It
was a lie. The movies. A lie. The car did not blow up. It did not
explode five feet into the air. After the can of gasoline, after the
lit book of matches, it went whoomp, a dull thump, and the Grand Am
was on fire. Orange blue flames burning above the broken rear
window, buzzing on the roofline. Churning swirls of oily soot.
Black flowers unfolded upon a pale afternoon sky. The little girl
sitting on the fire hydrant across the street was running now,
running away down the street. I realized I had to leave, too. Time
to go. The sirens already were in the distance. Go. It belched.
Another thump. The windshield, I think, plopped out. Time to go.
Stop watching it burn. Go! I got into my Chevy. It was running. I
don’t remember doing that, leaving it running. Like a dream,
really, like they say, a dream. No panic or fear. Just a clicking
along. Just a ticking away. I drove around some blocks, around and
around. Up and down. And then, finally, back to the Grand Am, where
firemen were dousing it with water, not foam. Another movie lie.
Water, nothing else. I cruised by. Almost, “Hi guys, how’s it
goin’?” But no, just drive and gawk a little. Then home. Home
to hide. Home to oblivion.
It
was Saturday.
Mike
tells me, “Long Legs, I got something for you, some information,
something you wanna know.”
Saturday,
the busiest day of the week. Saturday, when it is on
all
day long. The customers, the phones, the noise, the heat. The cars
going up and down on the lifts like giant carousel rides. Saturday,
when I am always sick.
Mike
says, “Listen, I know who broke in, I know who hit the shop. Just
some young punks sitting around smoking dope.”
My
head hurt.
Mike
says, “Idiots with nothing better to do than drive a goddamn car
into the fire door.”
Christ,
they drove into the wall. A few cinder blocks gave way and they
crawled into the shop.
Mike
says, “Not too bright, huh?”
The
alarm system never went off, the motion detectors detected nothing,
the police did not give a damn. They do not care about some two-bit
break-in; they do not give a damn.
Mike
says, “Playboy told me these dumb shits sit around drinking and
brag. They’re too stupid to keep their mouths shut.”
Not
a thing really worth anything stolen. A small TV, a few junk tools,
some chemicals. Not a thing. That was not the point. That was not
it.
Mike
says, “Their car is parked next door.”
Jesus.
It was on the street next to the shop. An old Pontiac. Rusted,
cancerous. Sitting right there.
Mike
says, “They were trying to get into a gang. Trying to prove
themselves. Kings, I think, or Lovers. Who knows?”
I
stared at the car. The phones ringing, the impact guns going off,
the clerk yelling for me, I stared at it, sweating.
“.
. . because it’s Saturday night. That’s some damn excuse: ‘It’s
Saturday night.’”
She
was talking. I snapped to. The music was very loud. Who was it?
It was
Saturday
night. Or Sunday morning. Our living room. Hendrix.
“You
don’t care for me, I don’t care about that.”
She
was yelling now.
“.
. . sick and tired of it! Do you hear me? Sick and tired of it!
And sick of all your goddamned talk about the shop! Why don’t you
marry the shop?”
“I
have only one and burning desire.”
Why
didn’t I? The rhythms of the shop I understood. The dark grace of
machinery, the sheen of stainless steel, air compressors rattling,
hiss of torches, even the smell of grease, all of it was natural to
me, compatible. In my element. God in His heaven, I in mine.
But
this, this . . .
“Let
me stand next to your fire.”
I
lit another one.
On
the porch. From up here you could see the planes circling O’Hare
at night. Round and round. Take-offs and landings. Now it was
bright, sunny. Church bells. It was too hot. The clink of cubes.
Like breaking glass. “Random gunfire,” the police said.
Strafing. “Disputed turf.” AAA Board-up Service was first in
the phone book, first on the scene. “They’re not aiming at you.
Your shop just happens to be in the way.” Cop humor. Attitudes
and threats. Over and over, attitudes and threats. Then one day,
tag, you’re it. Bang. You’re in the way. A broken window. Or
a hole in the chest. Used to sit at the corner of Bunky’s bar,
watching traffic go by. Watching the circus parade on Fullerton
Avenue. Then Mike, he says, “Stray bullet through that doorway
hits you first.” Christ. Eduardo shows up on crutches. Leg in a
cast. “They caught me in the lot after dark.” Baseball bats.
Cartilage beaten and snapped, sinew torn, bone chips like broken
glass. Never walk the same. Over and over. Watch ‘em rise and
fall. One week Ferman’s the man, his ride getting everything,
the
works, no questions asked, just fix it, do it, my man, just do it.
Next week Angel has Ferman’s wheels and wants it done his way. A
look into his eyes tells you not to ask. Just do it, man. Count the
money later. They always spared the shop, though. Till now. Didn’t
crap their bed. We worked the cops’ cars and theirs. Kept the
precinct happy, the Kings happy, the Lovers happy, kept everyone
happy while we split the difference.
Till
now.
Hot. Way too hot.
I
needed some fuel.
Monday
morning she did not look at me. I avoided the mirror, too. Very
warm very early. Conducive to paranoia. Shaky. I remembered the
old Pontiac, the smell of the burning interior. Did I tell her? She
would know in any case. Secrets were impossible. All that remained
between us was getting even, keeping score. And I had lost track.
Driving,
I thought about the precinct’s watch commander. Irish name. We
exchanged favors once. Flannigan? He released our truck and we did
a free exhaust system on his Impala. A bargain. Our driver had been
picked up on warrants. The $4,000 parts order never would have
survived the impound lot. Brannigan? Maybe, if I was in trouble,
maybe he could help.
The
car’s hulk stood next to the shop. Blackened. All the glass gone.
Tires melted, fused with the asphalt. I was trembling. Nauseous
again. I felt obligated to walk by and look. How would an innocent
man react? Who was watching?
It
was gutted. Damp. Stunk. I walked into the shop.
The
clerk asked, “You see it?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck
this neighborhood.”
He
did not suspect.
Mike
saw me. He followed me into the back room.
“Can
you believe it?” he said. “Their car is fried. It’s
beautiful! Beautiful!”
“Fuck
this neighborhood,” I said, looking at the floor.
“They
deserve it, Long Legs, they deserve it! I’m glad it happened.
This kind of shit will keep them thinking straight. It’s good for
them. And good for us.”
I
looked up. His eyebrows were arched, he was smiling. He beamed at
me. He suspected.
“It’s
not good for anybody,” I said.
But
he did not know.
The
wreck was on the street for days. No hurry. The city was glutted
with junkers. Calls to the precinct were referred to the alderman.
Calls to the alderman were referred to the sanitation department.
Calls to sanitation were not answered.
Not
even vandals disturbed the Grand Am. It was a leper.
Mike
made broad hints. I said nothing.
One
morning as I arrived, I saw another burned out car. Across the
street from the Grand Am lay a scorched Cutlass. Deeply dented,
partially on the sidewalk, almost folded. Hit hard before burning.
It was charred and hollow, a dark pool beneath it. A grotesque
brother.
It
was Playboy’s.
Mike
came out of the shop as I got out of my car. He motioned toward the
Oldsmobile. “Check it out, check it out.”
“What
the hell?” I muttered.
Mike
said, “Angel was here. Said the Lovers did that. They figured
Playboy did the Poncho. Payback is a mother.”
“What?
What are you talking about?” I felt lightheaded, floating away.
“The
Grand Am belonged to Lovers. Angel says Playboy is a King. He’s
the one who torched it, so they totaled his car. Totaled
it.”
I
looked from car to car.
“Uh,”
Mike said, “there’s a cop up front for you.”
Floating
away.
I
walked to the front of the shop very slowly.
Watch
Commander Tom Flaherty sat in the lobby. He nodded as I walked in.
Then he got up and walked out to the sidewalk. I followed him. How
would this happen?
In
front of the shop, Watch Commander Tom Flaherty brought up the recent
fire bombings. Said they did not bode well for the neighborhood. An
escalation in the turf war. Things were hot and getting hotter. He
was concerned for the shop’s safety and thought he would drop by.
A friendly warning. We should keep our eyes open. The bangers were
crazy and dangerous. We should be careful.
And
did we have time to check the Impala for a leak?
“Of
course,” I said, “of course.” I’d be sure to get it up in
the air. Just like in the movies.
Copyright
© 1999 by OrbsCor4bs
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