Christine (15 page)

Still, I wanted to look under the hood. More than ever.

I went around to the driver's side door and gave it a yank. The door didn't open. It was locked. Of course it was; all four of the door-lock buttons were down. Arnie wouldn't be apt to leave it unlocked in here, so anybody could get inside and poke around. Maybe Repperton was gone, but genus
Creepus
was weed-common. I laughed again—silly old Dennis—but this time it sounded even more shrill and shaky. I was starting to feel spaced-out, the way I sometimes felt the morning after I smoked a little too much pot.

Locking the Fury's doors was a very natural thing to do, all right. Except that, when I walked around the car the first time, I thought I had noticed the door-lock buttons had all been up.

I stepped slowly backward again, looking at the car. It sat there, still little more than rusting hulk. I was not thinking any one thing specific—I am quite sure of that—except maybe it was as if it knew that I wanted to get inside and pull the hood release.

And because it didn't want me to do that, it had locked its own doors?

That was really a very humorous idea. So humorous that I had another laugh (several people were glancing at me now, the way that folks always glance at people who laugh for no apparent reason when they are by themselves).

A big hand fell on my shoulder and turned me around. It was Darnell, with a dead stub of cigar stuck in the side of his mouth. The end of it was wet and pretty gross-looking. He was wearing small half-specs, and the eyes behind them were coldly speculative.

“What are you doing, kiddo?” he asked. “This ain't your property.”

The guys with the camper cap were watching us avidly. One of them nudged the other and whispered something.

“It belongs to a friend of mine,” I said. “I brought it in with him. Maybe you remember me. I was the one with the large skin-tumor on the end of my nose and the—”

“I don't give a shit if you wheeled it in on a skateboard,” he said. “It ain't your property. Take your bad jokes and get lost, kid. Blow.”

My father was right—he was a wretch. And I would have been more than happy to blow; I could think of at least six thousand places I'd rather be on this second-to-last day of my summer vacation. Even the Black Hole of Calcutta would have been an improvement. Not a big one, maybe, yet an improvement, all the same. But the car bothered me. A lot of little things, all adding up to a big itch that needed to be scratched.
Be his eyes,
my father had said, and that sounded good. The problem was I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

“My name is Dennis Guilder,” I said. “My dad used to do your books, didn't he?”

He looked at me for a long time with no expression at all in his cold little pig eyes, and I was suddenly sure he was going to tell me he didn't give a fuck who my father was, that I'd better blow and let these working men go about the business of fixing their cars so they could go on putting bread on their tables. Et cetera.

Then he smiled—but the smile didn't touch his eyes at all. “You're Kenny Guilder's boy?”

“Yes, that's right.”

He patted the hood of Arnie's car with one pale, fat hand—there were two rings on it, and one of them looked like a real diamond. Still, what does a kid like me know?

“I guess you're straight enough, then. If you're Kenny's kid.” There was a second when I thought he was going to ask for some identification.

The two guys next to us had gone back to work on their camper, apparently having decided nothing interesting was going to transpire.

“Come on into the office and let's have a talk,” he said, then turned away and moved across the floor without even a glance backward. That I would comply was taken for granted. He moved like a ship under full sail, his white shirt billowing, the girth of his hips and backside amazing, improbable. Very fat people always affect me that way, with a feeling of distinct improbability, as if I were looking at a very good optical illusion—but then, I come from a long line of skinny people. For my family I'm a heavyweight.

He paused here and there on his way back to his office, which had a glass wall looking out onto the garage. He reminded me a little bit of Moloch, the god we read about in my Origins of Literature class—he was the one who was supposed to be able to see everywhere with his one red eye. Darnell bawled at one guy to get the hose on his tailpipe before he threw him out; yelled something to another guy about how “Nicky's back was acting up on him again” (this inspired a fuming, ferocious burst of laughter from both of them); hollered at another guy to pick up those fucking Pepsi-Cola cans, was he born in a dump? Apparently Will Darnell didn't know anything about what my mother always called “a normal tone of voice.”

After a moment's hesitation, I followed him. Curiosity killed the cat, I suppose.

• • •

His office was done in Early American Carburetor—it was every scuzzy garage office from coast to coast in a country that runs on rubber and amber gold. There was a greasy calendar with a pin-up of a blond goddess in short-shorts and an open blouse climbing over a fence in the country. There were unreadable plaques from half a dozen companies which sold auto parts. Stacks of ledgers. An ancient adding machine. There was a photograph, God save us, of Will Darnell wearing a Shriner's fez and mounted on a miniature motorcycle that looked about to collapse under his bulk. And there was the smell of long-departed cigars and sweat.

Darnell sat down in a swivel chair with wooden arms. The cushion wheezed beneath him. It sounded tired but resigned.

He leaned back. He took a match from the hollow head of a ceramic Negro jockey. He struck it on a strip of sandpaper that ran along the edge of his desk and fired up the wet stub of cigar. He coughed long and hard, his big, loose chest heaving up and down. Directly behind him, tacked to the wall, was a picture of Garfield the Cat. “Want a trip to Loose-Tooth City?” Garfield was inquiring over one cocked paw. It seemed to sum up Will Darnell, Wretch in Residence, perfectly.

“Want a Pepsi, kid?”

“No, thank you,” I said, and sat down in the straight chair opposite him.

He looked at me—that cold look of appraisal again—and then nodded. “How's your dad, Dennis? His ticker still okay?”

“He's fine. When I told him Arnie had his car here, he remembered you right off. He says Bill Upshaw's doing your figures now.”

“Yeah. Good man. Good man. Not as good as your dad, but good.”

I nodded. A silence fell between us, and I began to feel uneasy. Will Darnell didn't look uneasy; he didn't look anything at all. That cold look of appraisal never changed.

“Did your buddy send you to find out if Repperton was really gone?” he asked me, so suddenly that I jumped.

“No,” I said. “Not at all.”

“Well, you tell him he is,” Darnell went on, ignoring what I'd just said. “Little wiseass. I tell em when they run their junk in here: get along or get out. He was working for me, doing a little of this and a little of that, and I guess he thought he had the gold key to the crapper or something. Little wiseass
punk.”

He started coughing again, and it was a long time before he stopped. It was a sick sound. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the office, even with the window looking out on the garage.

“Arnie's a good boy,” Darnell said presently, still measuring me with his eyes. Even while he was coughing, that expression hadn't changed. “He's picked up the slack real good.”

Doing what? I wanted to ask, and just didn't dare.

Darnell told me anyway. Cold glance aside, he was apparently feeling expansive. “Sweeps the floor, takes the crap out of the garage bays at the end of the day, keeps the tools inventoried, along with Jimmy Sykes. Have to be careful with tools around here, Dennis. They got a way of walkin away when your back's turned.” He laughed, and the laugh turned into a wheeze. “Got him started strippin parts out back, as well. He's got good hands. Good hands and bad taste in cars. I ain't seen such a dog as that '58 in years.”

“Well, I guess he sees it as a hobby,” I said.

“Sure,” Darnell said expansively. “Sure he does. Just as long as he doesn't want to ramrod around with it like that punk, that Repperton. But not much chance of that for a while, huh?”

“I guess not. It looks pretty wasted.”

“What the fuck is he doing to it?” Darnell asked. He leaned forward suddenly, his big shoulders going up all the way to his hairline. His brows pulled in, and his eyes disappeared except for small twin gleams. “What the fuck is he up to? I been in this business all my life, and I
never
seen anyone go at fixing a car up the crazy-ass way he is. Is it a joke? A game?”

“I'm not getting you,” I said, although I was—I was getting him perfectly.

“Then I'll draw you a pitcher,” Darnell said. “He brings it in, and at first he's doing all the things I'd expect him to do. What the fuck, he ain't got money falling out of his asshole, right? If he did, he wouldn't be here. He changes the oil. He changes the filter. Grease-job, lube, I see one day he's got two new Firestones for the front to go with the two on the back.”

Two
on the back? I wondered, and then decided he'd just bought three new tires to go with the original new one I'd gotten the night we were bringing it over here.

“Then I come in one day and see he's replaced the windshield wipers,” Darnell continued. “Not so strange, except that the car's not going to be going anywhere—rain
or
shine—for a long time. Then it's a new antenna for the radio, and I think, He's gonna listen to the radio while he's working on it and drain his battery. Now he's got one new seat cover and half a grille. So what is it? A game?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Did he buy the replacement parts from you?”

“No,” Darnell said, sounding aggravated. “I don't know where he gets them. That grille—there isn't a spot of rust on it. He must have ordered it from somewhere. Custom Chrysler in New Jersey or someplace like that. But where's the other half? Up his ass? I never even
heard
of a grille that came in two pieces.”

“I don't know. Honest.”

He jammed the cigar out. “Don't tell me you're not curious, though. I saw the way you was lookin at that car.”

I shrugged. “Arnie doesn't talk about it much,” I said.

“No, I bet he doesn't. He's a close-mouthed sonofabitch. He's a fighter, though. That Repperton pushed the wrong button when he started in on Cunningham. If he works out okay this fall, I might find a steady job for him this winter. Jimmy Sykes is a good boy, but he ain't much in the brains department.” His eyes measured me. “Think he's a pretty good worker, Dennis?”

“He's okay.”

“I got a lot of irons in the fire,” he said. “Lot of irons. I rent out flatbeds to guys that need to haul their stockers up to Philadelphia City. I haul away the junkers after races. I can always use help. Good, trustworthy help.”

I began to have a horrid suspicion that I was being asked to dance. I got up hurriedly, almost knocking over the straight chair. “I really ought to get going,” I said. “And . . . Mr. Darnell . . . I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention to Arnie that I was here. He's . . . a little touchy about the car. To tell you the truth, his father was curious about how he was coming along.”

“Took a little shit on the home front, did he?” Darnell's right eye closed shrewdly in something that was not quite a wink. “Folks ate a few pounds of Ex-Lax and then stood over him with their legs spread, did they?”

“Yeah, well, you know.”

“You bet I know.” He was up in one smooth motion and clapped me on the back hard enough to stagger me on my feet. Wheezy respiration and cough or not, he was strong.

“Wouldn't mention it,” he said, walking me toward the door. His hand was still on my shoulder, and that also made me feel nervous—and a little disgusted.

“I tell you something else that bothers me,” he said. “I must see a hundred thousand cars a year in this place—well, not that many, but you know what I mean—and I got an eye for em. You know, I could swear I've seen that one before. When it wasn't such a dog. Where did he get it?”

“From a man named Roland LeBay,” I said, thinking of LeBay's brother telling me that LeBay did all the maintenance himself at some do-it-yourself garage. “He's dead now.”

Darnell stopped cold. “LeBay?
Rollie
LeBay?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Army? Retired?”

“Yes.”

“Holy Christ, sure! He brought it in here just as regular as clockwork for six, maybe eight years, then he stopped coming. A long time ago. What a bastard that man was. If you poured boiling water down that whoremaster's throat, he would have peed ice cubes. He couldn't get along with a living soul.” He gripped my shoulder harder. “Does your friend Cunningham know LeBay's wife committed suicide in that car?”

“What?” I said, acting surprised—I didn't want him to know I'd been interested enough to talk to LeBay's brother after the funeral. I was afraid Darnell might repeat the information to Arnie—complete with his source.

Darnell told me the whole story. First the daughter, then the mother.

“No,” I said when he was done. “I'm pretty sure Arnie doesn't know that. Are you going to tell him?”

The eyes, appraising again. “Are you?”

“No,” I said. “I don't see any reason to.”

“Then neither do I.” He opened the door, and the greasy air of the garage smelled almost sweet after the cigar smoke in the office. “That sonofabitch LeBay, I'll be damned. I hope he's doing right-face-left-face and to-the-rear-harch down in hell.” His mouth turned down viciously for just a moment, and then he glanced over at where Christine sat in stall twenty with her old, rusting paint and that new radio antenna and half a grille.
“That
bitch back again,” he said, and then he glanced at me. “Well, they say bad pennies always turn up, huh?”