Carver limped outside and said hello to him. Saw that he was about fifty and had a chubby, ruddy face that was so grease-stained it made him resemble an Indian warrior painted and ready to fight. A miniature Crazy Horse, lost in time.
The little guy even smelled like oil. Gnats swarmed around him, but he didn’t seem to notice. The name tag sewn crookedly onto his coveralls said his name was Jack Murray.
He said, “You the guy what called? A Mr. Carver?”
Carver said he was.
“Jack Murray,” said the stocky little man. He propped his dirty fists on his hips and studied the flat tires on the passenger side of the Olds, strutted around and peered at the other flat tires. When he returned to stand facing Carver again, he said, “My, my, it ’pears somebody don’t like you.”
Carver said, “I’ve got an idea who.”
“Well, they done a good job. For certain ruined them tires. Shame, too, as there was plenty of rubber left on ’em.”
“Can you tow the car in and get some replacement tires on it soon as possible?”
“Sure, but soon as possible’s sometime this afternoon.”
“That’ll be fine.” Had to be.
Beth walked out of the room and stood behind Carver. Murray looked at her, then back at Carver. “Hey, you two’re the ones I heard about did a number on the Brainard brothers at Whiffy’s.”
Beth said, not without pride, “That’s us.”
“Well, Christ, ain’t no wonder you got your tires slashed. Fuck them Brainards, they always fuck back.”
Beth said, “Get the tires fixed and we’ll be outa here and they can fuck themselves.”
Murray grinned at her with bold admiration. A couple of missing front teeth lent him a devilish look. “I’d advise it. Advise you to flag down the next Greyhound bus if one came through here. Sell me this old car cheap an’ forget it, count yourselves lucky to get outa here without bein’ worked on like them poor tires.” He shook his head. “Michelins, too.”
Beth tucked her fingertips in the back pockets of her Levi’s and smiled at Murray. The way she was standing caused her elbows to brace backward and made her heavy breasts jut out aggressively. Carver wondered if she was working on poor Murray. She said, “Will the Brainless brothers object to you repairing the car so we can leave here?”
“Heh! Heh! The Brainless brothers, huh?” Clearly, Murray liked Beth. “They might object, but who gives a flyin’ leap? Them two are the kinda worthless swamp turkeys don’t work for a livin’ an’ make fun of folks that do. They don’t like me turnin’ an honest dollar, piss on ’em.” He puffed out his chest again, like a proud pigeon, and strutted toward the truck to work the winch. “Only question’s whether I got four tires this size.”
Carver said, “Any size that fits the rims will do.”
Murray started the electric winch and played out chain. They he got down on all fours to fit the tow hooks to the car’s frame. He said, “Wait a friggin’ minute,” and scampered to his feet.
Carver limped toward him. “What’s the matter?”
Murray bent at the waist as if reaching to touch his toes. Amazingly limber. He rubbed at a white dusting on the gravel, then ran this thumb and forefinger together in a circling motion and frowned. After touching his finger to the tip of his tongue, like a chef testing a souffle, he said, “Well, goddam!”
Carver watched as Murray loosened the Olds’s gas cap. He stood staring into the fill pipe. Motioned Carver over with a wave of his grimy hand.
Murray said, “Looka this.”
Carver looked and saw white granules around the edge of the fill pipe. He knew immediately what it was.
Murray screwed the gas cap back on. Both men listened as it made a grating sound. Murray said, “Some sonuvabitch poured sugar in your tank. Sugar don’t dissolve in gasoline; you start this car up an’ it’ll get into the engine an’ the metal parts’ll grind themselves till they bind together. ’Scuse me for sayin’ so, but it’d turn an old car like this the resta the way into junk. I mean, these vintage Olds’s has got engines powerful as Arnold Schwartzenwhatever, but as you can see, rust is startin’ to take over the body.”
“So what do you have to do to get us on the road?” Carver asked.
“Aside from replacin’ the tires, I gotta drain the gas tank. Take it off the car an’ flush it out good. Drain the fuel line, too, just to make sure we got all the sugar outa the system. Then we let everything dry off good an’ put it back together. Pump in some fresh gas, turn the key, an’ hope we got it all an’ the motor’s the way God an’ Detroit intended.”
“How long’s all that gonna take?” Carver asked.
“Realistically, you ain’t goin’ noplace till tomorrow mornin’. I ain’t even sure I got tires’ll fit. Might have to send outa town for some.”
Carver stared out at the swamp, close and looming and green and thrumming with life and death. Something back in the ooze emitted a throaty, primitive cough. An alligator? “Okay,” he said to Murray, “whatever it takes.”
He gave Murray his Visa number, then watched as the Olds’s back end was hoisted and Murray made sure the steering was locked.
When the tow truck dragging the raked, bouncing car had disappeared in a haze of dust, Beth said, “Guy’s a kinda greasy Mr. Goodwrench.”
“I hope so,” Carver said. He did have the impression Murray knew cars. Loved them the way some men loved all women.
Dust settled in the sunlight, and Carver and Beth went back inside Carver’s room.
They locked the doors and lay side by side on his bed, knowing they were stuck in Dark Glades, but glad to be out of the heat. They didn’t make love, didn’t even talk much, both of them listening to the labored, lulling hum of the air conditioner and thinking.
Finally, when it was a few minutes past one, Carver got restless and climbed out of bed. Pacing around with his cane, he talked Beth into admitting she was hungry.
Then he borrowed Watts’s battered Ford pickup, and they drove into town to get something to eat and check on whatever progress Murray was making with the Olds.
29
Carver and Beth returned to Whiffy’s after Murray had run down a list of needed parts with a greasy, authoritative finger. He’d informed Carver he had only two tires in stock that would fit the Olds, then told him the car would be ready sometime tomorrow morning. Some kind of rare gasket and the tires were due in around sunup on a truck from Haines City.
Marlene the waitress kept their coffee cups filled. That was fine with Carver; he figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to stay up and alert most of the night, maybe in shifts. He and Beth let Whiffy entertain them with tales of dropped pop flies and outrageously called third strikes. To believe Whiffy was to be convinced that only a blind spot in his batting eye had prevented him from becoming another Hammering Henry Aaron, only better looking.
It was almost dark when Carver jockeyed Watts’s old pickup truck back over the rutted dirt road to the motel. As he steered into the lot, he noticed three other cars parked in front of cabin doors. A long Lincoln with Canadian license plates, a red Toyota with clothes piled high on the backseat, and the blue Plymouth with the rental decal on its trunk. None of the guests were staying within two rooms’ distance of Carver and Beth, Watts making sure that if anything did happen, victims would be kept to a minimum.
Carver parked the truck near the office, then sat and waited for the dieseling engine to palump! palump! to silence in the heat. The swamp was hard on things mechanical as well as people.
Beth opened the passenger-side door and hopped to the ground. Envying the way she could move, Carver struggled out of the truck with his cane.