother. She’s always glad to be shaken out of a sound sleep to see you.

  Thank you, Harold.

  Don’t mention it, Lee. Or do mention it. Again, or I’ll reconsider.

  Thanks, Harold.

  Okay, I’ll inform the guards. You know what to say to them when you get here.

  Sure.

  And no sarcasms this time.

  Yeah.

  They don’t take kindly to sarcasms.

  I understand.

  I’m still hearing about you from the day shift.

  I’ll behave.

  Okay. See ya later, alligator.

  Goodbye.

  Wait. See you later, alligator.

  He is pronouncing each word precisely. He is demanding the ritual response. I try to mutter it so Cora won’t hear.

  After while, crocodile.

  I hang up before he can tell me louder. Cora’s heard everything, but she’s either too tired out to mock me, or has had a sudden attack of consideration for my feelings.

  — 6 —