Caught in the Crotchfire

by Kim Hunt Harris

  I was talking to Doreen about my car situation when Charlotte came in with the boys.

  “I’ll bet you can find something decent on Craigslist,” Doreen said. “My boyfriend’s brother found a ten-year-old Buick Skylark for only two thousand dollars.”

  I thought of the money I had saved up. It was supposed to be for emergencies, not for a car. But when your car craters and you need it to get to work every day, didn’t that constitute an emergency? I hated the idea of forking over everything I’d saved for a car that might very well also crater within the next month itself. Then I would have another emergency and no emergency fund.

  “I’m going to look around at the used car lots and see if I can find something with reasonable payments,” I said. “Surely I can negotiate something.” Although who was I kidding? I was rubbish at negotiating anything.

  “Salem, are you looking for a good used car?” Charlotte said as she handed Bear over the counter to Flo. “My brother-in-law just opened a used car lot on Clovis Highway,” she said. “He could probably find you a good deal.”

  “Is that the one right next to the Executive Inn?” I asked.

  Charlotte laughed. “Yeah, that’s the one. The Executive Inn, right?” She rolled her eyes. “I hate to think the kind of executives who stay at that dive.”

  “Yeah, that’s my grandmother’s place,” I said, smiling to ease the awkwardness. I was of the same opinion as Charlotte. G-Ma had changed the name from Traveler’s Motel to Executive Inn, in the hopes of attracting a better clientele, but clearly more was needed.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be sorry, I agree completely. It’s a dive. She’s had it for thirty years and it’s been a dive the entire time. I think when she bought it she thought she really could attract an executive crowd, but within a couple of years she was just trying to keep the doors open and make a living.”

  “Your brother-in-law is brave to open a business out there,” Doreen said. “All those robberies. You couldn’t pay me to go over there now.”

  “You don’t know the Pigg family. They’re so devoted to that side of town, it’s like their own little fiefdom. If it was possible to be passionately nationalistic about a of couple square miles, that family is. Anyway, Salem, go by there and tell Five I sent you and he needs to make you a good deal.”

  “Ummm…Five?” Surely I’d heard that wrong.

  Charlotte nodded. “That’s what he goes by, the youngest Pigg son. The fifth, obviously, and all the sons’ names start with the letter R. I don’t even remember what his real name is, to tell the truth. Early on, people started calling him number five because they were five little stair step boys.”

  That was interesting, but all I really cared about was whether this Five guy would give me a real deal.

  “What kind of cars do they have there?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “They’re not the latest model or anything, but you can count on them being decent and reliable. Plus, they offer something like a two-year warranty at no extra cost.”

  That was encouraging. If I could put half my emergency fund toward a down payment, then negotiate a payment less than my probation payment had been, I could still manage to put a little bit into the bank. Not as much as I had planned, but still, some. Some would be good.

  “You oughta have enough money to pay cash for a decent used car,” Flo said over the Airedale she was scissoring. “Don’t tell me you spent all that reward money already.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Charlotte said. “I forgot you got that twenty grand when they caught that guy who killed C.J. Hardin.”

  I shook my head quickly. I did not want to go into what had happened to that money. “Actually, no. There were three of us, so I didn’t get the whole thing. And, besides, taxes and stuff. You know. It does go pretty quick and I want to keep as much in the bank as I can.”

  “Well, I won’t tell Five that you came into some money, or else he’ll be less motivated to make you a deal.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

  I thought of that conversation when Viv drove me out to Clovis Highway after work so I could see if there was anything remotely affordable for me.

  As we neared the motel she asked, “You want to pop in and check on your grandmother?”

  “No, I think she’s mad at me for having her arrested for being a madam and ruining her cash flow. Is it a good idea, do you think, for us to drive up there in this car, though? It might give them an idea that I have more to spend than I do.”

  “No, this is good,” Viv said. “It’ll confuse them, and confusion is always a good battle tactic. They’ll wonder why we’re here and not at a real car dealer’s.”

  I had to admit she was probably right, even as my pride wanted to bristle at her choice of words. Just because it was all I could afford didn’t make it “not real.” I would be paying with real money, I knew that for sure.

  “The name makes a lot of sense now,” I said as Viv neared the Five Star lot. “Can’t imagine why he didn’t want to put the name Pigg on his business.”

  “Is this one of those Pigg guys?”

  “Yeah, you know them?”

  “I don’t know them, but you know their daddy. You see him on the news all the time. City Councilman? Always talking about the short end of the stick this part of town gets? Looks like a redneck Santa Claus?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, remembering she’d talked about him the other day. I still had no idea who she was talking about, though. I wasn’t much for civic affairs.

  We drove under the streamers of brightly colored triangle pennants and parked in the center of the lot. I got out and looked around, already nervous that I was going to be taken for a ride. I picked up Stump and tucked her under my arm.

  “Promise you’ll back me up while I negotiate,” I said to Viv. Although she’d negotiated her own car deal like a total sucker. But she was bound to be less emotionally involved in my car than she was in her own.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be driving out of here with a good car you can afford,” she assured me, sounding like a salesman herself.

  Redneck Santa himself walked out of the little portable building that was the dealership office and waved toward us. His long white beard and hair were tinged with yellow, and his hair was tied back in a loose pony tail at the back. He wore jeans and boots and a red button down shirt with a black belt that I couldn’t help but feel was designed to capitalize on his Santa image.

  I immediately felt my hackles rise. He wasn’t going to fool me with that act. I’d wake up in the morning with a crappy car and no green at all on my Christmas tree.

  “How are you ladies doing this fine day?” he boomed as he got closer to us.

  “I can’t spend much,” I said.

  Viv gave me a look.

  “Might as well get it out of the way,” I said.

  “Nothing wrong with setting clear expectations,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t worry, we’ve got something for all budgets. Well, maybe not your budget,” he said with another laugh, leaning with a meaningful eye toward Viv. “Can I ask, is that the new Cadillac LR8 racing model?”

  “It is!” Viv crowed. “You want to see?”

  They fell into a cackling conversation about the wonders and awes of the Cadillac, and within fifteen seconds the Mr. Pigg was sitting beside Viv on the front seat while she pushed different buttons and they oohed and ahhed.

  “It beeps sometimes for no reason,” I said, annoyed that he was so quick to overlook a paying customer, even one who couldn’t spend much.

  “Oh, I got that fixed,” Viv said.

  “And sometimes it goes way slower than it says it’s going.”

  “Got that fixed, too. I had Bernard come over yesterday, and he took care of it right away. See this?” She pushed a little button on the dash. “It’s the metro button. So when you drive in other countries you can switch to their numbers. Like, in Mexico I’d be going, like, Mexican miles an hour.” She
smiled like this made complete sense.

  “Metric,” I said. “Not metro. Metric. So we were going seventy kilometers an hour on Saturday, not miles.”

  “Exactly,” she said, beaming. “Very metropolitan, huh? That’s why they call it the metro button, probably.”

  I blinked, then turned to the Mr. Pigg. “I talked to Charlotte Clancy-Pigg, and she said her brother-in-law owned this place.”

  “Yeah, my boy Five owns it, but he’s out just now. We can take care of you, though.” He turned back to Viv. “Did you get the Performance Data Recorder?”

  “Oh yeah. Take a look at this.”

  “I’ll just look around,” I said. Unnecessarily, since they weren’t listening.

  While Viv and the Redneck Santa were all agog over the Caddy, I wandered through the lot under the huge “Buy Here Pay Here” signs to the sound of plastic bunting snapping in the wind overhead. I immediately ruled out anything that was less than seven years old. I made myself focus on cars that I knew had been budget cars even when they were new, and ruled out anything too sporty. I selected three to choose from — a white hatchback, a small white four-door, and a small red two-door.

  I shifted Stump and held her up to the hatchback. “What do you think, Stump? Can you see yourself driving around town in one of these?”

  Stump seemed unimpressed. But then, nothing much impressed Stump except fast food in paper bags.

  I walked back and forth between the three cars, trying to psych myself up. Eventually, I got annoyed with the anxiety and decided to get it over with.

  “Okay,” I said when I got back to Viv and the Papa Pigg. “I have three contenders.” I pointed to them one by one. “First thing we need to determine is whether any of them will fit within my budget.”

  “Right you are!” he said. “So what’s your budget?”

  I told him how much I could put down and how much I could spend every month.

  I was met with total silence. Then Viv said, “Seriously?”

  “Seriously!” I snapped. “I need a car, and I need it to be dependable. I don’t need it to be fancy or have all kinds of bells and whistles. And I just got out of debt, and I’m not crazy about getting back in. So I’m sticking to my budget. Now, do you have anything in that range?” I put my hand on my hip and narrowed my eyes at the Mr. Pigg.

  “Well, I might have. Not those three, though. They’re all going to be a bit above what you said you could pay. I have a couple around back…” He headed that way, and my stomach sank. They must be really bad if he was keeping them behind the building.

  “Now this one just came in, and we haven’t even cleaned it up yet. Keep that in mind — a clean car, no matter how old or banged up, looks a lot better than a dirty car.”

  My stomach sank further at the “banged up” part, but as we rounded the back of the building I felt a little better. It was a hatchback that had probably at one time been black, but was faded to a flat dark charcoal. It had a black louvered thing over the back window, and I could imagine that, sitting in the showroom a decade or so ago, it had been a pretty sharp sports car.

  I walked around it and eyed it critically. It would help if I had any idea what I was looking for, but I really didn’t. I kicked the tires and peered through the window. Nothing shouted “unreliable piece of junk.”

  “Now, like I said, we’ll clean it up and tighten up anything loose, give it a good going over. Replace the floor mats, stuff like that. So don’t judge it by all the cosmetic stuff.”

  “What’s up with the hood?” I asked. A lighter gray spread across the hood like a stain. If it had been fabric, I would have thought it had had bleach spilled on it.

  “That? Oh, that’s just fading from the sun. The hood is made from a different material than the rest of the car, so the paint sits on it a little differently. That’s just part of having an older car, you know. Little wear and tear. Now, take a seat there and start her up. See what you think.”

  I climbed into the driver’s seat and swung Stump over to the passenger side. She gave me an anxious look but didn’t move. I took the key from Mr. Pigg and slid it into the ignition, giving it a crank.

  Nothing.

  “Go ahead, crank her up,” he said.

  “I’m cranking,” I said. I leaned over and peered at the ignition. It looked like the key was all the way forward, but I tried turning it again.

  Nothing. The key wouldn’t go any farther and the engine didn’t make a peep.

  I straightened and looked at Papa Pigg. “Is the battery dead?”

  Just then, the engine coughed, then roared to life, then coughed again and backfired loudly. Then it died again.

  Viv screamed and ducked. Stump shot into my lap and whined.

  I swung my legs back out of the car. “Okay, how about we look at what’s behind door number two?”

  “Sorry about that,” he said with an embarrassed laugh. “Obviously, Five still has some work to do on that one. We’ll be giving it a good once over and fixing whatever is wrong with that.”

  “I can give you a number for a wrecking yard,” I offered. “They’ll tow it and give you a few bucks for the scrap metal.”

  “I have one more, like I said. It’s around the other side, actually. I figured this one would be more to your liking. But this other one is good, too. You’ll just need to keep an open mind about it.”

  Viv and I gave each other a look.

  “You know the old line about a used car being owned by a little old lady who only drove it on Sundays? Well, in this case, that turns out to be true. We just got this from an estate sale last week. Little old lady who lived at Belle Court — ”

  “Earline Whatley?” Viv asked.

  “Why yes, that is her. Did you know her?”

  Viv nodded. “Yep. We played Bunco together.”

  “Her grandson brought this in last week. I’m telling you, it’s like taking a step back in time.”

  We rounded the corner and I saw with a sickening feeling exactly what he was talking about.

  Parked beside the building was a low-slung tan and white car that stretched the length of the little portable building.

  Viv whistled through her teeth. “Is that a 1975 Monte Carlo?”

  “Seventy-four,” Mr. Pigg said. “In mint condition.”

  Viv ran her hand over the vinyl roof. “Landau edition,” she breathed. “Oh my. I wanted one of these so bad back then. This is what Sue Ellen Ewing drove on Dallas. Remember that show?” she asked the Papa Pigg.

  “Of course I do. We had a pool going to bet on who shot J.R. I lost twenty dollars on that and have never forgotten it.”

  They laughed, clearly transported back to a time when this — this car that was half the length of my trailer — was not ancient. Since I hadn’t been born yet in 1974, I had a different perspective. To me, this was only one step removed from Fred Flintstone’s car powered by his own fat feet.

  I circled the car in a daze while they went on and on about how this had been the IT car, back in the day. I opened the passenger door and stuck my head inside. It was clean, I had to give them that. The upholstery looked brand new.

  In fact, everything about it looked brand new. Old but new. It was weird.

  “Can you pop the hood?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah, you need to see this.”

  He reached under the dash and pulled a lever, and the hood popped up.

  He waddled around the front and fiddled under the hood, then lifted it.

  “Would you look at that?” he asked. “I mean, look at it. How in the world did they keep it so clean? I mean, in this area? Dirt gets all over everything, right? They must have had a hermetically sealed garage!”

  As before, I had no idea what I was looking for, but it did look clean and new. The hoses were all shiny and black, and the engine itself didn’t have a speck of dust on it. Papa Pigg was right — it was highly unusual to see anything without dust in West Texas.

  “Now sit down here and crank t
his baby up. You’re not going to believe it.”

  I was less than enthusiastic, given the results of my last cranking, but I set Stump onto the bench seat and sat down.

  Stump had apparently never seen a bench seat before. She curled up beside my thigh and let her breath out with a big snuffle. By the time I got the key into the ignition and turned it, she was snoring.

  The engine turned over easily. As it did, I gave Viv a panicked look. It actually felt like the car lifted slightly off the ground.

  “Feel that power?” she asked with glee. “Now this is what a car is supposed to feel like.”

  I could feel the power through the steering wheel. It was as if I was sitting in the cockpit of a fighter jet or something. I pressed gently on the gas.

  Vrrooooom.

  Stump startled awake and looked at me. She seemed impressed.

  Viv hurried around to the passenger side and climbed in. “Salem, you have to buy this car. Did you hear that? Man, we’d be chasing bad guys all over town in this thing!”

  “Viv, this thing is half a block long. I don’t even know if it will fit in my driveway.”

  “Of course it will. It’s probably the same age as your trailer anyway.”

  That was depressingly true.

  “And look at it. It’s as if it’s been in a museum or something.” She ran her hand over the dashboard. “Oh, I wanted one of these so bad back in the seventies!”

  An uncomfortable thought niggled at the edge of my mind. Viv was one of the wealthiest people I knew. I mean, most everyone I knew was living paycheck to paycheck like I was, but still. I knew just living at Belle Court wasn’t cheap, and she lived in the nicest place there. That guy from the Cadillac dealer had treated her like their best customer, and for good reason. I’d known her a couple of years and she was on her third brand new car. She wore thousand dollar shoes and carried three thousand dollar handbags. I counted her as one of my best friends, and I loved hanging out with her. But sometimes I had to admit, I was envious of her ability to throw money around.