A Set Of Wheels

by Robert Thurston

  How’m I supposed to have an opinion on that subject? I say. I’m about to be tortured. I’ll call you Ma-rye-ah all night if you’ll get me out of that.

  Sighing, she walks over to me, sits beside me, puts her hand on her favorite section of my thigh, and whispers:

  Take it easy. Don’t be sad. I’ll nurse you. I will.

  I grab her hand and push it off my thigh. She reaches for my wrist but, with a quick backhand, I shove her hand away. As a second thought, I push against her shoulders. Not expecting that from me, she loses balance and falls backward onto the bed.

  I’m getting the hell out of here, I say and move toward the door.

  No, you’re not, she says.

  There’s so much authority in her voice, so much of the madam running the house, that I have to look back at her. She has a gun in her hand now. Although it is a small weapon, one like Victor’s, I wonder where in that tight outfit she could possibly have concealed a gun.

  Maybe I’ll stay then, I say.

  No, we’re gonna be going, says Link, who’s now standing in the doorway pointing a short-barrelled rifle into the room. He holds it casually, his standard manner for everything, but his finger’s on the trigger and ready.

  I would reconsider, I were you, Maria says. She is leaning to her right a little, trying to see around me. Jesus Christ, I realize, I’m smack in the middle. The weapons of Link and Maria are both actually aimed at me. They want to have a showdown, they’ll have to send their bullets through me in order to wound each other. I move a little sideways, to the left.

  Stand still, Lee, Maria says.

  I stand still.

  Now I’d drop that rifle, friend, I were you, Maria says.

  You’re gutsy, say that for you, Link says and moves a short way into the room. He’s dragging a bulky sack with his other hand. He, too, is leaning sideways in an effort to see around me to Maria. Reaching down, he pulls a pistol out of his sack, tosses it my way. I very nearly don’t catch it.

  What’m I supposed to do with this? I say.

  Improvise.

  You made your entrance on time, I’ll just stay close to the script, thank you.

  What the hell are you talking about?

  Never mind.

  Okay.

  He sidles further sideways.

  All right, lady, we each got a gun. Two weapons to one. What do you say?

  Two weapons, huh? says Maria. She squints her eye at me. Well, she says, I’d say more a weapon and a half, as far as effective firepower goes, but it’s still an edge. Okay.

  She tosses her gun onto the floor. It skids a bit into a small throw rug, then rests there in the bunches it creates. Quickly I make it my business to move out of all possible lines of fire, including the one from the rug.

  Where the hell’s Victor? Link says.

  He’s gone on a scavenger hunt for clothes.

  Victor? says Maria. Victor? Wait a minute. You mean she—you mean Mr. Anton’s been courting a—

  That’s about, you’ll excuse the expression, the size of it, Link says.

  Maria starts to laugh. She leans back against a pillow and nearly has hysterics, actually. Anton groans a couple of times as if he’s just getting the joke, too.

  Clothes, eh? Link says. I shoulda known. Where’d he go, you know?

  Anton’s room. He stole his keys.

  This information sets Maria, who has been quieting down, to laughing hard again.

  Okay, Link says. We’ll just wait.

  You sure that’s a good idea?

  I don’t know about good, but it’s the only one I got.

  Wait for what?

  For Victor to get back and our mechanic friend here to wake up.

  Okay, I can see waiting for Victor, but let’s not mess with Anton any—

  Nope, Lee, Mr. Anton’s our ticket outta here.

  — 8 —

  I feel out of place, Anton’s garage is so clean and neat. It’s such a showplace I expect lights to come up and an orchestra beginning to play an overture. Link tells us all to stay back while he checks out the area. He trundles around the room, looking at shelves and in cabinets for I don’t know what.

  Maria stands next to me. Occasionally she brushes her fingers across the back of my hand. On one pass I take her hand, hold it for a moment. Anton, who has been steadily eyeing Victor since he’s returned to consciousness, breaks his puzzled concentration briefly to glance disapprovingly our way. Maria immediately removes her hand from mine. I don’t know why she’s affectionate at all, not after what she said to me back at the room. She was going to let them torture me, after all. Now that that’s cancelled, or postponed if Link’s plan, whatever it is, doesn’t work out, why is she being affectionate? Is she planning to nurse me back to health even if they skip the torture? I look at her. She’s moved a couple of steps toward Anton, who’s still staring at Victor. Victor’s changed to sneakers, dungarees, and an androgynously provocative shirt. Nobody’s told Anton about Victor, not even Maria. We just ordered him to go with us to the garage. I can tell from the way he’s eyeing Victor that Anton hasn’t quite figured it all out yet, even though Victor has removed his wig and makeup, even though Victor is now nervously clenching and unclenching his fists in a particularly masculine manner. I can understand Anton’s confusion. There are still Victor’s eyes, there are still the eyes.

  Link checks even the inside of the Mustang to make sure nobody’s crouched in it. Victor is getting very agitated.

  Come on, Link, he says. Let’s get to it, all right?

  I am getting to it.

  You’re just walking around!

  Yeah, I’m making the first checks on the maintenance chart, okay, so take it easy.

  What do you guys imagine you’re up to? Anton says to Link.

  We’re gonna nicely cruise out of here in our vehicle, Link says.

  Anton laughs.

  Hah! That wreck’s not ready for the road. Half the insides are still on the shelves and around the car. The guys weren’t going to finish the job off till tomorrow.

  Well, we’ll just do a little overnight work, won’t we?

  What, you expect me to go rouse the guys and—

  You don’t have to rouse anybody.

  Well, if I—oh, I see. You expect me to do it for you alone. Cheap ripoff artists.

  Correct.

  Anton laughs, but this laugh is weaker, a little apprehensive.

  I don’t do the dirty work any more. That’s what I hired a crew for. Built up a reputation over the years, built this place out of nothing, with hard work and God’s help. Now I got employees. I only do the inspections, the diagnosis, a few adjustments here and there, a—

  See? Link says softly. That’s where you’ve gone off the track. You don’t work with your hands any more. It corrupts you, to piece yourself out as a corporation, to hand out your abilities to subordinates. Each one of them is a lesser you, you see? You didn’t check them out regularly, the quality of work in this shop’d be shit.

  You can count on that. But it doesn’t mean—

  Oh, yes, it does. You need us, Anton. You really do. You need to get some grease on your coveralls. To crawl under a car and rediscover yourself. To weave your magic hands through that engine. It’s a kind of salvation, understand?

  Stop! Don’t blaspheme.

  Sorry. All I’m saying is, you’re gonna do the job. And I know just enough to help. And make sure you don’t booby-trap the vehicle. Okay, Victor, you stand guard while Mr. Anton and I get Lee’s wheels in shape.

  You’re out of your head, Link, Victor says. Why don’t we just—

  We wouldn’t get two miles down the road before Anton’s goons’d be bearing down on us in a reconverted Mercedes. This is the way, Victor.

  Victor, Anton mutters each time Link says the name—the light finally dawning. Do you mean that, that—

  Shove it up your ass! Victor says. Do what Link says.

  But—

  Look, you stupid cr
eep, I’ve played out this scene so many times I can do both parts. I’m not in the mood for it right now.

  Victor, walking over to Link, takes the rifle from him, points it at Anton.

  Get to it! he shouts. Now!

  Anton moves in a dreamlike fashion, as if he’s not willing to believe this tough guy waving a rifle at him is the tough broad he lusted for. I hate to think it, but I’m really enjoying his confusion.

  With Link and Anton busy crawling into coveralls, Maria evidently feels it’s safe enough to talk to me. She rubs the edge of her little finger against the outside of my thigh, while whispering:

  I shouldn’t probably warn you, but you should consider that eventually Anton and I’ll be missed.

  Maria, I think we’re taking that chance. If you have any alternate suggestions you’d like to place before the board—

  Don’t get sarcastic with me. Please.

  Sorry.

  She brushes the back of her hand against the corner of her good eye. She’s not crying but, I suppose, is about as close to tears as she ever gets.

  Maria, I say.

  What?

  Why don’t you come with us?

  Affectionate mockery in her laughter.

  You kidding? Aside from the fact in all likelihood you’re not going anywhere, I wouldn’t go with you anyway. I’d like to be a romantic, I really would like to go off and joyride, but—

  Then do it.

  Nope. For love maybe I could. But you’re too hung up on your lady back east. You wouldn’t stay with me.

  Sure I would.

  No, Lee, now don’t get me wrong. I’d like to, just can’t. It’d be a lark to take ninety days off, see some country, have some fun, do—

  Why ninety days?

  Guys like you burn out in about ninety days, at least with women like me.

  Anton is now approaching my car. A bit tentatively, circling the front, putting off actually touching it for as long as he can. Finally he does make contact. He draws his hand back immediately. He’s touched disease and, as a skilled diagnostician, knows it. Link hands him a spanner. He leans over the engine and begins tinkering with something. Still tentatively, but with a bit more effort.

  God, this’s gonna take forever, Victor says.

  Your friend is impatient, Maria says, smiling. Victor whirls on her, furious.

  Keep your trap shut, blind-eye.

  Maria shouts at him:

  You goddamn freak, where do you get off say—

  Or should I call you white-eye, fatbitch.

  Victor says fatbitch the way Maria used to say skinnybitch to him.

  Stop that, I say to Victor. You’ve got no reason to—

  Swallow your tongue whole, you creep, he says, turning his attention to me. If you think she’s going to award you any points for playing her protector, then you got—

  Shut up, all of you, Anton hollers. He waves his wrench threateningly. We got work to do here, we don’t need to listen to any petty hassles, hear?

  Yes, Anton, Maria whispers quietly. Obediently. Victor and I say nothing. Maria walks behind me, gets to my other side—obviously to put me between her and Victor. Another line-of-fire ploy, I guess. I’m uncomfortable with her on that side. It’s her blind side and I can see too much of her blind, white eye. She’s always placed herself on the good-eye side of me and I’ve usually positioned myself that way, too. Victor notes her retreat, then goes to a work table, holding the short-barrel rifle Link gave him at his side, pointing down. With one more angry look our way, and a slight scornful sound in his throat, he looks out the window toward the road. His body has assumed the threatening stiffness of a gangster, a B-movie hoodlum standing guard. I think of what generally happens to B-movie hoods who stand guard, and for a moment am deeply afraid.

  — 9 —

  Anton works furiously now. He lets dirt fly without caring where it lands. His coveralls are speckled with black grease-dots and long ragged smudge lines where he’s wiped his hands. He’s doing all the work now, using Link only as surgical assistant to hand him the tools. I’m beginning to believe Anton’ll revive the Mustang again, just like The Mech did each time I brought the car to him. Of course this time it’s going to look more than ever like a cripple. Anton’s men have hammered out the top well enough, but the overall surface is so rippled with dents a phrenologist would go crazy trying to give it a reading.

  Off in the distance, toward the Ramada, there are sounds of laughter, some music. I can see Maria hears them and isn’t too pleased. I can figure why. If they’re in there laughing, they’re not out searching for us.

  What’s all that noise? I say.

  My girls, the bitches. They’re having a goddamn party. I go away from them a couple hours, all discipline breaks down, things get raucous. They start playing their idiotic music and wiggle around like old-time whores for the clients. I got to get back there, I can’t allow—

  What’s wrong with them partying? Doesn’t that go with the job?

  Not the way we run things. You heard what we said at the meeting. We’re turning them into good girls. That’s the point of the place. Salvation.

  Salvation?

  Girls that leave us, always leave us for permanent relationships, marriage as often as not. The ones that return to whoring usually weren’t here very long.

  And that’s the purpose of the organization?

  Mr. Anton is a man of principle. He really wants to help them. Us.

  How’s he helping you?

  It’s a good job. I pretty much run that part of the operation by myself. He only interferes for the good of the girls and the business.

  Why haven’t you been saved then?

  I don’t get you.

  Why haven’t you grabbed off a husband, the good life, the—

  I’ve had husbands, three of them. Mr. Anton’s the third. Still is, legally.

  I look from her to Anton and back to her again.

  Anton? You don’t treat him like a husband.

  He hasn’t treated me like a wife. Not for a long time anyway. It’s a business partnership now.

  You’re so formal together, I just—

  She smiles.

  We were always formal together. That’s his way. Became mine. He has his points, Mr. Anton does. And his spark plugs, for that matter.

  Anton steps back from the hood of the Mustang, eyes the car as if checking the stitches, then drops a tool from each hand. The tools bounce and clang in unison.

  Done, Anton says. A good job, I say so myself.

  He looks down at his hands, sees more grease than skin.

  Feels good, he says. Should do this more often.

  Told you, Link says, smiling.

  Let’s get rolling, Victor says.

  I’m going to have to ask you and Maria here to accompany us down the road a piece, Link says to Anton. A mile or so. Sorry for the inconvenience.

  Sorry for the inconvenience, Anton says. You’re so polite, young man.

  Just a road sign I keep seeing.

  Why bother taking them along with us? Victor says.

  Hostages.

  Well, don’t expect me to sit in back with that bastard.

  Anton laughs. Maria and I smile at each other.

  Don’t worry, Vicki, Anton says. I couldn’t allow myself to be seen next to you. Not in that tacky shirt and with—

  Victor, moving abruptly, hits Anton in the face with the stock of his rifle. Anton sees the blow coming, rolls with it, then swings around and charges at Victor. Victor, not ready for such a swift counterattack, can’t bring the gun around in time to use it again. Anton punches Victor in the nose with a short but powerful jab. I think I hear a small crack. Victor reels back, a hand to his nose, blood appearing in trickles through his fingers. Anton makes a lunge for the gun, but Link runs up quickly and pushes Anton to the floor. Maria leaves my side and kneels by Anton. Victor takes his hand away from his nose, letting the blood run onto his lips, down his chin. He raises his rifle, p
oints it toward the fallen man.

  No, Link shouts and rams into Victor with his shoulder. Victor skids sideways on a grease mark. I stand there, wondering momentarily what is a grease mark doing on Anton’s spotless floor. Maybe it’s a bloodstain. Suddenly I realize that just maybe standing still is not my best strategy, and I move toward Victor, intending to deflect any further aim he might be considering taking on Anton or Maria. I am right about the aim but late with my move. He points the gun again at Anton, who is now crouching, ready to spring. Link makes another lunge, but this time Victor sidesteps him. I can see he’s about to pull the trigger. At the same time I see Maria deliberately putting herself between Anton and the gun.

  Get out of the way! Victor screams at her.

  She just stands there. I make a move to grab Victor’s gun arm, but he briefly aims the rifle my way and says quietly, don’t try, Lee. I stop. He swings the gun back toward Anton and Maria.

  Out of the way or I’ll just shoot him through your body, bitch! Victor shouts.

  Do that, Maria says.

  All right, I—

  Link’s third jump at Victor is even less successful than the other two. He misses him completely, stumbles past him clumsily. Victor edges back against the wall, a maneuver to ward off further attacks. Everything is eerily still for a moment. Anton remains crouched behind Maria. Link, back on his feet, looks relaxed, his head and shoulders leaning again in Victor’s direction, in a kind of simian stance. Maria stares at Victor defiantly.

  Suddenly I realize that the Ramada’s party noises have stopped. Outside, there are some suspicious cracklings that sound to me like twigs being crushed underfoot.

  Okay Vic, that’s enough, Link says, his voice steady.

  Shove it, Link, Victor says. You’re not gonna talk me outta this one.

  But Vic—

  Somewhere near the garage door somebody bangs into an oil can. Victor glances toward the sound. I use the opportunity to rush him. He sees me coming, gets his gun back aimed at me just in time to bring me to a quick unsteady halt.

  Back up, Lee.

  Vic, Link says, there’re people out there. Anton’s people. We gotta get moving outta here.

  Better yet, give up, Anton says. You haven’t a chance.