No matter, Lee. This’s the way we’re doin’ it. I’m doin’ it, anyway. You come, not come, your decision.
Her voice is firm, sure. You can’t win with her when she’s in this kind of mood. Lately, you can’t win with her when she’s in any kind of mood. I look at the Buick, whose brilliant color is hard on the eyes even in the dim light of the garage. I look back toward the house, get a mental X-ray picture of Mother and Harold sleeping away. No matter how this works out, I won’t be exactly welcome home again. But I don’t do what she says, I lose Cora. I’m damn sick of having to give up something to get something. There’s got to be some other way of running my life. I look back at Cora. Her face is calm. She is being ostentatiously patient, as if she reads my mind and is willing to wait for all the rusty gears to click into place.
Okay, I say to Cora, give me the keys.
You son of a bitch! I want to drive this baby. It’s my right.
Don’t see how it’s your right.
I come up with the plan, I stole the keys for it, I get to carry it out. That’s only right. Even you can—
No, Cora. If we’re gonna steal from Harold, then it’s me that’s got the rights. Harold’s Buick’s my responsibility, I’ll drive. Give me the keys.
You sonofabitchin’ bastard, she says but gives me the keys. She sulks all the way around the front of the car, shoots furious looks at me across the hood. When we’ve settled—collapsed into—the plush seats of the car, she mutters:
Okay, I agree, you got the right. But that don’t make me like you for it, you crapmouth bastard.
Cora I—
The key there goes in the ignition, the ignition is the doohickey next to the—
Please shut up.
Yes, sir, master.
The car starting up sounds like just the sort of explosion that’ll bounce Harold right out of bed. I’m sure he hears it. Cora insists on using the electric garage-door opener that’s set into the dashboard, and we back out into the dark street. I think I can feel eyes gaping at us from inside the house, as I swing the Buick around and drive past.
— 8 —
Harold’s car is customized, just like usual. Cora loves it. She works the panel of buttons, makes all the windows go up and down several times. Then she inspects all the gadgets in the glove compartment. She discovers the tape deck, puts in a cassette, squeals with delight even though it’s only one of those thousand-stringed orchestras playing songs that were dull even before they got their schlocky violins wrapped around them.
She turns out to be right about the guards. We zoom through the gate without even seeing them. I’m sure they see us, but we’re in the clear before they can lift a phone receiver or press an alarm button.
Cora, bopping to the draggy melody, says:
Hey, what’re we doing going back to your wheels? Might as well be in for the pie as the slice.
What do you mean?
I mean we’ve already stole Mr. Harold’s Buick. The deed is done. Chances are, we get it back to the Expressway, nobody’s going to send out search parties for it. This car’s got some power. We won’t have to blush when—
Forget it. I’m not gonna keep Harold’s goddamn Buick.
Dumb shitface motherfucker. Now I seen your mother, I know you must be the motherfucker of all time.
Damn it. Be reasonable. This car’s like putting out a flag. We’d get to keep it about a week, and that’s with luck, then either somebody’d rip us off or some cop is gonna make a special effort to take us and the car into custody, so he can let us go and keep it. You know that, Cora.
Yeah, know it. But, Jesus Christ, Lee, we’d at least have a good set of wheels for a week. That’d be better than a year in your—
I want my own car back.
Yeah, you and that stupidassed Mustang. Shit. That’s your car awright, you deserve each other. Okay, you go back to your rotten wheels, leave me these.
I can’t do that, you know that.
What difference does it make really? They catch me alone in old Harold’s Buick, you’re better off. You’re off the hook, or at least only dangling from it by your lip. I know you, you can sweet-talk your mommy into thinking the whole thing’s my fault.
Not that easy. She don’t care if she never sees me again.
I remember how she told me she loved me without looking at me. The pain’s still there.
You just don’t know your mama, Lee.
I suppose you do, after ten minutes’ acquaintance.
I can do anything in ten minutes that takes you your whole frigging life to figure out. Let me keep this car, Lee.
I’d let her drive any other car, but not Harold’s Buick, it’d be like giving a doper a full key of anything, and I don’t know any way I can tell her that. She goes on grumbling as we turn the corner onto the street where we left the Mustang. Up ahead first thing we see, next to the Mustang, under a bright streetlamp that hadn’t been working before, is a flashing red light. Just what I need right now.
God damn it, I say. Cora says it too, just slightly after, an echo that almost overlaps.
Fuzz? Cora says.
Looks like it. Flashing red lights don’t usually mean the Goodwill’s come to call.
I slow down, pull easily over to the curb, switch off my lights as if I’m just a nightroamer arriving home after a pleasant evening of terrorizing street people downtown.
Looks more like a truck than a police car, Cora says.
It hits me what it is.
Shit, I mutter.
What?
It’s a tow truck. A police tow truck. They’re going to tow the Mustang away.
Cora laughs and mutters, hot damn.
What’re you laughing about?
Tough titty, Lee. We got to keep the Buick now.
Maybe, maybe not.
What’re you thinking of?
If I tell her, she’s going to mock me out. Instead, I remove the keys from the ignition so she can’t get her hands on them while I’m out of the car, then I get out and casually walk around to the back of the Buick and take two filled gas cans out of the trunk. Sliding back into the car, I hand the cans to Cora.
These ain’t going to do us any good, she says. We can’t gas up now. They’ve already got your wheels hooked up to the truck. They’re just tightening it now, see?
Yeah, I see. You take the gas cans and—
Hey Lee, I don’t know what kind of dumb play you got in mind, but drop it. The Mustang’s lost. It’s now your contribution to city charities, get it? It’s on its way to that great junkyard in the sky, all compacted and absolved of its sins. No use wasting us trying to get it back. Let it go, Lee, let it—
Cora, you take the gas cans and when I honk—
I don’t want any part of this.
You don’t have to do much. Just splash some of the gas onto the trunk of one of those trees on the lawn to the rear of the Mustang. Don’t say anything, just listen. When you hear me honk, you set a match to that gas and get out of the way quick. The fire should draw off at least one of the cops. I’ll take care of the other. You just get yourself to the tow truck and climb in streetside. I’ll join you.
Fuck you.
Cora, please.
I don’t want any part of this chuckle-headed brainstorm, Lee. And I’m not going to be accomplice to another cop-killing.
I’m not going to kill ’em, just get ’em away from the truck.
With your fucking record, somebody’s liable to get killed.
All right, all right. You walk back to the Expressway. I'll figure out some other way.
She stares at me for a long time. The tow truck cops seem satisfied that the Mustang’s attached tightly to their chain. One of them pulls on the chain at least four times. The other climbs into the cab of the truck and works the lifting device. The chain raises the Mustang into the air. When the lifting abruptly stops, the car sways momentarily from side to side. For a moment it looks like it’s about to slip off the chain, but it’s just an optical illusi
on caused by the shifting shadows around it.
Awright, you sonofabitch, Cora finally says. Never copped a tow truck before. It’s suicide. But I’ll help you. Those fuzzbrains better leave the keys in the ignition or they’ll be throwin’ us into the compacter along with the wheels.
Cora…
But she’s out of the car and lost in the darkness quickly. Too quickly. I’m scared. I take the legendary deep breath, then start the Buick again. Putting it into reverse, I back quietly to the corner of the street without turning on headlights. The cops don’t take any notice. They’re standing by the truck and chatting. One of them seems ready to climb into the cab and haulass away. I stop the Buick, shift it into drive, take another breath, and honk once. Almost immediately, a plume of flame rises from a tree behind the Mustang. Good, Cora, good. One of the cops whirls around and runs toward the flame. The other one takes a couple of steps, draws a gun. Well, I’m going to have to get his attention. I ram my foot onto the gas pedal. Cora’s right, Harold’s got himself a vehicle with real power this time. It picks up speed faster than I’d expected. I almost can’t time things right. Steering the Buick first right at the tow truck, I suddenly switch on its lights. The cop with the gun looks toward me, shading his eyes with his free hand. Damn it, he’s pointing the gun at me. Shifting the steering wheel slightly to the left, I point the car at him. I can almost hear Cora whispering no, and I swerve back again. The windshield becomes a spiderweb as the cop’s shot hits it. He’s turned now and he’s running like hell away from the Buick. Twisting the steering wheel more to the left so it won’t collide with the tow truck or the cop, I open the Buick’s door and leap out. A hundred pains shoot through my body as I hit the ground and start to roll. The Buick just misses hitting the hood of the truck, seems to glance by its bumper, and careens on down the sidewalk. My arm throbs with pain as I complete my body roll and stand up. Holding it to my side, I make for the tow truck. As I open up the driver-side door, first I see Cora scrunched down against the opposite door and second I hear a basso profundo voice behind me yell:
Freeze, punk!
One foot in the cab, the other dangling free, most of my weight supported by the door which I cling to with my throbbing arm, I freeze.
His large frame turned into a moving shadow by the firelight behind him, the cop who’d gone to inspect the burning tree moves cautiously toward me, his gun arm raised.
You got any weapons, you throw them down right this minute, he shouts.
I’m clean.
Who is it? shouts the other cop. Sounds like he’s halfway down the street.
Don’t move punk, my cop says.
I’m trying hard not to move, but it’s hard to keep my dangling leg immobile and the pain in my arm makes it jerk unintentionally.
Where are you, Bill? my cop says.
Over here. The other side of that stupid yellow car. It’s crashed against something. Can’t tell what. Looks like a lawn ornament. A giant black jockey, I think.
Well, get the hell back here. I need help with this jerk.
I’ve got to find my gun!
Your gun?
I lost my fucking gun when I was running away from the fucking car. I got to find it. It must be here somewhere.
Get back here.
Screw you. They’re fining a week’s pay for the loss of a sidearm nowadays. I’m gonna fucking find it. You take care of the punk.
But he might have help, he—
You take care of it, Jerry.
Behind me, I hear soft rustling sounds. Cora sliding over on the seat. What the hell is she doing?
Get down out of there, the cop says to me.
Stall him, Cora whispers.
I’m comfortable, I say to the cop.
Get down or I’ll pull you down, stupid!
Stall, Cora whispers.
I’se comin’ boss, I say.
Comedian, says the cop.
Stall, Cora whispers.
My foot’s caught, I say.
I’ll chop it off for you if you don’t—
Now! Cora yells.
She starts the truck and it lurches forward. I fall away from the cab, my one foot still wedged into something inside, my arm still clinging to the door. It swings outward and I hang on for dear life. Cora applies the brake heavily and I swing back. She reaches out her left arm and grabs my belt. She’s got a good grip. I see a seatbelt hanging down and latch onto it, hold it as tightly as I can.
Hang on! she screams and slams down on the accelerator again. The truck has great pickup and we zoom off down the street. Cora’s grip and the seatbelt keep me from falling to the pavement through the ravine between the truck door and the cab. I try to ignore the sound that seems like a shot. Cora stops the truck smoothly when we are about a hundred yards away from the cops.
Get in quick, she shouts, ’fore they start to chase after us.
She has slid a bit sideways, away from me, making a space on the seat for me. She still holds tightly to the steering wheel. I don’t ask to take over. I pull the door close to me, there’s not enough room to shut it.
As we lurch forward again, I sneak a glance back. Harold’s Buick, on display beneath a streetlamp, looks quite battered by its misadventure. It doesn’t seem likely, but the hood seems bent sideways. Looks like a club fighter’s nose. Harold won’t be pleased.
— 9 —
After we’re safely distanced from the cops, Cora tells me to drive the truck the rest of the way. She doesn’t feel like driving, she says. When we’re outside the city limits, I hold the truck at what seems the safest fast speed, one that won’t damage my Mustang dangling so forlornly on its chain.
Cora grouses all the way back to the Savarin. All the way. She can’t get it out of her head how we might’ve kept the Buick. I don’t know what’s got into her. She knows I wouldn’t abandon the Mustang, especially not for Harold’s Buick. You got to be practical, I tell her. The Mustang may be no prize, but it does the job. The Buick’d only be a toy. She says she wanted it for her toy and for me to shut up.
At the Savarin she practically runs into Emil’s arms. I can tell she doesn’t want me anywhere near, so I take the truck to The Mech’s garage in order to have the Mustang disentangled from the chain. He’s delighted to see the truck, says he’s been wanting one but figured he’d never break lucky enough to ever get one. It’s about as close to effusive as I’ll ever see The Mech.
Some of the survivors of the supermarket caper gather around my prize and congratulate me for snagging it. I try to tell them that the credit for bounty should go to Cora, but they just nod, say of course sure yep. The don’t want to believe me. Or they hold so many grudges against Cora they prefer to lay their praise on me. Well, I can take part credit. We wouldn’t have obtained the truck if my plan hadn’t botched up so effectively.
Not many of the troops were captured in the raid, they tell me. One odd note. Chuck’s missing. He was definitely with them during the escape from the parking lot, but he’s not turned up since. He’s probably off brooding somewhere, or dreaming up a punishment for Cora and me.
Eventually Cora rejoins me, takes my hand. Apparently Emil’s calmed her down, what he usually does for her. I’m glad Emil likes me. I might’ve lost Cora by now if he didn’t calm her down at regular intervals, and send her back to me.
* * * * *
I lose Cora anyway. Not that day, not for several days. But I think that day’s the reason, even though I can’t really understand why. I do everything I can to keep her. Let her drive the Mustang more than I do. Her eyes light up when she drives, but that’s about the only time. Every time we return from a dope run or an errand or some joyriding, she runs straight to Emil. I try to get her to go back to our abandoned motel for a few days, but she says she can do without any more spiders thank you. Chuck never does get back. Cora asks Emil about him every day. I thought you were mad at Chuck, I say to her. That’s true, she says, but I want him back here so I can rage at him. She’s got me so
riled, I start screwing up the runs, make mistakes. Everybody starts insulting and joking at me. It’s like Cora’s scripting their lines for them. Finally she stops going out on any kind of run with me, manages not to be around when I get back. It’s a while before I realize we are split. I have to ask Emil, and he has to tell me. When I confront Cora with it, she doesn’t want to talk about it. Just shrugs, says it’s so, walks away. I try to change her mind a few times, but after a while even I give up.
Part III
— 1 —
There I am, cruising along at 75-80, and this punk kid comes zooming up beside me and honks his horn twice, grins over at me, honks the old horn two more times. The sign for challenge. He wants to challenge me. The punk kid. He looks about twelve, probably is twelve. They let anybody take a run outside the city limits these days. Not like my day. I had to fight my way out of the city, sneaking across guard lines, coping with rogue cops like Allen. It was a lot harder to get launched onto the road in my day. My day! Shit, my day was only a few months ago. The kid guns his motor and slides on ahead of me. He’s driving a souped-up Pinto. A Pinto! For God’s sake, a Pinto! And he wants me to play in his yard. Goddamn roadrunner in soggy diapers. I’ll take him. I pat the old Mustang on the dashboard, mutter to it in that way that Cora always found so stupid. I’m about to accept the challenge but, just as I press down on the accelerator, I hear a couple pops in the engine and I lift my foot straight off the pedal. I’ve been driving this car long enough to know it’s disaster to ignore its complaints. The Mech taught me anything, he taught me that. Hell. I got to let the punk kid slip over the horizon, his dumb Pinto emitting a pair of explosive backfires that I have to interpret as derisive farts.
All right. Okay. That’s it. That’s all I can take. Punks are driving me off the roads, I can’t even stand being in the same lane with them. And the fuzz, the fuzz’re getting so straight, you got to make appointments with them to do two day’s worth of slammer time. It’s just a game with them. Run us down, lock us up, give us lectures, send us back on the road, run us down again. Penny arcade shit. Ping-ping-ping, we goose-step across a horizon of neon trees; pop, they hit the light in our bellies, we fall, then ping-ping-ping comes around again. The first time I got hooked by the cops, some paper-shuffler found my name on a list, and was ready to hit me with a felony charge for copping Harold’s Buick. But asshole Harold refused to press charges. I called home. Mother answered, said Harold refused to come to the phone and talk to me. She said she still loved me but I better not come around to their house for a while. She said to take care, then hung up before finding out if I have any intention to.
A Set Of Wheels Page 9
