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
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