Livingston blew another imperfect smoke ring, watched it fall apart. ‘1 heard that bastard D’Agastino won’t even consider you for the OC unless you’d turn in your own mother. You hear that, Papa?’
‘Anything you beard, I heard worse. I beard you gotta pass the bad breath test just to get in the door.’
Sharky started to burn, but he held his temper in check.
‘What’ve you heard there, Sharky? Livingston said.
‘Not much.’
‘Not much, hunh.’ More silence. Finally: ‘Wanna tell us about this Abrams?’
Sharky did not answer immediately. What could he tell them? That he and The Nosh, which is what he had called Abrams since they were kids, were born across the street from each other, grew up together, fought together, had even broken the law together? Should he tell them about Red Ingles or the night the transmission fell out? Shit. In high school Sharky and The Nosh had befriended a grizzled, solitary alcoholic named Red Ingles who lived up the street from them. Ingles had a singular talent; he souped up cars. Boy, did he soup up cars. Ingles souped up cars the way a piano tuner coaxed perfect pitch from the strings of an old baby grand. The chromium touch, Sharky called it. Ingles worked in his backyard, a backyard cluttered with battered old wrecks that looked as if they might fall apart if you slammed the door too hard.
But under those tarnished, dented hoods, engines gleamed with stainless-steel carburettors, chromium headers, and glistening valve lifters. Ingles usually worked on two cars at a time, interchanging parts and tuning one against the other until the engines hummed in perfect harmony. Then he gave The Nosh and Sharky five dollars apiece and told them to ‘take those Jessies and blow them mills out good’. And he would settle back with his jar of still whisky while they drove Out to the river, poised fender to fender on hidden dirt roads, motors straining underfoot, and then took off, the engines whining and shivering in their mounts, speedometers inching up to 150 and 160 as they skimmed over the dirt, skittering at the very edge of disaster with that reckless and wonderful sense of indestructibility reserved for the young.
They never asked what Red did with the cars. They didn’t have to. At night they sneaked down to his place and Jay under the shrubs, watching him negotiate with heavyset men in galluses and sweaty felt hats, passing the fruit jar back and forth as they argued and cursed and ranted. Finally Red would smile and slam his hand down on the fender of the car in question and the good old boys would count out the price. In the morning the cars were gone. Sharky was certain that Red Ingles was the sole supplier of transportation for every moonshiner in North Georgia.
Then ingles had made them an offer. He needed transmissions, tough transmissions. He would pay them seventy dollars for every working Corvette transmission they delivered to him. The Nosh was delighted. ‘I can drop a Vette transmission in fifteen minutes flat,’ he confided to Sharky and they went into business. They put roller skate wheels on a piece of plywood and once a week they borrowed the rumpled pick-up Sharky’s old man used at the hardware store and they cruised the dark streets, looking for prospects. When they found one, The Nosh rolled up under the car and dropped the transmission while Sharky sat behind the wheel of the pick-up, ready to sound the horn in case of trouble. They were the toast of Grady High. The Nosh, barely five feet tall, became a ladies’ man while Sharky, already a cocksman of some renown, became the Beau Brummel of Ponce de Leon Avenue. then one night the owner of a brand new Stingray appeared suddenly and unexpectedly while The Nosh was toiling under his car. Tt was too late to blow the horn. The owner flicked a speck of dust ‘ the trunk, kicked a tyre, clinibed in, revved up, and took off with his tyres chewing up the pavement.
But no Nosh. He was caught under the Vette, his jacket hung up on the transmission, and he went right with the car, rocketing along on his plywood platform. When he finally tore himself loose, the platform flew out from under the Vette, sparks showering from the tortured roller skate wheels. It screamed down the Street, hit a curb, and splintered, the wheels soaring off into the night while the Nosh was launched end over end into a fishpond.
Sharky ran to his side. A dazed, soggy Nosh staggered from the pool. And at that moment, with an anguished clatter, the transmission fell out of the Corvette. They ran to the pickup and took off down the street while the teary-eyed Corvette owner ran after them, hands waving wildly overhead.
‘I don’t ever want to take a ride like that again,’ The Nosh said.
‘Right,’ said Sharky.
‘Besides, I feel sorry for that guy.’
‘Me too.’
‘There’s got to be an easier way to make a buck.’
‘Yeah.’
And they quit.
So how come I’m so thick with The Nosh ? Sharky thought. It was basic. They had grown up together, exchanged bloody noses and embarrassed apologies, got laid together, and had joined the cops together. Their roots went deeper than blood or family.
‘I’ll tell you,’ Sharky said, ‘we been asshole buddies almost since the day we were born. And I don’t give a damn if he’s in the OC, the PDQ, or the screw-you, it’s okay with me.’
Livingston puffed on his cigar. Papa cleared his throat but said nothing. Finally Livingston nodded. ‘Well, it ain’t much detail, but it’s sure clear as hell.’
After a moment, Papa said, ‘Where did he get that crazy monicker?’
‘It’s Yiddish. Means to nibble, eat between meals. The Nosh is one hell of a nibbler. He can also fix plumbing, do carpentry, fix radios, cameras. Shit, he can do just about anything. And he just might be the best wireman that ever came down the pike.’
Between puffs Livingston said, ‘Does he walk on water?’
Sharky laughed. Probably. One of his ancestors did.’
‘Well, I just got to wonder, okay? I got to wonder how in hell he ever got tied in with that mother-humping piece of camelshit, D’Agastino.’
‘Like I said, he’s the best wireman in the country. Maybe D’Agastino needed him.’
