Billy thought about that as he made his way home. In his mind, he was picturing this guy—this Fed—coming in backdoor on some little six-year-old boy screaming bloody murder.
It always helped to demonize the enemy.
The Fed had a name: Benny Jacopetti. He was middle-aged, average height, average build, average face, just an average guy with nothing that distinguished him from any of the other working stiffs. The guy had a family that included a wife and a slew of kids. He lived in a spanking-new housing development in the middle of nowhere. That was a mixed bag—the city versus the burbs. In the city, Billy was a known quantity; the police were constantly on his ass. Also, town cops were much sharper than their suburban counterparts. But it was also bad, because that far into the burbs, the wilderness, really, there wasn’t any cover . . . nowhere to hide. Things got spotted and reported and gossiped about.
That meant the city wasn’t the ideal location, but the burbs weren’t any better.
He’d clean him on the road.
Mr. Barton hadn’t been lying when he said he had Jacopetti’s life down to the minute. After a few days of spotting, the guy’s routine was as predictable as sunrise. He left the house around seven to get in to work at eight, leaving Billy about an hour of commuter time to get the job done. The route broke down into the following legs.
Trek One:
This portion of the journey—about ten minutes—took Jacopetti from his house to a bypass road, traveling through suburban developments and past a couple of shopping malls. Wide-open spaces, no cover, and other cars on the streets. Meaning it wouldn’t serve his needs for the job.
Trek Two:
Tooling down a bypass road: another twenty minutes. This route meandered through the posh houses of the burbs: two-story brick estates sitting on lots of land. Most of the homes were perched on a knoll of lawn, obscured by mature trees and thick clumps of planting. The majority of the area was even devoid of sidewalks. No big commercial developments, only cute little Victorian houses that doubled as offices: One was a real estate agency, another rented to a law firm, and a hairdresser and nail salon took up a third. There were also a couple of small cafés and a Starbucks.
Wherever you went in America, there was a Starbucks.
Four dollars for a cup of java.
And the Feds accused the loan sharks of usurious vigs.
On this pathway, there was better coverage due to the trees. But because it was a bypass road, there was often tons of morning traffic. Plus, the road narrowed down to two lanes, making quick escape in a car damn near impossible. Also, good ole Sal would stick out among all the Mercedeses and Beemers that marched in the early-morning workers’ commute.
Billy scratched Trek Two as a possibility.
Trek Four:
Jacopetti’s route to his job ended with a twenty-minute ride on the highway. Billy was tempted to whack him while racing down the multilane roadway. Here, Sal would blend into the clump of morning traffic—just another hunk of steel chugging down the pockmarked asphalt. But there were other considerations besides fitting in. Billy would have to make a quick getaway. He’d have to make sure that no one saw him pull the piece.
That was the trick.
On the highway, there was always traffic, and that meant there were always possible witnesses. Also, what if there was an accident that caused vehicular backup? It would stink if he shot Jacopetti only to get jammed because of a bumper-to-bumper tie-up.
No, the highway was out.
Trek Three was the option of final resort:
For a lone ten minutes, Jacopetti turned off the first bypass road, detouring onto a smaller secondary bypass road—a bypass to the bypass—that twisted and turned but eventually led to the on-ramp to the highway. Sometimes the lanes got crowded. But at least half the time, traffic was light, almost empty, especially if Jacopetti got an early jump from the house. This small swath of asphalt had only two stoplights and, like the first bypass road, it meandered through large properties but for a major exception.
There was this one spot, a nature preserve that was filled with overgrown bushes and large trees. The parking lot to the forest was hidden behind foliage. It sat at the first of the two traffic light intersections, neither street having any visible road signs. You just had to know it was the first intersection in the bypass to the bypass.
Billy thought this looked promising, so he scoped out the surroundings.
About twenty yards from the lot—twenty feet into the park—stood a tall, lush pine tree next to a thick old cedar, forming a green wall of foliage and needles. Both trees fronted the road. Almost directly behind the cedar and the pine was an old oak that met up with an old sycamore, their branches melting into a leafy canopy. The spot was perfect: nestled and secluded, with a great view of the road and the parking lot. The topper was this little tiny service lane that started at the parking lot, snaked through the park grounds, then ended at the first bypass road across the street from a big mother brick colonial house.
So here was the plan.
Every morning around six-thirty, Billy would drive over to the park and wait, perched in the oak tree, hidden by all the leaves and brush. He’d bide his time, drink a cup of coffee, do the crossword puzzle until it was close to J-time. Then he’d pick up his gun and stare out through the scope, waiting for Jacopetti’s station wagon to travel over the second bypass road. Most of the time, Jacopetti would make the light: That couldn’t be helped, because the traffic light favored the road, which meant it was green most of the time. But odds had to have it that one time—one itty-bitty time—Jacopetti would miss the light. Then he’d have to wait at the intersection, even if it was just for a moment.
That was all Billy needed: a single moment to clip him.
After the pop, he’d simply scale down from his arboreal hiding spot, jump into Sal, and tear out the back way, dumping the gun while speeding through the park. Then he’d hook up with the first bypass road, which led out to the highway, where he’d be free and clear.
He’d wait a couple days, then pay Mr. Barton a quick visit.
With this final and fruitful score put to bed, he’d be off the radar. It would be retirement from his old life, sunbathing in Florida or Ma-li-bu or someplace with an ocean.
Free and clear with bread falling out of his pockets.
That was the plan.
The first week, Jacopetti made the light, flying through the intersection at high speed. The second week, Jacopetti made the light five times in a row. Third week, same story.
Billy was getting pissed.
To make up for the supreme waste of time he had passed perched in a tree getting needles in his ass, he decided to pack a bender over the weekend, drowning out his bad luck with Scotch and sodas. So it was as hard as hell to wake up Monday morning. Even with the money incentive looming large in the back of his mind, Billy was groggy with a hangover and in a foul mood. He managed a quick shower, then put on a polo shirt, a pair of chinos, and sandals without socks. He packed his gun in the waistband of his pants, locked the door to his apartment, and then went underground to fetch Sal from her parking space.
From the moment Billy fired up Sal’s ignition, he was on autopilot. Going through the route without thinking about it until the unexpected happened. At 6:22 on a muggy summer morning, eight minutes before Billy’s arrival at the nature reserve, Sal stalled.
“Shit!” Billy proclaimed. “This is all I fucking need.”
He tried again.
The engine kicked in, but as soon as he slipped the transmission into drive, it died.
“Fuckin’-A shit!” Billy popped the latch for the hood and got out of the car. He stared at the engine block. Nothing was smoking, and the fluids looked okay. He checked the tubes, then the wires. Everything seemed in working order.
So what’s up with that?
He got back inside, slamming the door, and tried the ignition again.
The engine spat out a few helpless coughs and then died
.
“Fuck!” Billy pounded the dashboard.
Sal said, “Cut it out!”
Billy’s heart started racing, his eyes widening as he sat up and jerked his head from side to side.
What the fuck was that?
Calm down, Billy! You’re hearing things.
Okay, okay, try the motor again.
He tried the motor again. It was silent, as dead as his last whack in Jersey.
This time he slapped the steering wheel.
“Ouch!” Sal protested. “Whatcha doin’, Billy? Why you takin’ out your frustration on me?”
This time Billy sat still, his hands balled up into fists. “Who said that?”
“Who do you think said that?” Sal said. “You think it’s the trees talkin’ or something?”
Billy’s eyes darted from side to side, but he remained motionless. “Who . . . are . . . you?”
“You have to ask?” Sal said. “We only been partners for, like, ten years. I, for one, am insulted. And while I got your attention, stop slammin’ the door. Just like you, I ain’t as young as I used to be.”
Billy swallowed hard. “Sal?”
“Fuckin’ bingo! Can we get out of here? We ain’t gonna get anything done today.”
Billy sat up in the seat. He shook his head several times, knocked on his forehead. “Let me get this right. You’re Sal . . . my car . . . and you’re talking to me.”
“Ain’t no one else here.”
Throwing back his shoulders, Billy opened and closed his mouth. He checked the CD player. It was empty. The radio was off.
What the H is going on?
If you can’t beat it, join it. Billy decided to play along. “Cars don’t talk.”
“Guess again,” Sal said. “Look, Billy, I understand your confusion. Normally I don’t talk. But extraordinary circumstances demand extraordinary things. First of all, you’re whoppin’ me, and I didn’t do nothin’ to deserve that, so stop, okay? I mean, we’ve been together for ten years. Haven’t I always gotten you from point A to point B without a hitch?”
Billy broke into a sweat. “Yeah. Yeah, you have.”
“I’ve been good to you, right?”
“Right.”
“So why you whoppin’ me? I tell you, guy, you’re losing it.”
And that was a true statement. Because here Billy was, having a conversation with a car.
Sal said, “You ain’t gonna make it to the park today. Let’s just get out of here.”
Billy’s eyes continued to flit in their sockets. “Why’s that?”
“Why’s that?” Sal sounded frustrated. “Open your eyes, Billy. We can’t get nowhere with that tree impedin’ the roadway. I can talk, sure, but I can’t pole-vault. I’m a friggin’ car, for God sakes! Just turn me around and let’s go home.”
Billy looked at the road.
And there it was. The toppled tree had to have been at least sixty feet tall, the five-feet-diameter trunk lying across the asphalt, completely blocking both lanes of the bypass roadway.
“Motherfu— Why didn’t I see it before?”
“You know, Billy, you’re a good guy, but sometimes you don’t trust yourself. When you said you didn’t want to clean a Fed because Feds are protected, maybe you shoulda stuck to your guns. Maybe this is the Big Guy’s way of telling you to follow your instincts.”
Shaking his head, Billy continued to stare at the tree. “I can’t understand why I didn’t see it before.”
“Billy, did you hear what I told you?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Yeah, yeah, yourself. Go back and tell Mr. Barton that it ain’t gonna work with the Fed.”
“I can’t do that. He already paid me fifty percent down.”
“So give him back the money. Givin’ up the money is better than sitting in Sing Sing.”
Just then the absurdity of the situation dawned on him. He was carrying on a conversation with his car. No, not just a conversation. A debate! An argument! And as far as Billy was concerned, the car was winning.
“Look,” Sal said. “There’s no sense discussing this here. People are gonna start coming, traffic’s gonna be murder. You ain’t gonna do anything today with this mama log blocking the street. So go home and do me this one favor, okay? Tell Mr. Barton no. I mean, I’ve been with you ten years—perfect service—so you owe it to me to just think about what I said, okay?”
“Okay,” Billy answered. “Okay, let’s go home.”
He put the key in the ignition, turned it to the right, and the engine fired up as sound and strong as ever. Billy blew out air, did a U-turn, and headed home.
Sal was making perfect sense.
More sense than any other broad he’d ever talked to.
It took Billy three days to fully realize the absurdity of the situation. He was listening—no, not just listening—scratching a lucrative job on the advice of a talking car! But knowing he was sane, that he wasn’t prone to auditory hallucinations even when piss-drunk, he eventually accepted the ludicrous predicament as real.
Still, he spent time reevaluating his options, which were really only two—to do it or not to do it. Not to do it involved talking to Mr. Barton and telling him why he didn’t want to do it. When Billy thought about that, it really wasn’t an option at all. Though he knew he wasn’t crazy, Billy couldn’t figure out how to explain a loquacious vehicle to Mr. Barton.
So there was no choice. He had to do it. And while it was true that he was fond of Sal—they’d been through lots together—it would be a cold day in hell before he’d let anyone or anything dictate who he’d clean. People talked all the time, and Billy never listened. No way a car was gonna tell him what to do.
It offended the sensibilities.
“I’m tellin’ you, this ain’t a good idea—”
“Shut up!”
“Now you’re getting nasty,” Sal said. “See? Already you’re chokin’.”
“Don’t you come with a mute button?”
“Ten years, we never have one disagreement. I open my mouth one friggin’ time for your own good, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Sal, I love you, but you’re sounding like a broad.”
“I am a broad. You made me a broad!”
“I mean a human broad.”
Sal let out a cough from the engine in disgust. “Billy, I’m scared. I’m scared it ain’t gonna work and they’re gonna take me away from you. You know what happens if someone else gets ahold of me?”
“No one’s going to take you away from me.”
“It’s compactor time.”
“Nothing’s going to happen, okay?” Billy was getting pissed. Sal was sounding more and more like a broad with each passing moment. Billy figured if he wanted to shut her up, he should use a little broad psychology. “Look, Sal. I promise you, it’s going to turn out fine. Nothing’s going to happen. We still got lots more miles in this relationship, okay? Trust me, baby. I promise you it’ll be okay.”
Again Sal’s engine coughed. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Billy. ’Cause I’d rather you junk me for parts than . . . than go to the compactor.”
“You’re not going anywhere, and no one’s going to junk you for parts. Don’t talk like that.”
Sal was quiet.
Billy said, “Hey, baby, just get me to the park and let me take it from there, all right? What the hey. Jacopetti will probably hit a green light, just like he’s been doing for the past three weeks, and this entire debate will be for naught.”
“I don’t know, Billy. I think it’s coming to a head.”
“Just get me there.”
Sal got him there.
“Stay here,” Billy whispered to his car.
“Where am I going to go, Billy?”
“Shhhh.”
“Be careful, Billy. I love you.”
“Love you too, babe.” Billy closed the door gently and quietly. With practiced skill, he scaled the pine tree, taking up residence on his favor
ite branch, which was by now denuded of needles. The day was warm, the skies were clear, and his view was perfect. All he needed was Lady Luck to shine her sweet eyes on him this one last time and he’d be through. Maybe Sal would shut up and leave him alone for good. Because if she didn’t—if she persisted in spouting off unasked-for advice—he’d definitely ditch her. There was no way, shape, or form Billy was going to put up with Sal yapping at him when he couldn’t even get some sex out of it.
Billy took out his gun, settling it into a V-shaped intersection of branches to help support its weight. He aimed the bore of the weapon at the road.
“This ain’t a good idea,” the gun told him.
Billy’s mouth fell open.
The seconds ticked by. The gun said, “Did you hear me?”
“Et tu, Brute?”
The gun sighed. “If your car’s tellin’ you it ain’t gonna work, and I’m tellin’ you it ain’t gonna work, then maybe you should start listening.”
“This is unreal!”
“Go back to Mr. Barton—”
“Fuckin’-A unreal!” Billy let go of the grip. “I’m going crazy!”
“No, you’re just being stubborn as a mule.”
“Fuckin’ nuts! I’m getting out of here!”
Billy started down the tree. As luck would have it, the light turned red. Jacopetti’s wagon slowed, then braked to a stop.
“What about me?” the gun asked as Billy climbed down the trunk of the oak. “You ain’t gonna just leave me here, are you?”
“Fuck you!” Billy shouted.
“Don’t talk like that to me! What have I ever done but given you good service—”
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” Billy shouted to his weapon as his feet hit the ground.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Sal wanted to know.
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 21
