“Well, I guess he sees it as a hobby,” I said.
“Sure,” Darnell said expansively. “Sure he does. Just as long as he doesn’t want to ramrod around with it like that punk, that Repperton. But not much chance of that for a while, huh?”
“I guess not. It looks pretty wasted.”
“What the fuck is he doing to it?” Darnell asked. He leaned forward suddenly, his big shoulders going up all the way to his hairline. His brows pulled in, and his eyes disappeared except for small twin gleams. “What the fuck is he up to? I been in this business all my life, and I never seen anyone go at fixing a car up the crazy-ass way he is. Is it a joke? A game?”
“I’m not getting you,” I said, although I was—I was getting him perfectly.
“Then I’ll draw you a pitcher,” Darnell said. “He brings it in, and at first he’s doing all the things I’d expect him to do. What the fuck, he ain’t got money falling out of his asshole, right? If he did, he wouldn’t be here. He changes the oil. He changes the filter. Grease-job, lube, I see one day he’s got two new Firestones for the front to go with the two on the back.”
Two on the back? I wondered, and then decided he’d just bought three new tyres to go with the original new one I’d gotten the night we were bringing it over here.
“Then I come in one day and see he’s replaced the windscreen wipers,” Darnell continued “Not so strange, except that the car’s not going to be going anywhere—rain or shine—for a long time. Then it’s a new aerial for the radio, and I think, He’s gonna listen to the radio while he’s working on it and drain his battery. Now he’s got one new seat cover and half a grille. So what is it? A game?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Did he buy the replacement parts from you?”
“No,” Darnell said, sounding aggravated. “I don’t know where he gets them. That grille—there isn’t a spot of rust on it. He must have ordered it from somewhere. Custom Chrysler in New Jersey or someplace like that, But where’s the other half? Up his ass? I never even heard of a grille that came in two pieces.”
“I don’t know. Honest.”
He jammed the cigar out, “Don’t tell me you’re not curious, though. I saw the way you was lookin at that car.” I shrugged. “Arnie doesn’t talk about it much,” I said.
“No, I bet he doesn’t. He’s a close-mouthed sonofabitch. He’s a fighter, though. That Repperton pushed the wrong button when he started in on Cunningham. If he works out okay this fall, I might find a steady job for him this winter. Jimmy Sykes is a good boy, but he ain’t much in the brains department.” His eyes measured me. “Think he’s a pretty good worker, Dennis?”
“He’s okay.”
“I got lots of irons in the fire,” he said. “Lot of irons. I rent out flatbeds to guys that need to haul their stockers up to Philadelphia City. I haul away the junkets after races. I can always use help. Good, trustworthy help.”
I began to have a horrid suspicion that I was being asked to dance. I got up hurriedly, almost knocking over the straight chair. “I really ought to get going,” I said. “And… Mr Darnell… I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to Arnie that I was here. He’s… a little touchy about the car. To tell you the truth, his father was curious about how he was coming along.”
“Took a little shit on the home front, did he?” Darnell’s right eye closed shrewdly in something that was not quite a wink, “Folks ate a few pounds of Ex-Lax and then stood over him with their legs spread, did they?”
“Yeah, well, you know.”
“You bet I know.” He was up in one smooth motion and clapped me on the back hard enough to stagger me on my feet. Wheezy respiration and cough or not, he was strong.
“Wouldn’t mention it,” he said, walking me toward the door. His hand was still on my shoulder, and that also made me feel nervous—and a little disgusted.
“I tell you something else that bothers me,” he said. “I must see a hundred thousand cars a year in this place well, not that many, but you know what I mean—and I got an eye for em. You know, I could swear I’ve seen that one before. When it wasn’t such a dog. Where did he get it?”
“From a man named Roland LeBay,” I said, thinking of LeBay’s brother telling me that LeBay did all the maintenance himself at some do-it-yourself garage. “He’s dead now.”
Darnell stopped cold. “LeBay? Rollie LeBay?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Army? Retired?”
“Yes.”
“Holy Christ, sure! He brought it in here just as regular as clockwork for six maybe eight years, then he stopped coming. A long time ago. What a bastard that man was. If you poured boiling water down that whoremaster’s throat, he would have peed ice cubes. He couldn’t get along with a living soul.” He gripped my shoulder harder. “Does your friend Cunningham know LeBay’s wife committed suicide in that car?”
“What?” I said, acting surprised—I didn’t want him to know I’d been interested enough to talk to LeBay’s brother after the funeral. I was afraid Darnell might repeat the information to Arnie—complete with his source.
Darnell told me the whole story. First the daughter, then the mother.
“No,” I said when he was done. “I’m pretty sure Arnie doesn’t know that. Are you going to tell him?” The eyes, appraising again. “Are you?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t see any reason to.
“Then neither do I.” He opened the door, and the greasy air of the garage smelled almost sweet after the cigar smoke in the office. “That sonofabitch LeBay, I’ll be damned. I hope he’s doing right-face-left-face and to-the-rear-march down in hell.” His mouth turned down viciously for just a moment, and then he glanced over at where Christine sat in stall twenty with her old, rusting paint and her new radio aerial and half a grille. “That bitch back again,” he said, and then he glanced at me. “Well, they say bad pennies always turn up, huh?”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess they do.”
“So long, kid,” he said, sticking a fresh cigar in his mouth. “Say hi to your dad for me.”
“I will.”
“And tell Cunningham to keep an eye out for that punk Repperton. I got an idea he might be the sort who’d hold a grudge.”
“Me too,” I said.
I walked out of the garage, pausing once to glance back but looking in from the glare, Christine was little more than a shadow among shadows. Bad pennies always turn up, Darnell said. It was a phrase that followed me home.
15
FOOTBALL WOES
Learn to work the saxophone,
I play just what I feel,
Drink Scotch whisky
All night long,
And die behind the wheel…
School started, and nothing much happened for a week or two. Arnie didn’t find out I’d been down to the garage, and I was glad. I don’t think he would have taken kindly to the news. Darnell kept his mouth shut as he had promised (probably for his own reasons). I called Michael one afternoon after school when I knew Arnie would be down at the garage. I told him Arnie had done some stuff to the car, but it was nowhere near street-legal. I told him my impression was that Arnie was mostly farting around. Michael greeted this news with a mixture of relief and surprise, but that ended it… for a while.
Arnie himself flickered in and out of my view, like something you see from the corner of your eye. He was around the halls, and we had three classes together, and he sometimes came over after school or on weekends. There were times when it really seemed as if nothing had changed. But he was at Darnell’s a lot more than he was at my house, and on Friday nights he went out to Philly Plains—the stock-car track—with Darnell’s half-bright handyman, Jimmy Sykcs. They ran out sportsters and charger-class racers, mostly Camaros and Mustangs with all their glass knocked out and roll bars installed. They took them out on Darnell’s flatbed and came back with fresh junk for the automobile graveyard.