HE STENCH OF STAGNANT AIR was the first thing Greg noticed as he roused from his fevered dreams. Then he surveyed the bleak confines of the tiny shelter. Next came the sound of squeaking wheels from a rusted shopping cart, announcing the return of his deranged old hostess.
The old woman crawled under the gray carpet that hung over the opening to the concrete void. In her skeletal hands were a small plastic bag, a beat-up thermos and a pair of rusty scissors. “How’s the patient?” she asked.
Greg moaned and tried to push the foul blanket away from his chin. “I need to get out of here.”
“Now you jus’stay put. We got somethin’ that might help draw out the heat,” she grinned. “‘Lo ‘vera–a powerful herb. Mama taught me how a use it more ‘en 50 years ago.” She took the scissors and began to cut at the splotchy fabric of Greg’s right pant leg, her crippled fingers working for all they were worth. “Looks like ‘em blisters started poppin’. From the looks ‘a it, you musta been in the sun five, six hours. Scuttlebutt on the street has it the man that robbed you got 50 bucks fer your watch. Musta been a nice one.”
The old woman paused when she reached Greg’s hip. “No, we won’t completely undress him; he’s still got his underwear on.” The old woman turned back to Greg. “This’s my daughter Belle. She’s embarrassed to see your nakedness. . . . Everybody calls me ‘Nurse’–don’t worry, I seen it all ‘fore.”
She spread the mouth of the plastic bag, removed a stalk of aloe vera plant, popped it in her mouth and began to chew, her fluttering gums chomping up and down. Then she spit a sticky slurry into her palm and gently patted the blistered skin on Greg’s leg. After applying a second and third handful, “Nurse” pulled the outer husk of aloe vera from her lips.
“Don’t taste so good, and might give me the runs tomorrow, but my ol’ hands have a hard time squeezin’ out the juice.”
Under any other circumstance, Greg would have been completely disgusted–not to mention embarrassed–but the pain from the second degree burns over 60% of his fair skin had a way of making him drop his guard. The coolness of the soothing herb felt good. Asoft “Thank you” fell from his cracked, swollen lips.
“No, no, don’t thank me ‘til you gets the bill,” she giggled. Her gnarled hands trembled as they strained to unscrew the lid to the thermos. Then one of them reached down and extracted a dirty straw from her pocket. “Here, now we better get some fluid in you ‘fore you dry out like a ol’ bone.”
Greg sipped at the used straw. Cold orange juice ran over his parched tongue and down his throat.
“Got it from the church on Stewart. Reverend says he’ll help us anytime. Always good ta have friends, ain’t it?”
Greg nodded. This new friend was unlike any he’d ever had.
“Good luck with your car,” Mr. Vasquez said as Mitch exited the car. “I’ll be happy to testify, if you can find him.”
“Thanks for the ride. I appreciate the offer.” The Chrysler pulled away. Mitch, standing on the curb, spied the Escort down the street. Why was it parked there? And what was Stephanie doing home so early? He took a deep breath and turned toward the house. Telling his wife about the stolen car wouldn’t be easy. And explaining why he hadn’t called the police would be even harder.
The open paycheck on the kitchen counter reminded Mitch of the new clothes he’d promised his wife. As if in tandem, the unopened credit card application further dampened his mood. Two opposite reminders, one clear message: they were in financial trouble. The loss of income from the GTO would be hard to absorb, setting them back months. It might even push school back for another year. They were already in desperate straits; now how would they survive?
Mitch had never lied to Stephanie about anything. But this was different, he decided. He had to protect her feelings. He could justify not saying anything–not yet, at least–until after he recovered his car.
He made his way down the hallway to the bedroom and pushed open the door. Stephanie lay on the bed, dressed in a pair of his baggy sweats. She jerked to a seated position, startled by his entry.
“Oh . . . you’re home. I must have dozed off. I–I didn’t even hear the garage open. . . . So, did you sell it?”
“Not yet.” He could barely get the words out. He quickly changed the subject. “You’re home early. . . . What’s the car doing out on the street?”
Stephanie groaned. “You wouldn’t believe what a horrible day it’s been.”
“I might; try me.” Stephanie’s eyes glistened with tears as she described what had happened: their obnoxious neighbor Al coming on to her that morning . . . Linda and her double-crossing ways . . . the little Ford twice dying on the way home.
Later, after an hour of Mitch’s thoughtful attention, she felt better. That’s what she loved about him: he could listen without judging or trying to fix anything. She could never understand where he’d learned to be so sensitive to others’ feelings, especially without a mother around.
“What can I do to help?”
“Can you fix the car?”
“That’s the easy part. You vant I should punch Al too?” Mitch doubled his fists, stuck out his gut and danced about, shadow boxing.
Stephanie laughed. “No, I think I can handle him.”
“I’ll take your car and run a few errands. It’s probably just the fuel pump.”
The phone rang as Mitch lifted the spare keys from a dish on the counter. “Hello . . . Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, I thought I’d have it by today. . . . I will, I promise–by Thursday at the latest. . . . Yeah, I understand.”
“The rent?” Stephanie asked.
Mitch nodded.
“I’ll wait a few more days for clothes.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping.”
“When does your flight leave?”
“Sunday night.”
“And you get back when?”
“Sometime Wednesday evening.”
“This will be the first time for us to be apart,” Stephanie pouted, a lament marked by both mock anguish and genuine sadness.
“I know. I was hoping to surprise you with a ticket, but it’s not going to happen.”
“I’ll be fine, especially if I can park in the garage. You just go show ‘em your stuff.”
Mitch reached out and pulled his wife close. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ll get us out of here–promise.”
“I have no doubts. That’s why I married you.”
Vinnie scanned the assortment of unopened crates lining the rented warehouse. New dishwashers, televisions, VCR’s, refrigerators and dozens of other appliances–all purchased using others’ credit and waiting to cool off–were stacked to the ceiling, awaiting new homes in other states. Mitch’s GTO was stowed in one corner, along with two other beautifully restored antique cars.
Angelo climbed from the driver’s seat, a rag and a bottle of glass cleaner in hand. Vinnie shook his head. “I don’t know why you do that. We’ve never had one traced back yet,” he said, unrolling a wad of cash from his pocket.
“Just ‘cause you have money and hot-shot attorneys don’t mean you can let down your guard,” countered Angelo. “I been in them places before, man, and I never wanna go back.” Angelo pulled the car title from his pocket.
“Have it your way.” Vinnie flipped off ten bills and handed them to his employee–petty thief, car detailer, gopher, ferret . . . you name it, Angelo did it. “The guy in the truck, did he have a flat nose and pocked face?”
“He was too far away. All’s I know is that he had Utah plates.” “Mike,” Vinnie mumbled.
“Who?”
“A dead man.”
Mike paced the floor of his shop, cell phone pressed up to his ear, giving whoever was on the other end an earful. “You’re right, he’s going to get hurt! He’s already had his car stolen. I don’t know how you do it down here, but the offices I’ve worked with listen to us men in the field. I won’t let this kid get sucked into our trap just because they start squeezing him.”
Just then Mitch pulled up to the closed shop doors to see if he could use a few of Mike’s tools to fix the malfunctioning Escort. The way it acted still led him to believe it was just a bad connection.
“You either get the kid on the payroll or transfer me back north–” The door opened and Mitch entered the shop. “Hey–talk to you later. Mitch just came in.”
Mitch pointed a finger at his boss. “I didn’t know you had a cell phone.” “Just got it.”
“Cool. Hey, mind if I take an hour to work on my wife’s car?” “No problem. . . . How’d it go with the GTO?”
Mitch stopped, blinked hard, then swallowed. “Not so good.” He
turned his face toward the bay door.
“What happened?”
“The sucker ripped me off. Planned it for days.” His jaw tightened
involuntarily. “Worst part is . . . I think Bino set me up.” “How’s that?”
“Claimed he told Janice to tell me not to let him take it. She says it
was the other way around.”
“Look, kid, you’re dealing with some bad dudes. Did you call the
cops?”
“No. The car was running illegal plates.”
“Doesn’t matter. They can still take down a report.”
“I’ve got to see Janice. She knows more about him than anybody
else.”
“You want some help? I might make a better snoop than a body
man.” He chuckled at his joke.
“No way. You’ve got enough problems trying to keep this place
going. Don’t count on Vinnie, either.”
“Why?”
Mitch’s head bowed. “He didn’t come here for you. He–he offered
me a job.”
“So what’d you say?”
“The guy’s a clown. What do you think I told him?”
Mike nodded. “Look, I’ve been thinking about packing it in. I gave
it a shot, but I just don’t have what it takes. If I did, this place would be
filled with customers.”
“You can do it.”
“No, the phone got disconnected because I’m going home. I was
going to tell you this morning, ‘til the Ferrari came in.” He watched
the kid slump dejectedly onto the shop stool. “You lost your tools too,
didn’t you?
“I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Stef. I’m supposed to leave for
VICAfinals Sunday.”
“Look, I paid the rent so I’ve got two weeks. Use whatever you need. Who knows, maybe someone’ll offer me a job too? Besides, I know a few
of Jimmy’s flaky friends–they might’ve heard where your car took off to.” “Thanks.”
Mitch spent 20 minutes pulling the gas tank on the Escort and cleaning and tightening the connection on the fuel pump. After returning
the tools to their places on the wall, he headed out to see Janice.
Bino was sitting in Vinnie’s penthouse office on the 13th floor of Three Queens. The casino was one of the older buildings left standing in the city. Fancy new gambling joints had sprung up all around. Vinnie had spent a small fortune to make the office look and feel like those of the big boys.
“Not that well.”
“He a cop?”
“Nah. . . .”
“Why was he following Angelo today?”
“How should I know?” Bino reached over to adjust the valve on his
oxygen tank. His heart rate was rising by the second.
“This Mike moves into town and just happens to meet up with you.
The next thing I know he steals my best painter and half the car junkies from my shop. The guy can’t paint–and you don’t know nothin’
‘bout him?”
“As far as I know . . . the guy’s what he says he is.” Bino again
adjusted the valve.
Vinnie stalked across the room and plunked down on the leather
sofa next to Bino. “If you’re on the take,” he sneered, taking hold of
the slender hose connected to Bino’s nose piece and kinking it between his fingers, “you won’t live long enough to pay another dime of
your debt to me.”
The frail man began to gasp for air and pawing helplessly at Vinnie’s
hand.
“I need the kid. He’s got talent and I got three cahs comin’in from Jersey
that need to be cleaned up. You do what you gotta do to get him on the
hook. Wouldn’t want your bones licked clean by the coyotes like those–”
He released the hose. Bino gulped in the precious oxygen. “What’s the kid
need?”
“Money,” Bino said, panting. “He’s . . . broke.”
“Then make him a hard loan.”