(Published in 1999)
PART EIGHT
“Hey, man,” I say, lingering behind. “This place looks perfect to me. We can just wait out here until some drunk stumbles out to his car, then we cold-cock him and take his keys… ’nuff said.”
“That’s not the way I work anymore. Stealth is the key word for the wizened ones, my son. Besides, you haven’t told me the story yet. What it is your so hot-pants-antsy about that you can’t spend any time with the fine women I find for us?”
“Stealth is cutting a hole in your girlfriend’s fucking floor? Flooring the getaway car down the alley is stealth? You’re fucking crazy. You are a fucking lunatic. I should take a taxi up to Hovland.”
“Hovland? You’re going up the Shore? I was born up in Grand Marais. Actually Grand Portage, at the reservation there. That’s close to Hovland. Yeah, I lived up there until eighth grade. Then I had to leave because I shot a kid in the ear.”
“No fucking shit?”
“Yeah, that’s correct, sir. Indian boy shoots white boy in ear with deadly arrow. Me and some other kids… they were all white—I’m the only skin there—were fooling around with this homemade bow one afternoon. Fucking arrow was just a stick with a nail in it. We were all shooting the thing, but it’s me who fires off the seventy-five yard shot that hits little Jimmy Nelson square in the ear. Leave it to the skin boy to fuck something up.”
“All’s right with the world, I guess. But I never said I needed a driver, just a car. I think I can find my way by myself. I took a course in map reading—in prison. Always trying to better myself, you know.”
“Man, there’s shit up there that only someone like me knows about. Roads and people and rivers. The highway runs right along the north shore of Lake Superior. There’s heavy magic along that road. You need me. If your shit is bad, things can happen to you up there.” He takes a toothpick out of his jacket pocket, sticks it in the corner of his mouth and starts grinding away.
“What do you mean, if my shit is bad?”
“If your spirit is struggling with the rest of you, or if you are weakened by a disease of the spirit.”
“Sounds like a lot of happy horseshit to me. And somehow, you don’t seem so spiritual—in the pharmaceuticals department—if you know what I mean.”
“Shit, man, I’m on a first-name basis with every evil spirit on the North Shore. We’re all old friends. They don’t even bother with me anymore because they all ready fucked me over in every way possible.” He pauses for effect. “Now don’t try and kid me, Don. I know you got some kind of big dope deal going down or something. I ain’t seen hash like that chunk of yours—not for a long time around here. Me no drive, then much sorry—no car for you, Johnny—nuff said.”
“Okay Roy, whatever you say. I ain’t got time to argue with a nut case. You truly are a magical mystical motherfucker. You guessed right. It is a dope score. Coming in over the pole. How did you guess? How about this? I’ll give you a grand now for the car and two grand when we get back. Provided there’s no more fucking around.”
“You got a deal, Al Caponi. What type of vehicle do you prefer? Two door? Four door? Sport utility? Minivan?”
“How about something—how do you say? Unobtrusive. Low profile.”
“General Motors unobtrusive, Ford unobtrusive or imported unobtrusive? Just don’t ask for Chrysler. I don’t do Chrysler. A man has to have his values intact.” He turns his head slowly from side to side, scoping out the lot scene. “Tell you what Don, buddy, you watch my back and I’ll go get us a real nice vehicle. Something your mother would be proud of. Got my handy dandy all-purpose used car converter right here in my bag of tricks.”
He sticks his hand down inside the satchel and digs around at the bottom, squinting in the dim light. Out comes a six-inch diameter metal ring with about five pounds worth of car keys strung around it. He shakes it like a shaman’s rattle. The sound is like “Tambourine Man” as done by Judas Priest. “I used to work repo for a car dealer over in Duluth,” he says proudly. “These were my severance pay.” Then he sniffs a bunch of times, rapid fire, and disappears into the darkened rear lot.
I turn around and face the sidewalk, folding my arms across my chest and rock back on my heels a bit. By George, we’re having some fun now.
(To be continued)
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