'
Judy Henske, kid.'
He gunned the Plymouth around a long sweeper leading back to the highway, a huge grin plastered across his face, Henske's sex–barbed blues driving right along with him.
'I gotta try some of that Chinese food,' he said.
T
he kid parked the Plymouth expertly. It's a gift, driving like that— he already handled the big car better than I did.
'You want me to— ?'
'No, that's okay,' he said. 'I'll be all right over there. I'll just leave the intercom open, okay?'
'Sure.'
Upstairs, I called Mama's. She told me it was all quiet, nothing happening.
'You want Max?' she asked.
'No. Not now, anyway.'
'Okay.'
I lay back on the couch, closed my eyes. I'd told the kid about the car but not where it came from. A young man gave his life for that car, a long time ago. Spent every minute of his time, every dollar he could lay his hands on— it was his dream. He hired me to find out if his wife was stepping out— he knew something was wrong between them, just didn't know what it was. It was an easy job— the wife copped to it right away. She was stepping out all right. With another woman. Told me all her husband cared about was that damn car— she needed dreams of her own.
I didn't tell the guy the truth. He was a young guy, maybe a year or two older than Randy. I figured he might do something stupid.
It was me who did something stupid. His wife told him the truth, even told him she'd told me. He got hot about it. Told me he wasn't going to pay me for my work. I walked away.
Next time I saw him, he was in the Tombs. Killed his wife. He didn't want to hire me— he just didn't want his bloodsucking lawyer to get his car. Told me he understood why I did it— because I thought it was the right thing. That's why he did what he did, too.
But he knew it wasn't.
I told him he could do the time. It'd probably get busted down to manslaughter— it wouldn't be so bad. He didn't want to hear it. He signed the Plymouth over to me, said goodbye. They had a suicide watch on him, but it didn't do any good. He went into the Zero.
That bridge where the girl had gone over…I could feel the pull.
W
hen I came downstairs the next morning, I saw the kid sitting on the back step to the big house.
'Want some breakfast?' he asked. Looked like he'd been up for a while— his eyes were fresh and bright, hair combed.
'Sure,' I told him. 'You gonna cook it?'
He gave me a funny look. Opened the door and stepped inside. He showed me a few different kinds of cold cereal. 'They delivered milk,' he said. 'And I could make toast. There's orange juice too, okay?'
'Great.'
'What are we gonna do today?'
'I think I need to talk to some parents. Of the kids who died. I got the addresses, figured I'd start around ten.'
'It's only eight now.'
'So?'
'So…I was wondering…do you think I could take a look at the car? In daylight?'
'Let me just finish this first,' I told him, nodding at my breakfast. 'Take your time,' the kid said, bouncing with impatience.
I
opened the garage doors. The kid backed the Plymouth out onto bluestone. Then he made a slow circle of the car, as respectfully as a child approaching an unknown dog he'd like to pat. He crouched low to the ground next to the rear tires, running his hands over the tread. He got up, went into the garage. came back with a canvas tarp. He laid that on the ground, slid himself under the car. I smoked through two cigarettes by the time he came up for air.
'I wish we had a lift,' he said. 'I asked my mother about it— we got plenty of room. But she said she didn't want a mess.
'Couldn't you rent one someplace else?'
'Yeah!' he said, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. 'Could we open the hood?'
'It doesn't open,' I told him, sliding behind the wheel. I threw the switch from under the dash, opened the hinges on each side of the car, and swiveled the whole front end forward, exposing everything from radiator to firewall.
'Oh man!' the kid said. 'I knew a guy who had a setup like this. With an old Spitfire. But I never saw it on a big car.'
