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.”
I could hear James’s trembling voice. “Yeah. I just-look, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Ah, Mr. Lessor. I’d help you. I really would. But it seems my arm is in a cast and a sling right now. A little hunting accident from the last time we saw each other. I don’t know why you’re here, but it could be the biggest mistake you’ve made in your whole life.”