Lullaby Town (1992) by Robert - Elvis Cole 03 Crais Page B
Authors: Robert - Elvis Cole 03 Crais
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couple of nice sailboats and about a million Japanese container ships and a Cessna floatplane tied lo a short pier.
At the Holland Tunnel I went east along Canal, crossing lower Manhattan between Little Italy and Chinatown. The buildings were old and made of red brick or yellow brick or stone, some painted and some not, each webbed with a tarnished latticework of fire escapes. People jammed the sidewalks, and yellow cabs roared over the streels without regard to traffic lanes or bicyclists or human life, and no one seemed to see anyone else, as if each person was inalienably alone and liked it that way, or at least was used to it.
Lucerne's Meat Packing Plant was in a two-story redbrick industrial building between a tire wholesaler and a textile oullel, four blocks from the Manhattan Bridge. There was a drive and a large crushed-gravel parking lot on the side where Econoline vans and six-by trucks turned around and backed up to a loading dock.
Five cars were parked at the far end of the lot, out of the trucks' way. The second car from the end was the black Lincoln.
I pulled into the lot past the six-bys, whipped a snappy turn like I was trying to get out of the place, put it into reverse, backed up, and crunched the Lincoln nicely. I turned off the Taurus, got out, and made a big deal out of looking at what I had done. The Lincoln's left front headlight was popped and the chrome around it crumpled and the bumper compressed. A couple of black guys in dirty white aprons up on the loading dock were watching me. One of the black guys went into the warehouse and yelled something, and then a little guy in a white jumpsuit and a clipboard came out. I walked over and said, "I was trying to turn around and I backed into that Lincoln. Do you know who owns it?"
The little guy came over to the edge of the dock and stood with his boot tips hanging over and looked at the cars. Lucerno'sFine Meats was embroidered on the back of his coveralls with red thread and FRANK was sewn over his left breast pocket. His face was sour and lined, like maybe he'd just checked his lunch pail and discovered that his wife had given him a roach sandwich. He said, 'Jesus Christ, where'd you learnta drive? Wait here a minute." He went back into the warehouse. The two black guys finished loading a dolly of white boxes into a six-by. They took the boxes off the dolly two at a time and slid them into the six-by so hard that the boxes slammed into the truck with a heavy thud. Tenderizing the meat.
In a litde while Frank came back and said, "Forget it You're off die hook."
I looked at him. "What do you mean, forget it?" Best-laid plans.
"Just what I said. You had a bad break, but we'ren ot gonna bust your chops about it Take off." The old smash-their-car-and-offer-to-pay-for-it routine wasn't getting me very far.
I said, The headlight's smashed and the bumper's pretty dinged up and the frame around the light is busted. Maybe the owner should come take a look."
"It's a company car. Forget it."
"I don't want to forget it. I'm responsible. I oughta pay something to somebody."
He gave me Desi looking at Lucy, the look saying, Jesus Christ, what did I marry? "I'm giving you a pass, capisce? What, are you stupid?"
I said, "You know, that's the trouble with America today. Everybody's looking for a pass. Nobody wants to own up. Well, not me. I own up. I take what's coming to me. I pay my way." Maybe I could appeal to his national pride.
One of the black guys adjusted his crotch and laughed. He had two gold inlays on the right side of his mouth. Frank took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "Look, I got work to do. You came in here, you busted the car, and you came looking for someone to do right by it. Great. But I'm standing here telling you that it's okay. I work here. We seen what happened and it's okay. I'm telling you that you ain't gotta pay a dime, you ain't gotta say you're sorry, you ain't gotta do dick. Okay?"
"But you don't own the car?"
He
At the Holland Tunnel I went east along Canal, crossing lower Manhattan between Little Italy and Chinatown. The buildings were old and made of red brick or yellow brick or stone, some painted and some not, each webbed with a tarnished latticework of fire escapes. People jammed the sidewalks, and yellow cabs roared over the streels without regard to traffic lanes or bicyclists or human life, and no one seemed to see anyone else, as if each person was inalienably alone and liked it that way, or at least was used to it.
Lucerne's Meat Packing Plant was in a two-story redbrick industrial building between a tire wholesaler and a textile oullel, four blocks from the Manhattan Bridge. There was a drive and a large crushed-gravel parking lot on the side where Econoline vans and six-by trucks turned around and backed up to a loading dock.
Five cars were parked at the far end of the lot, out of the trucks' way. The second car from the end was the black Lincoln.
I pulled into the lot past the six-bys, whipped a snappy turn like I was trying to get out of the place, put it into reverse, backed up, and crunched the Lincoln nicely. I turned off the Taurus, got out, and made a big deal out of looking at what I had done. The Lincoln's left front headlight was popped and the chrome around it crumpled and the bumper compressed. A couple of black guys in dirty white aprons up on the loading dock were watching me. One of the black guys went into the warehouse and yelled something, and then a little guy in a white jumpsuit and a clipboard came out. I walked over and said, "I was trying to turn around and I backed into that Lincoln. Do you know who owns it?"
The little guy came over to the edge of the dock and stood with his boot tips hanging over and looked at the cars. Lucerno'sFine Meats was embroidered on the back of his coveralls with red thread and FRANK was sewn over his left breast pocket. His face was sour and lined, like maybe he'd just checked his lunch pail and discovered that his wife had given him a roach sandwich. He said, 'Jesus Christ, where'd you learnta drive? Wait here a minute." He went back into the warehouse. The two black guys finished loading a dolly of white boxes into a six-by. They took the boxes off the dolly two at a time and slid them into the six-by so hard that the boxes slammed into the truck with a heavy thud. Tenderizing the meat.
In a litde while Frank came back and said, "Forget it You're off die hook."
I looked at him. "What do you mean, forget it?" Best-laid plans.
"Just what I said. You had a bad break, but we'ren ot gonna bust your chops about it Take off." The old smash-their-car-and-offer-to-pay-for-it routine wasn't getting me very far.
I said, The headlight's smashed and the bumper's pretty dinged up and the frame around the light is busted. Maybe the owner should come take a look."
"It's a company car. Forget it."
"I don't want to forget it. I'm responsible. I oughta pay something to somebody."
He gave me Desi looking at Lucy, the look saying, Jesus Christ, what did I marry? "I'm giving you a pass, capisce? What, are you stupid?"
I said, "You know, that's the trouble with America today. Everybody's looking for a pass. Nobody wants to own up. Well, not me. I own up. I take what's coming to me. I pay my way." Maybe I could appeal to his national pride.
One of the black guys adjusted his crotch and laughed. He had two gold inlays on the right side of his mouth. Frank took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "Look, I got work to do. You came in here, you busted the car, and you came looking for someone to do right by it. Great. But I'm standing here telling you that it's okay. I work here. We seen what happened and it's okay. I'm telling you that you ain't gotta pay a dime, you ain't gotta say you're sorry, you ain't gotta do dick. Okay?"
"But you don't own the car?"
He
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