Oliver got up and went back to his truck. He found some paper, the back of something on the floor, and wrote a note. He walked around to the back of the house again. As he attempted to wedge his note between the screen door and the jamb, the back door opened. A woman in a dingy yellow terry cloth robe stood rubbing her eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked. She was tall and extremely skinny. Oliver thought she looked like a user of some kind of drug, but decided he didn’t know enough to tell. She had small features set in a narrow face with a sharp nose that was pointed at Oliver.
“Is this where Billy White Feather lives?”
“It’s where he’s supposed to live soon,” she said.
“I was leaving him a note. Are you his girlfriend?”
“I’m her roommate.” She sniffed like she had a cold. “What do you want with Billy?”
“Billy left me a note at my place up in Wyoming,” Oliver said.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know this Billy and I want to know why he left me a note.”
“You drove all the way from Wyoming for that?”
When she said it, it did sound sort of crazy.
“I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave,” she said.
“Do you know Billy?”
“Suppose I do?”
“Is Billy White Feather white or Indian?”
“What kind of question is that? You’d better get away from here.”
“He put a note on my door and I don’t know him. I just want to know what he looks like. Tall? Short? What?”
“Fuck you,” she said and slammed the door.
Oliver left the note wedged inside the screen. He walked back to his truck and fell in behind the wheel. The teenagers noticed him again and walked back in his direction. He heard a siren in the distance. Billy White Feather might or might not be coming back to this house, but it hardly mattered. Oliver had left a note. Oliver had been on his porch.
Liquid Glass
Harold Beaver leaned over the engine and shook his head. “I don’t know about this,” he said. “I just don’t know.” He played with a torque wrench, spinning it around on his fingertips. “What if you’ve got a leak from the cooling system into the oil? I think you might.”
“I don’t,” Donnie St. Clair said. “This motor is perfect.”
“Then why are we working on it?”
“There’s no leak. I have an exhaust tick. Let’s just do it.”
“Okay, listen, I’m telling you one more time,” Harold said. “I pour this liquid glass in there and there’s no taking it out. If there’s even a tiny leak, that’s the end of this engine.”
“Just do it.”
Harold removed the radiator cap. He poured the sodium silicate into a beaker, about a quarter cup.
“That’s all it takes?” Donnie said.
“Listen, I think this is a bad idea.” Harold looked Donnie in the eye. “Just let me replace your head gasket.”
“And how much will that cost me?”
“Four hundred fifty.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes, dollars.”
“Pour it in,” Donnie said.
“No, you pour it in,” Harold said. “You can do it and just remember what I told you.”
“Pussy,” Donnie said. He took the beaker and poured the liquid quickly into the radiator.
Harold reached in through the window, turned the key, and started the engine. He joined Donnie back at the engine. “When the engine hits two hundred degrees, I think things should start to happen.”
“You mean that awful ticking will go away?”
“That’s the theory. I usually use this stuff for a quick radiator fix. Just a spoonful then. And you know what else they use this stuff for?”
“What?”
“To disable cars. Pour it in the crankcase, run the engine, and no part of the machine can ever be used again. None of it.”
Donnie stared at his truck. “Listen,” he said. “No ticking. You did it. You’re a fucking genius.”
“No, I’m a pussy, like you said. You poured it in,” Harold said. He slammed shut the hood.
“How much?” Donnie asked.
“A dollar fifty.”
“You see, that’s what I’m talking about. Four hundred and fifty dollars, my ass. I’ll pay you tomorrow. I can drive it now?”
Harold nodded. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Relax. I told you there ain’t no leak.” Donnie got behind the wheel and closed the door. “See you tomorrow.” He gunned the motor. “Beautiful,” he said. He rolled out of the garage.
Harold watched him drive to the end of the gravel drive, then stop. The truck made no sound. He could see Donnie frantically turning the key again and again. Donnie got out, stood away from the vehicle, and looked at it. He put his hands on his head and looked at Harold.
“Guess there was a leak,” Harold shouted.
Donnie walked back toward the garage. “What now?”
“There ain’t no ‘what now.’” Harold pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. “Your truck has experienced what is known as a catastrophic event. It’s shit now. It’s dead. I told you what would happen if there was a leak. There was a leak and it happened.”
Donnie sighed and looked back at his truck and then back at Harold. He scratched his head. “There’s no fixing it at all?”
“I’d have to replace everything. Except the body and electrical system.”
“So, I fucked my truck.”
“Pretty much.”
“You got something I can drive for the day?”
“Take the Duster,” Harold said.
“That thing works?”
“Most of the time. There’s no second gear.”
“Thanks.”
Later that day, Donnie came back with the Duster. “You know, that’s not a bad little car.” He stood at the garage door and looked at the bronze Silverado pickup in the bay. “Whose truck is this?”
“Keasey’s.”
“Never-easy-Keasey? He’s back?”
“Yeah, he says San Francisco didn’t work out for him. Says he didn’t like it, anyway. Sounds like he was doing pretty good to me.”
“Nice truck. What’s wrong with it?”
“Just an oil change. Let me describe that to you. That’s when you take the old oil out and put in new oil, thus saving wear and tear on the engine and prolonging said engine’s life.”
“Well, fuck you. So, how’s Keasey looking?”
“Big as ever. Looks good. Got a wife.” Harold finished tightening the new filter. “Nice-looking woman. Pregnant.”
“And he brought them back here?” Donnie asked. “She from here?”
“Black girl.”
“Black girls are okay. White girls, too.” Donnie lit a cigarette. “Why’d he come back here?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Remember when he got his nickname?”
“I remember.”
“We were up by twenty points against those Casper boys. Keasey lost the ball, threw the ball to the wrong man, even tipped a ball into their basket until the game was tied with three seconds left.”
“I remember,” Harold said.
“So, Keasey shoots and the buzzer goes off and there’s that ball going around and around the rim. Everybody was standing up, waiting. Keasey was already running back to the bench with his fist in the air. Then the ball just dropped through the net and everybody went crazy.”
“I remember.”
“Every game was like that. Everything he did was like that. He was about to lose a footrace and the two guys in front of him got tangled up with each other and fell down. He won.”
“I know.” Harold poured the last quart of oil into the crankcase.
“One lucky son of a bitch. Never-easy-Keasey.” Donnie shook his head. “I came up with that nickname, you know?”
“Right.”