Drawing Dead by Pete Hautman Page A

dowdy young housewife into what Debrowski would call, wrinkling her nose, “Tits and lips.” Crow tried to identify the elements of her metamorphosis. Red lipstick, a little something on the eyes, a black cotton dress that looked like it would crawl up her thighs at the slightest provocation. Her dark hair, which during the day she had worn tied back in a loose ponytail, was now piled casually on top of her head, as though she had pushed it up there to get it out of the way, then forgot about it. She was wearing her new red sandals. Was that all? Was she walking differently? The superficial changes were slight, but there was nothing minor about the lump that had formed under his stomach. The Porsche swallowed her up, and Crow let his breath escape.
    He started his car and followed her down the ramp. A big blue convertible was crowding his rear end. The lite rock guy. Catfish waved at the attendant and drove through the exit without stopping. The gate arm dropped in front of Crow; he had to pay three dollars to get out. The guy in the convertible, an ugly guy with a big head, was right on his back bumper. The Cadillac hood ornament was level with the top of Crow’s head; his rearview mirror was full of bug- spattered chromium grillwork. Crow paid the attendant and resisted the urge to turn and give the guy behind him a look. He got the Jaguar out onto Hennepin just in time to see the Porsche turning right at University Avenue; by the time he made the corner, she was a quarter of a mile ahead.
    Crow punched the accelerator and brought the Jag up to fifty, passing a little green Honda. Catfish was still pulling away, moving her Porsche deftly through and around the slower traffic. Feeling a seductive jolt of adrenaline, Crow shifted into fourth gear, prepared to follow her at any speed, when he heard a screech, a metallic thud, and the piercing sound of sheet metal on asphalt. He took his foot off the accelerator and flicked his eyes to the mirror. The Honda he had just passed was on its side in the road, still spinning, and behind it he could see the blue Cadillac convertible, its proud grille riding up over the remains of a small ash tree. Crow pulled to the side. Other cars were stopping. The windshield of the Honda had popped out in one piece and skidded across the four-lane avenue; the driver, a kid in a red T-shirt, was climbing shakily out through the front of his car. The Cadillac man, uglier than ever with blood running from his nose, was already out of his car, glaring at the ash tree that was jammed under his front bumper. A group of energetic young men came out of a frat house across the street and ran to the aid of the drivers. Crow dropped the Jag in gear and took off.
    Catfish’s Porsche was nowhere in sight.
    Crow frowned and continued east on University Avenue, through the campus and toward Saint Paul, relying on luck and instinct. She could be going anywhere. If he didn’t stumble on her within the next few miles, he decided, he would give it up, save Dickie some money.
    As he crossed the invisible boundary between Minneapolis and Saint Paul, the character of the neighborhood changed. The businesses on the street got older, the buildings became more varied and peculiar, the trees fewer, and the signs at the intersections were no longer numbered streets but names. It was like sliding back in time. Some blocks seemed unchanged by the last half of the century. Tiny service-oriented businesses—shoe shops, tailors, TV repair, beauty salons, hobby stores—were sandwiched between red- and gray-brick factories. The Turf Club, “The Best Remnant of the '40s,” featured country dancing seven nights a week. Porky’s Drive-In, still painted like a giant red-and-brown checkerboard, had been feeding people burgers and malts in their cars since 1953.
    Crow was looking for a convenient place to turn around, when he passed the Twin Town Luxury Motor Hotel, another fifties relic, and saw