Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom by A. L. Haskett

sole aspiration was that his son grow up to play ball in the big leagues. His childhood was contented but his soul had never been appeased. At fifteen he hopped a freight train on a dare and for ten new Harleys and a ranch in Idaho he could not say why he kept going. Twenty years separated then from now. The final report he had of his father was contained in the obituary his sister sent when Wilson was behind bars for trouncing the manager at a McDonald’s who had given him a cold bag of french fries. The painting touched him like the obituary had, and he did not know why.
    “It’s okay,” he said.
    “Mind if they leave the bike here a few days?” Roscoe asked.
    “Sure.”
    “One thing.” Wilson smeared the license plate in the painting. “Change that before you show it to anyone.”
    From his window Duncan observed the Guardians mount their Harleys and ride off. He watched Roscoe enter the Hollywood. He searched the street for a white Cadillac. All he saw were three Hondas, two Toyotas, a Dodge Dakota, and a Subaru wagon. He turned from the window, opened a beer, and changed the license in the painting.
       
    Hours later, Duncan’s phone rang.
    “Hello.”
    “Duncan?”
    “Pris?” His heart grew legs and kicked his ribs. His heart had been doing things like that ever since he met her. “How did you get my number?”
    “The phone company has this thing. It’s called information.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bitchy.”
    “That’s all right.”
    “I called to apologize. I know you weren’t trying anything. I’m just so tired of hearing that crap. The creeps who come into the Hollywood think because they throw money at me they can say whatever they want. All I can do is smile when what I really want is to rip their hearts out with a claw hammer.”
    “Ummm …”
    “I don’t mean that.”
    “I know,” Duncan said. “Can I ask you a question?”
    “Sure.”
    “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
    “Can’t. I’m working. But you could come in for a drink.”
    Duncan did not want to be equated with the other creeps or have cardiac surgery performed upon him with a carpentry tool. His desire to see her naked was tempered by an equal desire that when this vision occurred that he also be naked and that they be alone.
    “I better not,” he said. “I have a lot of work to do.”
    “That’s probably best. Somebody stole Sheila’s Harley. She’s in a mood to kick ass.” Only Women Bleed began in the background. “I have to go,” she said. “But I get off at one. Maybe I could come up. We could talk.”
    “Sure!”
    “Just talk. I’m serious, Duncan.”
    “I understand.”
    “All right. Maybe I’ll see you tonight.”
    Duncan hung up and stared at the bike. He was not vain, but he believed he owned too nice a face for jail and possessed an inadequate desire to participate in shower room acrobatics.
    Mr. Delaney, exactly how did this stolen motorcycle get up here?
    Beats the hell out of me, sir.
    The police would flay him with rubber hoses and jab him with electric cattle prods until he ratted on the Guardians whose tattooed Aryan jail house brothers would hunt him down and fillet him with sharpened bed springs like so much vermin. He covered the Harley with a sheet in a vain attempt to make it look like something other than a motorcycle.
    He put on his hat, walked to a liquor store, and bought two bottles of champagne for fifty dollars. He bought a picnic basket of cheese, meat, bread, and crackers at an all-night deli. He bought grapes and a cantaloupe at a market. He bought a bag of ice, a plastic bucket, and two candles from Assan. He returned home and put all but the candles, the basket, and the bucket in the refrigerator. He swept the floor and laid a tablecloth in front of the couch. He wedged candles in shot glasses and put them on the cloth. He sliced the cantaloupe and set the pieces on a plate with the grapes and put the plate in the refrigerator. He