August and Then Some (16 page)

“I'm not sure if you should be taking the calls.”

“Oh, bullshit. Bull
shit
. Look, I know I got a bad fuckin reputation for bein an idiot and that I've been carrying around this stupid friggin nickname since I was six thanks to my father. But let me tell you something, I don't have potatoes for brains. OK? I got brains for brains. And now that we're on the subject of fucking over fathers—fuck mine too. My name is Eugene goddamn Cervella. I'm not as stupid as the chicks and my father think I am. Don't make me have to convince you too, for Christ's sake. I know more about cars than you and my father, so I
should
be handling the calls. Not to mention that I sound older than you. And how many calls we gonna get anyway? That thing'll sell around thirty-five, forty grand. We'll say ‘serious inquiries' only in the ad. No one's gonna call unless they mean it. Either that or they don't have any friends. All I have to do is use your father's name over the phone.”

“Wait, why?”

“Because his name is on the title, no?”

“Yeah.”

“You gettin it now?”

“I'm gettin it.”

“So once we get a buyer we fucking steal it. The car and the title. You still got keys to the house, right?”

“Right.”

“We go in the middle of the night. Roll the thing down the driveway. He won't know it's gone until his fat ass wakes up in the morning and we're halfway to Mexico.”

“Mexico?”

“It's an expression. We're not going to fuckin Mexico for Christ's sake. Now who's bein an idiot?” He backhanded me on my shoulder, and smiled. “JT, do you see how easy this would be?”

“Hold on. Back up. What about showing it? No one's gonna
buy without looking first. How we gonna show it without my father finding out?”

“I'm working on that part. I think we could just wait till we know he's gonna be out some Saturday or Sunday. We'll figure it out. Listen, it'll be a legal sale. If they trace it to the guy who bought it, he's got the title, which is proof it was a legal sale. The cops got nothing on him, he don't get screwed. And the only name he can give them is your dad's. If you're worried about them getting to you, don't, because I'll bring the car over to the buyer. You don't even have to show your face. We just make sure they don't live in the friggin neighborhood.”

“You actually thought this through.”

“I fuckin did.”

“It's a good idea, dude.”

“You surprised?”

“No.”

“Thank you. So … is it a go?”

“I don't know. I need a little while to think about it.”

Nokey spit again and I followed it until it hit the rocks near where Dani sat.

I imagine, for my sister, there's something more in this river than rocks, white water, and goose shit. I imagine she believes if she could just get downstream, then, in some way, she wouldn't have to live her life in her head anymore. I want to believe I know what she wants, and that getting what she wants starts with getting even. And fuck it—I have to be right. I have to feel like I'm getting something right. I mean I can't even have sex correctly. What kind of shit is that?

A cop brings me over to Ricky. He's wearing a weight I've never seen on him before. It's not just an emotional weight: his gut's bigger, his face is all puffed up, and he's got the posture of an unwatered plant. What's even more shocking is his eyes. Sadness is never a word I would have attached to them until now. We look at each other completely incapable of understanding all that's happened in the past year. Of the millions of things wanting to jump out of my mouth, “Thanks for doing this,” is what manages.

“Come on,” he tells me, waving me out of this stinkhole. “First, I'm taking you home.”

I don't ask what he means by “first”.

We drive up the FDR, and get off on 14th Street. I tell Ricky to hang a left down Avenue B, and another left on 9th. I stick my arm out the window and point. “That's my apartment. The gray door right there.”

Ricky slows to a stop. He ducks down and leans over so he can see more of the building through my window. The stoop is empty. The whole street is unusually quiet. He takes it in for a second then puts the car in park. “Kids still play stoopball off stoops?” he asks.

“No, but sometimes they shoot up on them.”

He doesn't laugh. And with his eyes tells me this is a bad time for jokes.

“What's the apartment like?”

“Well, it's kind of small. I don't think you want to see it. I mean you can if you really want.”

“No. Is it a railroad?”

“Maybe half a railroad. It's a studio.”

He nods and looks at the building, which makes me look at it too, and for the first time I notice its architecture. Cut white stones surround every window. Turn-of-the-century woodwork borders the door and comes to a peak over the entrance. The railings on the fire escape have curlicue designs like something you'd see on a Jack of Hearts. If whoever built this place was trying to make it look like a place someone could be happy I think they succeeded—problem is we've stopped noticing. Except for Ricky. He's still scoping the place out intently, and registers each detail with a small nod. He used to do the same thing for me when I worked for him—point out car parts I didn't know existed and explain their purpose. “What's the biggest difference between this place and where you grew up?” he asks.

“Well, among other things, they call wedges heroes.”

He half grins at my sarcasm, and takes his time with his next question.

“You got a girlfriend?”

“Not actually.”

He nods at my answer like he's just brushed another detail of my life onto a canvas. “So what do you do? I mean what's a night out? You know people or what?”

“Not really.”

“How bout your laundry, where you do that?”

If the guy didn't just bail me out of jail I'd explain that he's sounding a little psychotic, and if I didn't know him better I'd
have one hand on the door handle of his car, the other wrapped around a knife. His subdued wisdom and ability to break things down to their core is familiar. But he seems somehow different than I've ever seen him. Darker.

“There's a place on Avenue B that gives you free soap. I just kind of … you know, I work and I'm sort of keeping to myself lately.” His eyes glaze over and he goes somewhere inside himself. “Is everything OK with you, Ricky?”

He shakes his head no.

“Why not?”

“I can't …” His voice cracks up and he stops himself. This sight is on the cusp of shocking.

“You ever notice that Nokey seemed like he was born old? Like he came here knowing something the rest of us didn't?”

Now he's getting even sadder and weirder. Not wanting the conversation to go to Nokey at all I bow out. “Yeah, could be.” I make a fast move. “Listen, Rick, I'm gonna go now, OK?”

No response.

I open the door.

“Thank you for the ride and for bailing—”

“Shut the door.”

I freeze.

“Shut the door,” he repeats.

“Why?”

“I'm taking you to your father's house.”

This is nowhere near where I thought this thing was going. “Wait, wait, why you wanna do that?”

“So you can talk to him.”

“I see him every week at counseling.”

“This week is different.”

“No, Ricky, I don't … Look, I'm here, let me stay here.”

“This isn't the thanks I was looking for.”

“I do appreciate you coming down to do this. I do. It's not like we're not gonna talk about it in counseling.”

“Not if you don't show up for it like the last two weeks.”

“All right, what the hell's going on? How do you know I missed—?”

“Close the door.”

I do it slowly. “Look, I'm running on zero sleep here and—”

“Then take a nap on the way.”

“Why'd you drive me here if—”

“Jake.” With his foot on the brake he puts the car in drive, and throws a look on me that could stop the New York Stock Exchange dead. “As repayment for your bail let's say you won't ask me any questions or try to jump out the car.”

A week after Noke and I put the ad in the trade Ricky was yelling for him to get off the payphone at the garage. “Now!”

Noke held up one finger to Ricky, the amount of minutes he threatened to be finished in.

“Nokey, hang it up.”

He did and ran back into the garage. “Take it easy. I was talking to a girl.”

Ricky said, “Well congratulations to you, you're finally a man.”

“With no help from you.”

“Yeah, right, all I ever gave you was food and a place to eat it.”

“And don't forget about the lousy heart.”

“How could I?”

Ricky walked away and neither one was sure who just won that little joust. Noke kept smiling though. When Ricky was out of earshot he said, “Get your hand up.” I held out my palm to him, he wound up like he was throwing a baseball and landed his hand right in mine with a loud clap. “We got a guy.”

“What guy?”

“A buyer.”

I put my tools down. “Talk to me.”

“He's from Hudson Falls. It's upstate about four hours from here. I checked it out. I been on the phone with this guy three times, he wants it.”

Noke looked back to the office where we could be seen from, then he motioned to me to pick my tools up again and keep working, so I did.

“What's his deal?” I asked.

Noke picked up a rag and wiped nothing that needed to be wiped off the engine. “He's been looking for a '65 Cobra. Says he found one a year ago that didn't have original paint, so he turned it down. And here's the best part, he made an offer over the phone.”

“You're fucking kidding me.”

“Not even a little. He just needs to see it to make sure what I said is legit, which it is, and he's in. We don't even have to show it to him here. It's beautiful. If we want we can ride it up to him this weekend.”

“What if he sees it and doesn't like it?”

“Trust me, I sold this guy. I know every part on your dad's car. We got a nice piece of machine on our hands. The guy thinks we live in White Plains. I told him it all sounds good, but that I'd have to think about it. I said, ‘She's gonna be hard for me to get rid of. You know what I mean?' Guy's like, ‘I understand, you spend enough time with them they start to feel like family.' Yeah, unused and asleep in the fuckin garage. Exactly like family.”

“What did he offer?”

“I let him take me down to thirty-two five, and said we'd keep it kind of open so we can negotiate a little on inspection. But I only did that because he said he'd pay in cash. Dude,
cash
. Do you realize a paper trail on this thing won't even exist?”

“Talk me through this. What happens when people ask this guy where he bought the car?”

“What's he gonna say? ‘From some kid in Yonkers who ripped it off his father'? No, he's gonna say, ‘Some schmuck from White Plains. I think his name was Savage something.' End of story. And how would they track this thing? I mean why would the Yonkers police department look for a stolen car in East Asswick, New York?”

We saw Ricky come out of the office so Noke dropped his rag, went to the sink and started washing his hands, which made no sense to anyone. Ricky went over to the sink and loomed behind Nokey waiting for him to turn around. With a bar of Lava soap in his hands he finally turned and said, “What?” more defensively than he probably wanted to.

Rick took his time answering. “Nokey, if only the expertise with which you run-a-muck would compensate for the amount of shit you screw up.”

“Wud I screw up?”

“Come over here, Potato Head.” Noke moved toward him. “Leave the fuckin soap in the sink.” Noke threw it behind him. “You see that Escort that just got towed in?”

“So?”

“That car look familiar to you?”

“Yeah.”

“You work on that car?”

“I did. Why?”

“Wud you do on it?”

“Why don't you tell me what I did on it instead of trying to make me look like an idiot in front of everyone.”

“The cover of this guy's cam shaft came loose because you didn't tighten the bolts. He was leaking oil and the car died on the road. You took a half a day on the job that should have taken two hours at worst. So now I got a pissed off customer and I gotta put in free hours for him. What were you thinking?”

“All of a sudden I don't know anything about cars?”

“It's not all of a sudden.”

“Then you've been a lousy teacher.”

“Judging from you I'd say you're right.”

That's when it went further than I think they wanted it to. Nokey actually welled up.

Ricky said, “Take the rest of the day off, will ya?”

“Gladly.” Nokey threw his rag on the floor. “You want me to sweep the floor before I go?” Ricky said nothing. “I know more about cars than you ever will.” Then he got right into his car, greasy nasty work clothes and all, and took off.

I swear Ricky looked at me to see how I thought he handled that. I don't think he was feeling good about it. We both reserved comment and went back to work.

I wondered why Ricky was so hard with Nokey and so good to me—even when I threw a fit in his office. He seemed to treat me like a son. Only better.

Ricky shoots up the FDR Drive and we hug the East River into The Bronx, then north on I-87 where Yankee Stadium rises on our right. We ride with the windows down, wind and traffic sounds covering our silence. Gradually the buildings and projects give way to trees and a familiar suburban drone. We turn on the Bronx River Parkway and the ugly smell of the river and goose shit makes me nauseous. I roll up my window. Ricky looks over to me for the first time since we left Manhattan. “You shaved your head,” he says.

“Yeah.” I pass my hand over it.

“Why?”

“Maybe because I'm an idiot?”

He nods in acceptance then takes a deep breath in. “You know …you're forced to be a functioning human being when you're a parent. No way around that. You're responsible for another life. You gotta wake up on time, renew your driver's license, shovel snow. Seems easy enough, but you're scared crapless. You're not scared of what people tell you they're scared of, not the broken bottle in the grass that'll cut your kid's foot. You're scared because at any given moment you have no idea what the hell
you're doing. Ever. That's what keeps you awake at night. And it never changes.” He reaches into his shirt pocket for cigarettes, taps one out of the pack and grabs it with his lips. I'd give my work boots to know what's going on in his brain. “And then when you're done being the parent you gotta figure out some other reason to function. No one tells you about the hell that is.” He pulls a lighter out of the same pocket and lights up. I don't feel him wanting a response and I don't give him one.

We get off the exit to my dad's house. I haven't seen this block since that night. I thought I had built up a tolerance to my own nerves, but now my guts are making noises that tell me I'm defenseless against them.

We pull up to the curb outside the house. Ricky jams the car in park, kills the engine and looks at me.

“What am I supposed to be talking to him about?”

He has nothing to say to me but, “Let's go.”

He gets out of the car, comes around and opens my door for me. When I stand up the nausea builds, like I drank too much. I hope no neighbors see us. Ricky grabs me by the back of the shirt with the impartial strength of a vice.

He leads me halfway up the stairs with his knuckles against my spine. The stairs I helped my father build when I was young: Dad sledgehammered the old stairs and beneath the slate and concrete he hit something harder. He got down to it with a pickax and uncovered white marble. “Frannie, come take a look at this,” he yelled. My mother came out, dishtowel in hand. “Why would someone cover such beautiful stairs,” she wanted to know. “Can we use them?” she asked Dad. “No,” he said. “They're beyond salvaging.” He raised his sledgehammer higher and with a more determined face came down harder and kept breaking them up.

My nausea is rising. I feel the heat coming off Ricky's hand. We make it up the rest of the stairs and I stand face to face with the front door.