Project Northwest (9 page)

“You guys tow cop cars?” James asked,
surprised.

“Yep, unless it’s on an emergency call or
something. If they park illegally and the city puts out a work
order, Mickey and Mouse will get it and it’s coming to my garage.
This particular cruiser was parked illegally by some poor soul who
thinks he can park his car anywhere when off duty. I’m all about
safety, ya know.” Harry motioned for the tow truck to take the haul
to the back of the garage.

“Mickey and Mouse?”

Harry let out another hearty laugh. “Yeah,
funny, right? Nicknames for two bull cousins from a family on State
Route Two up in timber country. Whole family is big boys, hard
workers, and don’t take any shit. Ya get that way when dealing in
timber and people’s cars all your life.”

James nodded his head in agreement. He could
see they were definitely big boys and he watched the truck
disappear behind the building.

They turned the corner of the garage and
there sat the wounded mustang in its own fluids. James looked for
vultures in the sky.

The front end was completely destroyed, with
much of the damage on the driver’s side. The front bumper had been
removed or fallen off and placed to the side along with half the
grill. The driver’s side wheel flair was ripped and smashed, with
the entire quarter panel being held up by the ground. The front
left tire had been pushed in and was now several inches closer to
the driver’s seat than it should be. The driver’s side mirror was
completely missing, most likely in a pile of parts nearby, and the
door looked like it had been kicked repeatedly. The interior wasn’t
bad, but the progressive insurance adjuster was disappointed,
noting that the entire frame of the vehicle had shifted.

Bridget was floored and stopped in her
tracks, only able to mumble out a few “Oh, my God’s” as she
surveyed the damage. She grabbed James’s hand and arm and squeezed
tightly. “Thank God, you’re okay. I had no idea it was this
bad.”

“Neither did I,” James replied, his jaw wide
open as he looked at the car he and his dad had rebuilt, put their
sweat in to. The '69 Boss 429 Mustang was a numbers matching car
and James had always told friends, with great pride, “Only 858 of
these babies galloped off the production line.” It was his first
and only car. His dad found it in a barn in Arizona and had it
delivered the day before his sixth birthday. He didn’t drive it
until his eighteenth birthday.

“Raven Black,” said James in the direction of
Harry. “That’s the color, original color, Raven Black, only 858 of
‘em made.” Harry didn’t respond and Manny made a note of some
sort.

The adjuster was instantly at work, taking
pictures of the front of the vehicle, the driver’s side, followed
by close-up shots of the exact same areas. He then took a picture
of the interior, focused on the gauge panel, noting the odometer
showed 84,322 and moved to the car’s undercarriage. He then moved
to the back and took a couple more shots. “How much do you think
it’s worth, Mr. Spain?”

James wanted to say priceless, but gave a
ballpark figure. “I’ve seen them go for eighty thousand plus when
completely restored, but no one ever sells them and the prices have
dropped recently. My dad and I fixed her over a twelve-year period
and I was planning on never putting her in a stable. She loved to
run.”

James absentmindedly began polishing one of
the smaller scratches on the driver’s door with his shirt tail,
caught himself in the act, and iced over. He could only look at the
broken glass in the driver’s seat. He reached in, took his mp3
player and phone charger cord, popped the trunk, and collected his
dry cleaning.

He moved to the passenger side and picked up
the vehicle’s manual, registration, and important data cards from
the glove box. He rounded the front of the car and irately kicked a
detached headlight lens toward the pile of other parts. He walked
around the vehicle once more thinking that if he had a gun he’d
aim, pull the trigger, and put the wounded mustang out of her
misery.

“Well, that’s it,” he stated as he walked
toward Bridget, who was still motionless. She could only nod and
appeared frozen in time. He wasn’t sure whether she was in some
type of shock. He placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her
close.

“Do I need to hang around?” James shouted to
the adjuster.

“No, Mr. Spain, I will be in touch in a few
days. In the meantime, you can get a mid-sized rental if you’d
like.”

“Thanks,” James shouted back.

“Do I need to do anything?” he asked
Harry.

“Yeah, sign here saying that you collected ya
belongings and I gotta make a copy of your driver’s license. Also,
if the car is considered totaled, I can buy it from you for scrap.
I’ll work with Manny over there on the deal and he’ll call you.
Here’s my card.”

James accepted the business card and
clipboard. He was stunned to see what appeared to be a dot-matrix
printout. Normally, he would’ve got a kick out of seeing such
antiquated gear. He was even more surprised that they still made
paper for it. He found the big X and scribbled his signature.

Harry returned and traded the license for the
clipboard.

James did a final onceover of the car. “I’ll
contact you as soon as I find a garage, she will never be
scrap.”

He turned Bridget around and escorted her to
the Honda.

James, having missed lunch, was starving and
could hear his stomach growling. He contemplated stopping for
something, but looking at Bridget, who was too quiet, he decided it
best to stay in, turn on the tube, and order a pizza. He was back
on Aurora Avenue when she cupped his hand and gushed, “I saw my
life, James. A life without you, flash in front of my eyes. I was
so sad and ended up living in the mountains owning a hundred cats.
You’re not getting any more fancy little sports cars. We’re getting
something safe, safer than safe.”

“The car is safe. Look, I’m fine, they don’t
make them like that anymore,” defended James. “It’s okay; we won’t
have to do anything for a few weeks, anyway. I was thinking we’ll
just veg out tonight in front of the tube and order pizza from that
place you like. What do you think?”

“Yes, sounds like a plan,” said Bridget,
still somewhere deep in the mountains beset by cats. She knew James
was deflecting the conversation. He loved that car. It had a lot of
sentimental value, but she also knew he’d soon be driving the
safest car on the market. He may not have known it, but she did,
she was sure of it. It was time to put the Mustang out to
pasture.

They entered the condo just after 7:30P.M.
and both were exhausted. James dialed the pizza spot’s number,
ordered the natural spinach pizza with goat’s cheese, and confirmed
the address.

About twenty minutes later, the house phone
rang. It alarmed both of them because it rarely rang. Friends and
family called them on their cell phones. In fact, James couldn’t
recall the last time the damn thing ever rang. Bridget seemed
surprised the thing even worked.

“Must be the pizza place,” he said as he
picked up the cordless phone from the end table.

He pressed talk, “Hello.”

“Mr. Spain, I hear you’re not playing nice at
work, that you’re being short and nasty with the lovely Miss
Spenser. It goes without saying that I’m not pleased with your
attitude,” relayed Mr. Wright on the other end of the phone.

“Yes,” said James, perceiving what Mr. Wright
was doing. He was doing the same thing as the bank did with
security. It was both their responsibility, and James wasn’t doing
his part.

“I have here, in my lap, a lovely
gift-wrapped present for you, a congratulatory present for your
recent promotion. Imagine the argument that would ensue, the
devastation in trust if this package made an untimely delivery to
your door. We noticed you didn’t mention the promotion to Bridget
and I know why you didn’t mention it. Who gets promoted when they
are under investigation? Someone who is lying, that’s who.”

Just then the doorbell rang, and James almost
screamed, ‘
Don’t answer it
.’ He sat helpless, as he watched
Bridget slowly sashay in her socks across the hardwood floor.

James could overhear Bridget say the flowers
were beautiful, but the delivery person had the wrong address.

James cupped his forehead in his hand and
said, “I understand completely.”

Mr. Wright spoke without hurry, seeming to
savor the torment he was putting James through, “Remember, James, I
see and hear everything. I’m big brother, a synapse in your brain,
in your world I am god. I may not hear your prayers, but I know for
what you are praying. Goodnight, Mr. Spain, and congratulations. My
team had nothing to do with the promotion, but you’ll note our
response time was quick and thorough.”

James wanted to reach through the phone and
strangle him. He heard the click, then the dial tone, and tossed
the phone onto the coffee table.

“Was that the pizza place?” Bridget asked as
she sashayed back toward the couch.

“Ah, yeah, the driver was lost, but is on his
way.”

Moments later, the door intercom buzzed and
the pizza was delivered. Though James could normally eat a whole
pizza by himself, he was only able to get two slices down and a
single beer. Bridget did far worse, only eating the inside crust of
a single slice and barely touching her beer. It was a shame to
waste the pizza. He loved the dry golden crust, but he just didn’t
have the stomach for it.

They began watching the 200
^th
episode of
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit
and both fell
asleep on the couch. The television became their nightlight and
Bridget was warmly tucked under his outstretched arm, dreaming of
the safety claims of Volvo.

James dreamt of that first Saturday when he
was eighteen and slid into the black sports seat of the mustang he
had drooled over for twelve years. He had sat in it plenty of
times, cranked the engine to life, and listened to it rumble like a
caged, snarling animal.

He’d ridden in it when he couldn’t even see
over the dashboard and let his right hand hang out the open window,
watching it glide over the fifty mile an hour wind, his dad
quizzing him on the properties of lift and drag. He’d sat in his
dad’s lap and in boyhood delight, reined the Mustang around an
empty parking lot.

He had lived up to his end of the bargain. He
was accepted into a top college and the only thing left to do was
engage the manual transmission. His father had pointed the car
toward the street, saying, “It would be a shame if the first thing
you do after ten years is go in reverse.” His father was a little
off on the math. It was actually twelve years, but James was eager
to let the Mustang run and didn’t say anything.

His father passed away that same year from
brain cancer, and James always speculated the miscalculation was
one of the first signs of the condition. His father always had a
mind like a steel trap.

He remembered his father that last day in the
hospital. He was pale, had sunken cheeks, his arms were the size of
shovel handles and his skin lay on top of his bones, showing the
skeletal structure beneath. James was telling him he was going to
make it and they’d be driving the Mustang on Route 66 during the
coming summer. Neither believed it. His father managed a smile and
only said, “When you do, let her run James, let her run.”

He missed him dearly.

* * * *

“Congratulations, gentleman,” said Mr. Wright
to his crew as he hung up the phone.

Mr. Wright was more exhausted than any of
them. He’d been up since Friday afternoon and had slept little
since he arranged the murder of Mr. Brownstone in January. It was
Wright’s fifth kill and he didn’t know how he felt about it. Not
being able to settle the debate in his own head kept him awake
nights. He unbuttoned his shirt, removed his shoes, and sank deeply
into the sofa as he spoke.

“I think we’ve finally got Mr. Spain under
control. Even though we started off a bit rough, the team is a
success. Tomorrow will be the true test and will become a sort of
Groundhog Day for us. But as planned, we’re only tracking one
vehicle and Miss Spenser is doing a superb job. Our first order of
business in the morning is to get the conference call over with,
track the car as both James and Bridget go to work, and we need to
secretly interview the staff that worked Sunday night at The
Lounge. Driver number two, since you’ve already have some success
in this, I’ll assign that task to you. I’m still convinced she was
doing something other than picking up a work schedule. I need to
know what that was.”

Wright bent forward toward the coffee table,
picked up the bottle of fifteen-year-old Bowmore Scotch whiskey. He
eyed it as if it were a fine marble statue crafted by Michelangelo
himself, opened it, and captured a deep whiff of the complex aromas
in his nostrils. The smells of mahogany, smoke, and caramel
registered in his brain and made his mouth water. He took a deep
breath and blew into his favorite Riedel glass, poured the whiskey,
swirled the glass with his right hand, and allowed the bowl to warm
a minute or two in the palm of his hand.

“No ice?” questioned one of the younger
associates watching the ritual.

“Never ice a fine scotch and never waste your
money on rotgut,” Mr. Wright chided as he brought the glass to his
lips and let the scotch velvet his tongue before swallowing the
mouthful in a single gulp.

He inhaled deeply, permitting the scotch’s
malted barley to warm his throat and lungs, then exhaled, noting
the finish—smoky with a slight burn that slowly faded—and then he
relaxed. The signature sound of fine crystal chimed as he placed
the empty glass on the table and continued his orders. “We have a
conference call at seven sharp. Everyone should be up and ready
before then.”