Luigi’s Garage
The head mechanic at Luigi’s Speed Shop was a man known simply as Garabaldi. He was the head mechanic in every sense of the word, automotive and Mafioso. Garabaldi could strip down a set of Holly carburetors blindfolded. He could also fire a three round burst into the forehead of a mark at fifty yards and cover the spread with a quarter. Master mechanic, Mafioso hit-man, Garabaldi was Luigi’s second in command. And he was worried.
Twice Luigi’s age, Garabaldi had become a “made man” while Scarpetti was still wearing training pants. But the elder man lacked the “family” connections the younger claimed and found himself relegated to a secondary position. This did not make him happy; nor did the fact that the books did not balance. Entirely too much money was being siphoned off. The drop bags in the bakery truck were running short. The inventory here at the chop shop was unaccounted and “street revenues” had fallen dramatically. Therein lay the opportunity for advancement.
Garabaldi would never call Don Corpuloso himself. Such an act would have been insubordinate, above his station, and an act of suicide. The Don would not listen to a simple soldier make accusations about a family relative, even if he himself did refer to that relative as “the dumb as fuck grease monkey in the desert.” But Garabaldi had done some personal favors for the Don’s head accountant, a Jewish man named Myron Fendlemen. Fendleman trusted in numbers, couldn’t abide embezzlers, and had the Don’s ear. Garabaldi figured a quick phone call and he, not Luigi, would be running the operation.
“Myron, how’s the missus; and all the little Fendlemans? Good, glad to hear it. You ain’t had no more problems from that stripper or her pimp have you? Good. You do and you know who to call. So, Myron, listen will ya? We got a situation down here. Yeah, the grease monkey…”
*****
El Tigre realized he could not cross the American border with all his Mexican Mafia forces. Few spoke English, none had passports, and only a handful of U.S. Border Guards were going to believe an AK-47 was a farm implement for chopping lettuce. But it really didn’t matter. He knew where this David Stone lived. It had been a simple matter to have his Lieutenant copy the address from the motor vehicle registration form in the Chevrolet glove compartment. This Surfer would head for the casa of his familia; 1985 Jackrabbit Road, Scottsdale, Arizona. And there the tiger would be waiting with another army.
El Tigre, dressed in green camouflage fatigues, stood at the door of his U.S. Army surplus AH-1Z Cobra Attack Helicopter. The chopper was equipped with all the latest surplus gear: Hellfire missiles, 2.75 inch rockets, a 20mm 3-barrel turret cannon, and AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. It was a two-seat attack craft capable of speeds in excess of 250 mph. While the Tiger knew he would be no match for the Surfer’s Impala in a drag race, the Cobra could fly cross country; an attribute he did not believe the Chevy possessed. With this machine he would beat El Diablo’s spawn to the house in Scottsdale and hold the parents hostage until his property was returned. And then he would kill them all in retribution for his losses.
Removing the Havana cigar from his mouth, “Pepe, you fueled the machine, no?” El Tigre shouted. The whirling props generates such noise that he could not clearly hear his men respond, but he knew they carried out their orders. He was in no mood for laziness. The wild swirling winds whipped at his fake beard. “Have the troops in Arizona been called to muster? Juanito, is everything ready?”
Juanito was to remain behind and maintain production while El Tigre went north. “Si, mi Capitan, everything is just as you ordered. Your disguise is excellent. You look exactly like Fidel Castro. The Norte Americanos will never suspect your true identity. It is brilliant.”
“And the troops, the call went out?’
“Si, every fruit picker in south Phoenix will be at the landing point to assist you. Do you have any further orders, sir?’
“You make sure none of these damn fools gets into the remainder of my wine. Keep a radio on you at all times; I may need you. Now, I go.” El Tigre climbed into the front cockpit, lowered the hatch, and signaled for the pilot to take off.
*****
“Now that I have answered thy questions, stranger, perhaps you will relate to me what service The King has asked of me?”
This is the tale Thornton told:
“Elvis has always suspected his Holy stature. You’ve heard that boy sing Gospel, haven’t you? Like an angel he sings. It will bring tears to your eyes and peace to your soul. And the multitudes that adore him would make the crowd at the Sermon on the Mount look like disinterested picnickers. People are willing to die for that boy. Naturally, being born 1900 years after our Lord and savior, the idea of Latter Day Saints appealed to the lad. I am afraid he really didn’t understand that they already had all the saints they wanted. But he contacted them and offered his services as Pope or whatever their headman might be. They declined. It wasn’t more than a few weeks passed when somebody broke in and stole all The King’s gold records.
“Now he worked pretty danged hard for them records. And he wanted them back. Elvis had a fair idea who took them and what they intended to use them for. Now The King may be a holy, God-fearing man; but above all else he’s a financial powerhouse. If anybody was gonna turn a profit on them records, it was us. So he called the Government and arranged for them to recover his property. It’s my understanding all they was waiting for was a shipment of bottled water. Hell, even them boys aren’t about to drink the water south of the border.
“Well, before they could go there was an explosion and a robbery and we got satellite imagery of the culprits and here’s their photos and their ID’s and I gotta go. It is just too danged hot, Mr. Booth. If you need anything, I included a phone number… But you don’t have a phone… Well, I wish you luck and good day, sir.” With that Col. Thornton jumped up and dashed for his car.
Looking at the photographs Humble Booth said out loud, “Thank you, Lord, for letting me be of service. I better go sharpen up my hayfork.”
*****
“Garabaldi, did you wash the Plymouth Super Bird for me, like I told you? Not that I would normally be caught dead in that piece of shit, but Dee ate 2 cases of the fake Twinkies and it’s about the only thing we got on the lot she’s going to fit inside. Garabaldi, where the hell are you,” Luigi screamed entering the garage. DeeDee waddled in about 2 seconds later.
Garabaldi appeared brandishing a large automatic pistol with a small silencer. Pointing it menacingly at Luigi’s nametag sewn just above the heart Garabaldi chuckled and announced, “So sorry, Boss, but there’s been a little change of plans. You don’t run shit around here anymore. I do.”
“You better watch your mouth, Garabaldi,” Luigi shouted. “Watch your fucking mouth and where you got that cannon pointed. It’s damn hard to miss Dee no matter where you point that thing. Now put it down and I won’t call my uncle, the Don.”
“Your uncle the Don agrees with me that you are a little too soft on your fat girlfriend’s brother. That big dickhead cost us Six Big Ones and you let him walk off. What’s up with that, Luigi? You fucking the whole family?”
Luigi had to think about that for a moment. No, he was not fucking this particular entire family. “Look, I’ve got the kid covered. He’s out making me some money as we speak. So put the gat down and let’s talk.”
Garabaldi did not lower the gun. “He’s out picking up dope so you can secretly move in on the Don’s operation. Yeah, you stupid monkey, I found the secret set of books you keep in the john. You think you are the only one who reads in there? I know all about the trip to Mexico. I know you been skimming the bags you deliver. I know you been selling our hot parts at the flea market on Sundays and pocketing the dough. And since I know, so does your Uncle the Don. Capish, Luigi? You’re fucked. The Don put me in charge. Boys, tie them up.” And suddenly the garage employees appeared and Luigi and DeeDee were bound and gagged.
Moments later Luigi could hear Garabaldi on the phone. “Yes, your Donship, I got the situation under control. No, they won’t be going nowhere. If you are right about what they got on them… No, your Donship, I didn’t mean to imply you were ever wrong… Yes, I’ll watch my fucking mouth… Yes, sir, grab the kids, and send you what they got on them. No problem, Don. What you want I should do with the monkey and his fat chick? Sure, Don, I can hold them for as long as you want. Right, those kids are probably gonna contact Luigi as soon as they get back. Yes, sir, that’s why you’re the Don and I’m a shit for brains goomba. Yeah, great talking to you too. Bye.”
Garabaldi emerged from the small office and walked across the tool littered concrete to Luigi. “Good news, pal, I’m keeping you alive for a while. You cooperate and maybe I won’t seal you up in a 55 gallon drum full of concrete and drop you in Saguaro Lake. We are going to wait for those kids to call. When they do, you are going to tell them to bring the package they are holding here. You do that and you and the lady can walk out of here. You fuck it up and you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?
“Dominic, you and a couple of boys move these two into the parts room. You better bring the motor hoist; I don’t think you can lift this babe.”
*****
“El Tigre to pilot… El Tigre to pilot… Come in, pilot… Can you hear me? Over.”
“Si, Commondante, I can hear you. You do not have to yell. We are on the radio, remember? I showed you that before we left.” The Cobra swooped in low circling the landing fields.
“You are sure we avoided their radar,” El Tigre shouted to the pilot?
“Si, Commondante, I followed your orders. We were flying so low that if they did pick us up they probably thought we were an armadillo. Their armored plates give off the same radar signature,” the pilot answered.
“Then go around one more time,” El Tigre ordered, “I love this machine.”
The pilot circled again raising immense clouds of dust, turning the landing site into an enormous spinning twirling dust devil. As he once again approached the large white X painted on the bare ground with masa harina flour the tiger’s follower began to arrive. Honking horns and waving banners the pickup trucks, flatbeds, and a fleet of low-riders streamed out into the field. The rotors stopped spinning and El Tigre opened the hatch, stood, removed his helmet, and addressed his people, “Mi amigos, muchas gracias…. I thank you for coming to my aid and the aid of your country. Your assignments were sent to you in my radio communications, so I ask you to implement the plan now. We must, at all cost, apprehend these gringos and return them to Mexico for justice. We cannot trust the American government to act in our best interest in this situation. It is a matter of National Pride, National Security. We cannot stand idly by and allow these undocumented Norte Americanos to enter our country and destabilize its future. Someday you may all wish to come home. If we do not stop these criminals, you may not have a home where you can come home.”
El Tigre climbed down the ladder on the side of his attack helicopter to stand in the back seat of a 1958 Lincoln Continental convertible. “You will wait for my return, Jose. And please do not run down the battery playing the radio music like you did last time. I do not believe I can talk AAA into coming out to give us a boost a second time. Stay alert. And now muchachos, vamanous; we go to Scottsdale to find this Desert Surfer.”
The caravan, with El Tigre in the lead, set off. Women wept and threw flowers. Old men sighed, both glad that they had fulfilled their time of service and sorry that they were now too old to go. Sweethearts held a final kiss, a last embrace, a promise to return. The mariachi band echoed the sounds blasting from every car as the Migrant Farm Worker National Anthem rang out with Richie Valens’ “La Bamba” filling the air. Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s off to work we go….
*****
“We’re putting the top down,” I shouted as I pulled the car to the side of Interstate 10. Hostile grumbling from the passengers; I had better be ready for a take-over attempt. “It’s morning,” I added, “gonna get hot soon. It’s a fucking convertible,” I screamed to the blank response I’d gotten. “If I wanted a roof over my head I’d have bought a hardtop. I want the fucking top down. And roll down the fucking windows. I will not drive into Phoenix looking like some fucking dill-weed with the fucking windows up and the top down.”
“Are we having a bad morning,” Evans asked from the back seat?
“Evans, leave him alone,” Martina interrupted. “David, is there something you want to talk about?”
Why is it women always assume talking is going to solve something? “I’ve decided to enlist…”
“Somebody grab the wheel,” Evans shouted, “he’s gone fucking insane.”
“Can I finish? Can I please finish just one sentence without one of you interrupting me?” I reached up, twisted the rearview mirror so I looked Evans directly in the eyes. “Anybody says another word while I’m talking and I’ll steer this pile of shit off a cliff, I swear. As I was saying, I’ve decided to enlist… the help of a friend at ASU. Evans, you know that Susan’s dad is a Hollywood big shot. He’s going to know how to get these records back to Elvis. I’m going to call Susan as soon as we get to Tempe. Returning the records is the right thing to do.”
“Can I talk now or are you still flipping,” Evans asked?
“Talk, but it better be relevant to the situation or so help me, I’ll kick your butt, Pineapple.”
“One, I do not believe my last comment was irrelevant. I have never heard you use the word ‘enlist’. We have all been under a lot of strain, so I think my statement was german.”
“Germane,” Martina corrected, “Germans are a people. You mean germane, pertinent to the conversation at hand.”
“Well thank the fuck out of you, Ms. Daniel Webster,” Evans shouted.
“You mean Noah Webster, you twit. Daniel Webster was a politician and statesman. Noah Webster was the lexicographer,” Martina shot back in exasperation.
“I don’t give a fuck what his religion was. I don’t give a fuck about anything you have to say. Why we brought you along, I don’t know. The Puzzle Ring Girl would have been a whole lot better at this.”
“Who is the Puzzle Ring Girl?”
“That’s it,” I screamed over the roar of the road. “I’ve had it. Everybody get out. I want you out of my car, out of my life; I never want to see any of you again.”
“Would jur decision include me, Surfer? Because I think ju are doing a great job. Ju just keep driving and leave the problem children to ChiChi.”
In the rearview mirror I could see her shaking Billy by his great black mutton-chop sideburns. His shaggy Hawaiian afro was blowing in the wind. It was a beautiful sight I intended to enjoy for as long as possible. Then Martina screamed.
I had just enough room to slam on the brakes. Luckily I still had brakes. Given the opportunity and a little more time, Evans would have replaced my hydraulic braking system with drag chute. Luigi had a spare.
We came within two feet of intersecting a Mexican street parade. The hard looking hombres in the flatbed truck I almost broadsided merely threw me a sideways glance and a middle finger and rode on down the boulevard.
“What the fuck is that,” Evans shouted from the backseat?
“Could we not say ‘fuck’ every time we open our mouths,” Martina griped.
“I won’t say it if you won’t do it,” Evans retorted. “And I won’t mention what’s been going in that mouth.”
“Come on, Evans,” I demanded, “you’re one to talk. With you and the senorita in the backseat, I could measure our trip in hard-ons per mile. Leave her alone. Leave me alone. I am really tired of all of it. And I’m tired of this procession. This thing stretches on as far as I can see in both directions. It must be some sort of local festival parade.”
“I bet it’s a Cinco de Mayo parade,” Evans ventured.
“Pineapple, think about that. It’s September. What does Cinco de Mayo mean?” I asked as politely as possible.
“It means we get drunk on Mexican beer?” Evans responded. “I don’t speak that kind of Spanish.”
“It is like jur Fourth of July,” ChiChi answered.
“You guys got a Fourth of July?” Evans questioned.
“Everybody has a fucking Fourth of July. It’s the day between July 3 and July 5, you ass. She means Independence Day. God, why do I put up with you,” I said in utter frustration.
“Because I’m the only person you know who will put up with you,” Evans answered in all earnest.
That quieted the conversation. The girls fidgeted in embarrassment. I was ashamed. He was right. There was no arguing the point. There was also no point in letting this awkward silence draw out any longer. “Hold on, I’m crashing the party,” I shouted as I forced the nose of the Impala out into traffic.
The on-coming car, a Lincoln Continental convertible screeched to a halt. A tall bearded man in army fatigues, who had been standing in the back seat, was pitched forward over the seat back and onto his face. As he fell I thought aloud that he resembled some Caribbean leader I had recently seen on television.
“Go,” Evans shouted, “it’s clear all the way across.”
I stomped on the accelerator and the Impala laid a rubber streak as it cleared the intersection. “Are we clear,” I demanded looking in the rearview mirror. “Is anybody following us? They are liable to be pissed that we crashed their parade.”
“David, slow down and watch where you are going,” Martina warned in a panic. “You almost hit that pedestrian.”
“Hit somebody,” I asked in amazement? “I didn’t see anybody. Are you sure?”
“She’s right, Surf, you almost nailed that guy,” Evans agreed.
“Who,” I again demanded?
“A weird looking dude all dressed in black,” Billy answered. “Black pants, black jacket, a white panama hat, and great big clunky boots… He must have been some kind of farmer; he was carrying all kinds of gardening tools.”
*****
Wiping guacamole off his face El Tigre struggled to regain his footing and composure. “That automobile, it was a 1964 Chevrolet Impala convertible, no?” he sputtered. “The driver was clean-cut, but the rest of the occupants were Americano hippies?”
“Si, Generalissimo,” the driver of the Lincoln replied, “a bunch of crazy American hippies. We get them here all the time. They come out at night to forage in the fields for something they can smoke. They will smoke anything; cabbage, pumpkin leaves, Johnson grass. They think everything is going to get them high.”
“No, you fool, that was our quarry. Again I almost had them, but they slipped through my fingers.”
“Shall we chase them, Generalissimo? They cannot have gone far.”
“No, we will never catch that Surfer on the open road. But we have an ace in our hole. We have air superiority,” the Tiger said with an evil chuckle. “Give me your two-way radio.”
El Tigre grabbed the handset and began to frantically broadcast. “Comandante to Caracara, come in my eagle… Comandante to Caracara… Jose? Jose, answer the damn radio, this is El Tigre. Did you forget the code again? Jesus Christos, Jose, if you were not my sister’s only child… Answer the fucking radio, you moron…” To the blank faces staring at him the Tiger explained, “It would seem we are experiencing momentary technical difficulty. I think the American military must be jamming my encrypted radio signal. It is very technical. Go, just go; we will still beat this Surfer to his home in Scottsdale and put our plan into motion. Go…”
*****
The Impala needed gas. The Impala always needs gas. So I left Evans playing pump jockey and ChiChi playing service station attendant jockey while I went in search of a telephone. “I have a collect call from David Stone, will you accept the charges,” the operator asked. There was an unusually long wait before I heard Susan agree.
“Surfer, where are you,” she asked?
“I don’t have time to explain. I’ve got people on my tail, bad people, and I need your help; or rather your father’s help, if he is willing. Babe, just meet me at the dorm…”
“No, David, the dorm would be a bad idea. These people might be watching the university figuring that you would go there for help. Let’s meet at the Tempe City Hall. I’ll wait for you in the lobby. I’ve got a key.”
“How the hell did you get a key to the Tempe City Hall,” I asked in astonishment? “That’s not even open yet. It’s still under construction.”
“Do you think you are the only man I know, David Stone? The Mayor and I like to play this little ‘politician and the college coed’ game. He’s really cute.”
“He’s married and my father’s age,” I complained.
“Look, do you want my help or not? If you do, meet me at the City Hall building. End of story, David,” Susan hung up.
End of story is beginning to sound like my life story. Life is supposed to be full of choices. Karma may predetermine our destinies, but it does not choose our path. From the nexus of our birth life’s choices radiate out in a limitless array. We make a decision, choose a path, and karma kicks in along that course. We opt for an alternate route and karma adapts. We may have an unchangeable destination, but the route and schedule are open to deliberation. I don’t know enough about this. I am only up to chapter three in the I Cheng. I should read more, but the glove compartment is locked. I keep my condom stash there too, because I don’t trust my fraternity brothers. Doesn’t matter anyway; I am not sensing too many choices at the moment. It’s back to the car and off to Tempe City Hall.
“Where is Evans,” I asked reaching the driver’s side door?
“He went to make a phone call,” Martina answered.
“I was just at the phones. He wasn’t there,” I challenged.
“He didn’t want you to know, so he’s using the phone out on the highway. I think he is calling Luigi,” she explained.
It didn’t take me long to reach a decision. Right now I face charges for armed robbery, smuggling an illegal alien across the border, drug smuggling, arson, and probably attempted murder. What’s another murder charge going to add to my potential sentence? They can only execute me once. Evans was dead…
He jogged up to the car, but slowed when he saw me standing beside it with the tire iron in my right hand. “I thought you were making a phone call,” he said.
“Didn’t take me as long as it took you,” I answered. “You and the grease monkey have a nice chat? How’s your sister? How much did you get for selling us out?”
“Where the fuck did that come from?” Evans protested. “I figure we need to keep all our options open with the Frito Bandito on our tail. We are all in this, Davey. Nobody died and made you God. They are chasing my ass too, pal. And Luigi has the muscle to call off this dog.”
Okay, keeping options open is a good idea. Sometimes I can get tunnel vision in a crisis. I just think he should have put the option out on the table for a vote. I don’t have to do that because I’m the driver. Driving calls for instantaneous decision making, not parliamentary procedure. People riding in the backseat do not make decisions. They are allowed to make suggestions. This is just simple driving etiquette.
“What did Luigi have to say? And what did you tell him,” I demanded.
“I told him we were back with his stuff and we had this crazy Mexican on our butts who was trying to steal it. That got Luigi hot. You probably remember how upset he gets if he thinks people are stealing from him.”
“Yeah, the criminal code of ethics; it’s impolite to steal somebody else’s stolen property. That’s what got us into this mess. You didn’t mention the treasure?” I asked.
“Of course I did,” Billy answered. “Surf, he has connections and can fence this shit for millions. We are all going to be rich; filthy, fucking rich. Know what that means, pal; never working a day in our lives. It means we move to Hawaii, smoke Maui Wowie on the beach, surf the Pipeline on the north shore of Oahu, and enjoy life. Paradise, man, we are looking at Paradise.”
“We are looking at prison, you idiot; or a cemetery plot,” I screamed.
“And you came up with a better plan,” Evans challenged.
“Yeah, we give the records to Susan Burke’s dad and he gives them back to Elvis. Then we give Luigi his share of the grass to square our debt. Then we take the rest of this shit out in the desert and burn it as quickly as possible. We forget we ever did this and we never do it again. We put it all behind us,” I answered.
“And El Tigre,” Martina jumped into the conversation, “he will just go away like a bad dream? He won’t, David. The simple answer isn’t going to work this time.”
“So do you think we should sell the golden records and get rich,” I demanded? “What do we do?”
“I think we go see your friend Susan. We return the records. We give Luigi all the marijuana and beg him to help us with El Tigre. And if we survive, I agree; we never go back,” she said with a sad tone.
“ChiChi,” I said as she returned from the cashier’s kiosk, “you are part of the group now, like it or not. You get a vote. What do we do?”
“I been thinking about that. Ju are just college kids. Ju got lives to live. I can make money anywhere, long as I still got my good looks. So, I’m in America and that’s enough for ChiChi. I hear Red there talking and I think she got the right idea. I don’t want to spend my life with El Tigre chasing me. So it’s best if we get these Mafia guys to kill him. Here’s how we gonna do it.”
She went on to outline a plan. We would drop Martina and ChiChi off at the ASU campus. Evans and I were to head to Luigi’s and make a deal. He would take care of the Tiger and in return we would give him the plates and the stash. We, of course, had the records hidden in a safe location and would have to retrieve them after the gunfight at the OK corral. But before we could retrieve them, they would be stolen by person or persons unknown. With the deal made, Elvis would get his property back secretly through the Hollywood connection. I hated to admit it, but the plan made sense; or at least as much sense as any of this did.
*****
“I have to call home.”
Evans stared at me in disbelief. “What? You have got to be kidding me, Davey. This is hardly the time to check in with Mommy.”
“I have to call home. I promised to call this morning. We are supposed to be camping at Sedona, remember? I promised Mom that I would call today and let her know we were alright. If I don’t call she is going to start worrying and call the Ranger Station. You know how she gets.”
“Okay, for your mom we can stop. If that sweet woman didn’t