he muttered. “But if he shits back there, you gotta clean it up, awright?”
I nodded. The Latino kid opened the door and stepped out of the car, pulling forward the back of his seat to let the dog and me scramble into the cramped rear compartment. As his buddy climbed back in and slammed the door shut, Chevy switched off the dome lamp, then pulled a can of Budweiser out from under his seat and tossed it back to me.
“Hey, it’s good to see ya, man,” he said as he backed out of the driveway, “but you picked a fuck of a time to call me.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, tucking the beer into my jacket pocket. The dog curled up next to me, placed his head in my lap, and licked the back of my hand. I ran my hands along the fur at the nape of his neck. “I didn’t mean to …”
I stopped as I realized what Chevy Dick had just said. “What do you mean, I called you?”
The two men in the front seats glanced at each other in confusion. The kid in the passenger seat muttered something in Spanish, and Chevy Dick responded with a laugh; then he put the car in gear. “Hey, man,” he said as the Corvette rumbled down the narrow street, its headlights still extinguished. “Maybe you don’t remember, but you called me. Begged me to come out here and pick you up right here.”
“I did …?”
“I saw your face, heard your voice.” Chevy Dick shrugged and looked back at me again. “Listen, I don’t mind doing a favor for an amigo, but if you can’t remember, I’d just as soon-”
“No,” I said hurriedly. “That’s great … I just forgot, that’s all. Get me out of here.”
Ricardo and his fellow motorhead glanced at each other again; there was another exchange of Spanish jokes at my expense, then Chevy hit the headlights.
“Hang on to your dog, buddy,” he said. “We’ve got a rough ride ahead.”
Then he popped the clutch, and the Corvette hurtled down the street, its engine roaring as the massive machine pitched itself into the night.
20
Chevy Dick’s Corvette cruised along dark, rain-slicked Gravois Avenue like a sleek black torpedo, passing the ruins of row shops and boarded-up supermarkets, skirting around potholes and dodging piles of burning debris left over from gang fights. We cruised down the vacant four-lane street, ignoring all the stop signs; shadowy figures huddling around garbage-can fires stared at us with dull curiosity. The rain had finally stopped, so Chevy’s friend Cortez kept his window rolled down halfway, his Glock cradled in his hands above the warm can of Budweiser resting between his thighs.
As we approached the broad intersection of Gravois and Grand Boulevard, we saw an ERA patrol. An LAV-25 was parked in front of a closed-down White Castle, a couple of troopers sitting on top of the armored cars next to the water cannon. Upon spotting the Corvette’s headlights, one of the soldiers jumped off the front of the Piranha and sauntered out into the street, waving his arms over his head.
“Aw, shit,” I whispered as Chevy Dick began to slow down. “That’s the last thing I need to see right-”
“Hang on to your mutt,” Chevy said.
“Punch it,” Cortez muttered.
Chevy smiled, then floored the gas pedal. The digital speedometer flashed into the higher numbers as the car hurtled down the blacktop toward the lone soldier. He gaped in disbelief as he fumbled for the rifle slung against his back, but at the last moment he lunged for the sidewalk.
I caught a brief glimpse of his astonished face as the Corvette whipped past him, then Chevy Dick hauled the wheel to the left. Its tires screeching against the pavement, the Corvette hugged the curb as it tore through the intersection and made a sharp left turn onto Grand.
“God, but I love doing that.” Chevy took a big hit off his beer. Cortez was smiling but otherwise played the cool. He glanced back at me. “Wasn’t that great?”
“Yeah. Big fun.” I gazed back at the intersection through the rear window. The troopers were probably already on the radio, calling all ERA units in the area to spread the alert. Chevy Dick bragged a lot about his wheels, but I didn’t recall him saying anything about making it bulletproof.
I looked down at the dog; he was curled up in my lap, his long red tongue lolling out of his mouth like a big grin on his canine face. “Figures you’d go for something like this,” I murmured to him.
“Don’t worry about it, man,” Chevy said. “I’ll be on the interstate before they manage to get their act together, and nobody knows these plates for shit.” He glanced at me again. “Y’sure you want me to drop you off at Compton Hill? It’s still a long walk home, man.”
I knew what he was implying. The Grand Avenue I-44 ramp was less than a block from the reservoir; once he got on the eastbound lanes, it was a quick sail downtown, with Soulard only a few minutes away. If I skipped the rest of the ride, though, I would be marooned in a nasty side of town; between gangs, cops, and ERA troopers, I would have a tough time getting home.
“I’m sure,” I said. “Just put me out on the street in front of the park and I’ll cut you loose. I’ll pick up the dog at your place later.”
“Fuckin’ crazy, man.” Cortez belched and looked over his shoulder at me. “Y’know that? You’re fuckin’ crazy …”
I gazed back at him. “What high school did you go to?” I asked.
Cortez and Chevy Dick shared another look, then both of them broke up laughing. Cortez uncocked his automatic, then turned it around in his hands and extended it to me, grip first, through the gap between the seats. “Here, dude,” he said. “Take it. Y’gonna need it.”
I looked at the automatic. It was a tempting notion, but … “Keep it,” I said. “I’d probably just shoot myself in the foot.”
Cortez peered at me in disbelief. Chevy Dick said something to him in Spanish; the kid shrugged and pulled the gun away. “Suit yourself, gringo,” he murmured. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The blocks melted away behind us until Chevy eased his foot off the pedal and downshifted; the car rapidly decelerated as it neared the crest of a low, sloping hill. Off to the right were the houselights from the few early twentieth-century mansions still remaining in this side of the city. The Compton Heights neighborhood surrounding the reservoir had been a wealthy area at one time; even before the end of the last century some urban estates here had fetched million-dollar estimates, and the few of them left after the quake were sealed behind high fences and electronic sentries. The Heights was nestled against the perimeter of the South Side combat zone, and no one who still lived here was taking any chances.
Then the lights were behind us, and there was a only a large patch of wooded darkness: barren trees, overgrown shrubbery, a few park benches. “We’re here, Gerry,” Chevy Dick said as he let the car glide to a halt. “Last chance …”
“Thanks for the ride,” I replied. “I owe you one.” Cortez opened his door and bent forward to allow me to push his seatback against his spine.
The dog was reluctant to let me go; he whimpered a little and licked my hands furiously, but I shoved him off me as I squeezed out of the car. “Stay,” I said softly. “Be good … I’ll come get you in a little while.” I glanced up at Chevy. “Give him something to eat, okay?”
“No sweat,” Chevy Dick said.
Cortez slammed the door shut behind me, then the black Corvette’s tires left rubber as it tore off down the boulevard. I waited until I saw its taillights veer sharply to the right, entering the I-44 ramp next to the reservoir, then I jogged out of the street and into the park.
The reservoir on Compton Hill was a small man-made lake encircled by fortresslike walls and a six-foot
