“Then I’m going to go back and visit those Russians.”
“Oh,” she said again, still not closing her little suitcase.
I went back to waiting.
Minutes passed before she said, “You don’t have to … lurk close by, do you?”
“Not necessarily. But travel is a risk. Exposure. I need to go to ground. And I need to be close to the Russians.”
“But you don’t know anybody in Portland?”
“No. But I can always—”
“I have a better plan,” she said, zipping up her suitcase with authority. “Now I must make a call myself.”
The Metalflake maroon ’63 Impala SS coupe glided to the curb where Gem and I were waiting, in front of the Melody Ballroom on Southeast Alder. The same Mexican I’d seen on the dock when I first met Gem got out, wearing a black wool baseball jacket with white leather sleeves. The trunk popped open. I wasn’t surprised to see the battery nestled back there, or the monster stereo system. The trunk was huge, but with all the electronics, there was barely room for our bags.
Inside the car, another Mexican occupied the passenger seat. Gem and I climbed in the back. Gem threw one bare leg over my thigh, said, “This is Burke,” to the two men. Then, nodding her head toward the driver: “Burke, this is Flacco. And this is Gordo.” Both of them were solidly built, but neither remotely qualified as skinny or fat. They didn’t offer to shake hands.
Gem pulled my arm around her like she’d done in the poolroom, nibbled at my thumb until it was in her mouth, then went to work like a little girl with a lollipop.
Neither of the Mexicans spoke. When the driver kicked over the engine, you couldn’t mistake the sound.
“A 409?” I asked him.
“I love it,” I told him, truthfully, running my eyes over the white Naugahyde tuck-and-roll interior. “This is a thing of beauty.”
“My heart is in this ride,
“Looks like you spent it well. Taking a piece from each, that’s the only way to go.”
“What do you mean, a piece from each?”
“You could have cherried it out, pure resto, all numbers matching, that kind of trip. And you
“It’s all new underneath,” the passenger put in. “Konis, air bags, and Borla out the back.” He was wearing the same kind of jacket as the driver.
“You keep the dual quads?” I asked.
“That’s right. And the rock-crusher’s original, too.”
He meant the M-22 four-speed tranny he was gently stirring with a Hurst pistolgrip. The 409 made torquy sounds even at idle. Once we got on the highway, it settled down into a throaty purr—geared for cruising, not quarter-horsing.
About an hour and a half later, Gem took my thumb out of her mouth long enough to remind the guys in the front seats that she knew a very fine diner just down the road a piece.
We pulled into an area of dense darkness near the dock; a light rain falling, just a touch past mist. Gem and I climbed out of the back, and Flacco popped the trunk from inside again. We hauled our bags out. Gem pointed to her right and started walking, leaving all the luggage to me. The Chevy moved off—the 409’s growl sounding even meaner from the outside.
When I saw Gem step on the gangplank I must have hesitated, because she turned around, asked, “What is it?”
“You live on a … boat?”
“Yes. It is very nice. Come on.”
“I …”
“Burke, what’s wrong?”
“The boat … It’s not going to … I mean, you’re not going to, like, sail it, right? It’s going to stay tied up?”
“For now, yes,” is all the assurance I could get out of her.
I followed her onto the deck. I could feel it shift slightly, but I couldn’t tell if it was our weight or the damn water under it making that happen. Neither prospect cheered me much.
Gem ducked slightly and stepped into the cabin. I followed her, expecting … I didn’t know what. It looked like a little efficiency apartment with a Murphy bed. At least, I figured there must be a Murphy bed, because I couldn’t see anyplace to sleep.
“The bedroom and the head—the bath—are downstairs,” Gem said, as if reading my thoughts.
“Below this?”
“Yes,” she said, suppressing a giggle. “Below this. We will actually be
