“There’s no normal with you guys.”
“Well, as close to normal as possible. Listen, I want to go back to the warehouse one more time.”
“I’m not that stupid, pard.”
“Well, I am.”
“You’re on your own this time, Skip.” He headed back into the kitchen to make someone a crab sandwich and I finished my po’boy and left.
He pulled up in the truck about seven fifteen, stepped into the apartment, and immediately walked to the refrigerator, pulling a beer from the inside of the door. “What time do you want to go?”
“Go?”
“Oh, fuck. You know I can’t let you drive down there by yourself. You’ll do something stupid like the last time and get yourself shot. I’d have to call your mom and try to find that worthless asshole father of yours and tell them you’ve been killed, and I’m not going to go through all that shit. What time are we leaving?”
“Nine?”
“Just the two of us?”
“I thought about that. If we need a gun, we need Angel.”
“Shit.” He pulled the keys to the truck from his pocket, took a long swallow of beer, and motioned to me. We walked out, got into the truck, and drove to Gas and Grocery. The tiny carryout was open, but Angel wasn’t there.
“What do we do now?”
I shook my head. Angel had always been there. “Stick around a couple of minutes.”
Half an hour later I went inside and asked the old lady behind the counter to leave a message for Angel.
“What the hell I look like? Voicemail?”
“No, I just thought if he happened to stop by-”
“We close at nine. You want him to get a message, you go find him.”
I walked back to the truck and shrugged my shoulders. “We’re on our own, James.”
“Been that way most of our adult lives, Skip. I think we can manage.”
We drove back to the apartment, pulled in beside the rusted-out Ranchero, and went inside. James finished the warm beer.
“This is about paying a debt, right?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Some of it is.”
“You and me, Skip, we’d do that for each other.”
“Sure.”
“But you’d do it for someone you don’t really know. You’d try to save someone because they saved you.”
“There’s other reasons.”
“You want to protect your lady and the new kid.”
I remember glaring at him. His psychoanalysis was getting a little overbearing.
“I’m right.”
“James, maybe I’m doing this because I’m afraid for my own life. If I don’t get them, they’ll get me.”
He smiled that cocksure smile of his. “Nah. You care about people, amigo. You’ve got people and situations that you really care about. It’s what makes you a strong person. It’s what I like about you, pard.”
“And you? What are you really in this for?”
He didn’t pause a second. “Because you’re in it. It’s you and me, Skip. Hell, I guess if you and what’s-her-name ever do get married, you’ll have to have a guest room for me to live in.” He grinned.
“Fuck you, James.”
“I said you’re my best friend, buddy. But I won’t go that far.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Weleft at eight thirty. I had James swing by the carryout, but there was no sign of our black friend or his black Jeep. James hopped on I-95 and he opened it up to fifty-five miles an hour. We should have taken the Prism, but James had insisted.
“Need to open up the truck a little bit. Guy told me if you want to keep it tuned up, open it up once in a while.”
I listened to his bullshit for another couple of minutes. Finally I’d had enough. “You know, James, you couldn’t even open up that sorry rust trap pickup you had in high school! Christ, I think top speed was thirty if the damned thing started. You always sound like you know so much about cars and trucks-”
He was silent for a while. I probably should have just shut up, but I was riled. Vic Maitlin, Emily, James-they each had special meaning in my life and I could do something to help them. Protect them. But I had no idea what that something was. As it stood, I was playing David to Goliath and the only person in my corner tonight was James. Probably not the person to be pissing on.
“You’re in a tough spot, Skip. There’s a lot going on in your life. Just don’t take it out on the people who are here to help you.” Son of a bitch knew what I’d been thinking.
We were quiet the rest of the ride.
James pulled off the highway and we headed down to the river on North River Drive, past Garcia’s, downtown’s freshest seafood. The sign says so. Past the sewage plant next door to Garcia’s, and past the rust-bucket container ships with their loads of housewares, food, autos, and whatever bound for Honduras, Columbia, Belize, Puerto Rico, and other ports south. He slowed down, concentrating on something.
“You hear something?”
“What am I listening for?”
“Just listen.” He jazzed the engine and we scooted ahead for a moment.
“Hear that?”
“What?” I hate it when people do that. Tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be listening for.
“That. Right there.”
I heard it. A clunk.
“Yeah, a clunk. Why couldn’t you say, ‘Listen for a clunk’?”
James ignored me. “Shit. I’ll bet we’re low on oil.”
“Just like that, you know?”
“Had a friend who was driving home with some girl and clunk. Car threw a rod because of low oil. Had to catch a bus home.”
“We’re back to a rod again?”
“Just shut the fuck up, Skip.”
I could see our warehouse just up the street, lit up by a new floodlight in the parking lot.
He pulled over, three lots from the one with the forklift next to the building. Three lots from the parking lot where I’d run my ass off. Three lots from the warehouse where I thought I’d seen Vic Maitlin.
“What are you pulling over for?”
“Check the engine.”
“Shit, we should have driven the Prism.”
“Makes no difference. They know every vehicle we own. Besides, we can park the truck here around back of this building and walk over to their warehouse.”
“What I meant was, the Prism doesn’t drink like it’s dollar beer night.”
“Yeah, and the Prism hasn’t made us one fucking penny by hauling anything either.”
“And, James,” I was ready to bow out after my last shot, “the Prism hasn’t almost got us killed!”
He stepped out and walked around to the front. I sat in the passenger seat watching him. He reached under the hood, flipped a lever, and raised it. I could hear him tinkering, probably pulling out the dipstick and trying to figure out if we needed oil.
“Shit. It’s dryer than a witch’s womb.”
“And what do we do about that at nine o’clock at night?” I yelled through the windshield.
“Put oil in it, asshole.”
I put my head out the window. “And, Mr. Lessor, where the hell do you think we’re going to find oil at this time of night?” I could just see us stranded by the water. Tomorrow morning we’d both miss work again, and I’d have to beg a ride home from Em.
“If you will be so kind as to fold down the passenger seat, open the door behind the seat, you will find that closet with the false wall. Inside you’ll find a case of oil. You see, I do know what I’m doing.”
I’d forgotten. James, for once in his life, was prepared. I got out of the seat and gently folded it down. In the dim light it was hard to find the door. If you don’t know it’s there, it’s hard to see.
Finally I found the small metal pull, opened the door, and stepped into the dark closet. James had set the case of oil to the right. I fumbled for a can, lost my balance, and ended up on my knees as the door swung shut and I was lost in the pitch black.
And then I heard the second noise that night that frightened me. The sound of a car pulling up beside the truck and a voice asking, “Having engine trouble?”
I knew the voice. There was no question whose voice it was.
“I asked if you’re having engine trouble.”