'Speed limit now, Randy,' I said, getting back into the car. 'Lights on.
He drove the rest of the way like he was taking the final in Driver's Ed.
'Follow us,' I told Clarence through the window. His Rover was standing next to the Plymouth, motors running, side by side, like getting set for a drag race.
'This is not no race car, mahn.'
'We'll do it slow and easy,' I assured him. 'If we get stopped, just roll on home— I'll call.'
He threw me a half–salute. I nodded to Randy and he dropped the Plymouth into gear.
The kid watched the rearview mirror for a minute, making sure Clarence was in position. I lit a smoke, leaned back.
'You did good,' I told him. 'Drove like a veteran.'
'Thanks. I know about the plates…but how come you put those orange stickers on the car?'
'It changes the appearance. It's the one thing anyone chasing you remembers. Like when you do a stickup— a fake scar on your face or a phony tattoo on your hand, that's what the mark will fix on. If we had to, you could reach out and pull off the tape even with the car going, see?'
'Yeah. That's why the brake lights don't go on? And why there's no light when you open the door?'
'Sure. But I didn't expect you could drive that fast without headlights.'
'Well, I knew the road pretty good. And I can see in the dark fine.'
'Had a lot of practice, haven't you?'
He didn't answer. Concentrated on his driving, like he hadn't heard me.
Clarence was right on our rear bumper in the driveway. When the headlights went off, we were in darkness, the only light coming from the kitchen window of the big house.
'You leave the light on?' I asked the kid.
'Yes. I always do.'
'Okay. Let's go someplace where we can talk.'
'Can't we just go upstairs?' he asked, nodding his head in the direction of my apartment.
'Better not. Somebody's been playing with microphones.'
'The…intercom. From my mother's— '
'I don't know. Somebody. Can't take chances,' I told him, opening the trunk. I took out a couple of heavy army blankets.
'We going to have a picnic, mahn?' Clarence wanted to know.
'Close enough.'
'Then I got some stuff too,' he said, going into the Rover's trunk and pulling out something that looked like a small toolbox. The Prof stood in one spot, turning a full 360, smelling the ground.
I opened the garage, pointed. Clarence got behind the wheel of his Rover, drove it inside. I pulled the Plymouth in too.
'You know a decent spot?' I asked Randy.
'I…guess so. The back pasture, okay? I mean, there's no more horses there or anything.'
'No bulls either, mahn?' Clarence said, looking around suspiciously.
'No.'
We walked a short distance past the wood fence, found a spot on a grassy slope, spread out the blankets, sat down.
I lit a smoke. Clarence unsnapped the top of the box he was carrying, took out a dark bottle, offered it to Randy.
'You have a beer with us, mahn? To celebrate success. You sure earned it.'
'I…'
'Go on, mahn. This is Red Stripe. Best beer in the world. From the Islands, where the air is sweet and the women are sweeter.'
'Thanks.'
Clarence took out a church key, popped the cap, handed the bottle to Randy.
'Long as it's free, how's about me?' the Prof piped up, reaching in to help himself.
Clarence took one too. 'Got your poison right here too, Burke,' he smiled, handing me a screw–top bottle of pineapple juice. It was cold. Clean and good.
'To Randy,' the Prof said, holding his bottle high in a toast. 'My man can drive, and that ain't no jive.'
'Word!' Clarence acknowledged.
'You got my vote,' I said, tapping my bottle against theirs.
Randy hung his head. I could feel the blush. But when his eyes came up, they were heavy with regret.
