“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded collection of three short crime stories and this longer story.
Marv’s Chevron has two repair stalls, one of which contains a faded tan ‘69 Chevy Impala with a small dent on the driver’s door. To the left of the service area there’s an office painted dull yellow with greasy finger smears on the walls and a cloudy window facing the road.
I go into the office. Dory lingers behind. The metal desktop is littered with dirty scraps of paper, nuts, bolts, pens and assorted pieces of individually wrapped candy. A turned-over hubcap in the middle of the desk is piled high with cigarette and cigar butts. A dark green wastebasket, half full of candy wrappers, cigarette packs and empty tins of Copenhagen, sits next to a tarnished spittoon with vile-looking stains congealing on the edges. A wooden, wheeled chair behind the desk contains a grizzled old man I assume is the station owner because it says Marv on a small patch above the left breast pocket of his work shirt. He’s scanning the repair bill.
I say hello and sit down at the side of the desk on a chromium-framed kitchen chair with a cracked red plastic seat. I’m praying Marv won’t call in the number on the credit card I’m handing him. He squints at the card and then at me and puts the card on the desk.
I lean over and try to decipher the scribbles on the invoice: Timing chain, timing gear, shop supplies and labor. The easiest thing to read is the total: $277. 34.
The mechanic is standing outside the office door in smeared gray coveralls and an oily, black skullcap, trying his damnedest to explain to Dory—in a mostly incomprehensible mix of Scandinavian-flavored, Southern-white-trash English—what he has done to the Chevy. She’s slightly inside the office door and staring up at his grease-smeared stubble, acting like she understands.
Marv starts rummaging around in the side drawer, looking for something. My prayers are answered when he happily lifts out his credit card imprinter and a clean receipt. “I gotta charge you fifteen bucks extra for using the credit card,” he says, voice like a file dragged across a hunk of plastic. “Costs me money every time I get one of these goddamn things. S’posed to be ten percent, but I’m cuttin’ ya some slack on a count of the two a ya make such a fine couple.”
Wow, a whole $12.73.
“Thanks,” I say, growing ever more restless and uneasy, cold sweat beginning to trickle down the back of my neck. “I know how it is—the big oil companies are always screwing you over.”
His eyes narrow and he tilts his head sideways. Then he shrugs and launches a brown stream in the direction of the spittoon. The goober hits the edge with a slippery clank and drips down into the soup. Marv seems pleased. He writes up the charges on the credit card slip and slides the knob across the plastic. He grins and pushes everything over to me, along with a cracked and greasy ballpoint pen.
“There you go, Elton,” he says. “You’re all set.”
Guy didn’t know how right he was.
“Now we’ve got plenty of time to enjoy the sights before it gets dark, honey,” Dory says from the doorway as my nose starts to run.
I sniff in the run-off and sign the slip and Marv slides over a set of keys on a ring with a small, yellow rectangular card fastened to it. I take the keys and hand them to Dory but she holds her hands up and shakes her head to the negative.
“You drive the Chevy, honey,” she says, “So you can test out how it’s running.” Looking at me with those big wide eyes. “I’ll follow you in the van. Maybe we can find a motel on the beach somewhere.”
“I’m sure these guys fixed it quite well, Dory. I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll drive the van and follow you.”
“Oh come on—Elton. Please let me drive the camper. Please, please… can I please?”
Marvin smirks at me.
The mechanic says, “She be a runnin’ real goo-ed. Y’all’ll see.”
I give up any thoughts of resistance and squeeze the Chevy keys in my palm. I watch Dory wiggle and giggle out of the office. I follow closely behind her, thanking Marvin and trying not to stimulate any more conversation. It feels like the devil is in my chest.
Dory heads for the VW and I walk alongside her, smiling. We get to the bus and she climbs in the driver’s side like there’s no question about it. She’s got me and I know it. I can’t throw a big fuss at the gas station and besides that she still has the gun in her purse.
Now the coke is wearing off and my stomach is making like a jumping frog. My head feels like a doormat at a wedding party and I know there’s only one way to play it. I hold the door open and slide my hand around her waist, bring my head in close to her ear and whisper: “I think we need to recharge, Dory. We need to find someplace to dump this bus and then we can get high. You and me got a lot of living to do. I sure want to get to know you better.” I put my hand behind her head and gently pull her to me. I kiss her full on the mouth and let my tongue explore.
The muscles in her neck tighten up and she pulls away from me.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, struggling to keep from ripping her head off.
“Nothing,” she says, “Let’s just get moving.”
“And where is it that you think we’re going? You can’t drive this thing out in public for very long, any more than I can.”
“We go to the first beach road and leave it there like it’s for camping,” she says, an edge in her voice and her eyes. “We throw the shit in my car and go to a motel. Take care of business and then go our separate ways.” She smiles like an angel. “I want half the shit.”
I feel the karmic ass-kick. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You pull that idea out of your ass?”
She blinks and her eyes glaze over and her face tightens up. A new Dory emerges: “I saved your Yankee ass already today, don’t forget that, whatever your name is. And don’t be callin’ me dumb. You smart-ass boys think yer so goddamn clever. Well, you listen here—I’m the one saved yer ass this time, pretty boy—and now we’re partners. It’s the law of the road. And I’ll sure as hell go somewhere and party with you if that’s what you want. But if it ain’t, I’m still gonna get my share of the dope. So you decide, man, you’re the fuckin’ smart one.”
Evidently not smart enough.
“Hey, no problem,” I say. “I’ll just tell my Colombian financiers that I met a beautiful woman and decided to give her half of their dope. I’m sure they’ll be real amenable to that, hopeless romantics that they are. Then they can send somebody after you for payment. No fuckin’ sweat, right? They’ll just cut your pretty little head off and put it in a box next to mine.”
She blinks a few times, acting like she doesn’t hear me.
“Listen, Dory,” I say, feeling the panic growing in my gut. “We’ll have to discuss this later. Right now we need to get our asses out of here. I’ll follow you. But keep two things in mind: One, the Chevy is faster than the Volkswagen so I can always catch you. And two, the cops will be looking for the van, and not me in a Chevy. That of course means that if they see us, you will go to jail and I will drive away. What I’m trying to get across here is that we better get off the road real soon and do this thing real fast or we’ll both be real fucked. Comprende?”
“Oooh, I love it when you talk forceful like that.”
“Christ, let’s just go.”
“Si, mi amoret.”
My throat seizes up.
Leaving Marv’s, heading down the road, I have no idea what direction I should take or what to do next. Basically, I have become Dory’s lap dog. It’s the only thing I can do, and I’m wondering if this girl really thinks I could fuck her after she pulled this power trip.
She doesn’t really know what she’s getting into, does she?
(To be continued)
See all T.K. O’Neill’s books here: https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B09HPBWMJF
ebook only $2.99 – through the summer!
Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy
Barnes and Noble Nook: https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O
Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T
Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP
Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN
Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC
Bluestone's Blog 
Leave a Reply