pay you here tomorrow night."
"Why you wanna sink this car?" asked Fred.
"Questions," Lazslo said, "that's not part of the arrangement."
Fred rubbed his walrus moustache. He'd lived in Key West a lot of years, he didn't want this guy to think he didn't know what was what. "Drugs."
It was not a question and Lazslo didn't answer, just tried to coax his clawed face and stained eyes into an expression that suggested, Yeah, it's drugs, some residue of some shit in the glove compartment.
Fred said, "This car, what kind of car is it?"
Lazslo frowned. His voice caught. He loved that car. "Cadillac. Fleetwood 1959. Mint condition."
Fred's nose tickled, he rubbed the tip of it. "Shame to sink a car like that."
Lazslo held his hands up like a surgeon, letting them dry in the air. He'd been outrunning exhaustion and disgust and an insanity of guilt, but with every moment they were catching up with him. He was no longer the least bit confident that he was thinking straight or that he'd settled on the right sucker for the job. Once again he felt the heat of Suki's throat against his thumbs.
Wearily, his eyes receding, he said, "Yeah, it fucking is a shame. So thousand dollars. Yes or no?"
Fred thought about it a moment more, then said, "Sure, why not?"
Lazslo told him where the car was parked, handed him the keys and ten exotic fifty dollar bills. "Everglades," he said. "Make sure it fucking disappears."
Fred pocketed the money and then just stood there, his elbow on the dented metal partition.
"So what're you waiting for?" said Lazslo.
Shyly, Fred nodded toward the urinal. "Ya don't mind," he said, "I gotta take a leak."
Chapter 14
"Fred," said Pineapple, "I'm not so sure this is a good idea." They were cruising past the incongruities of Houseboat Row—the gangways festooned with flower boxes, gingerbread trim carved in the shapes of anchors and compass roses. Fred had stopped off at the hot dog to pick up his roommate; he couldn't resist showing off the doomed car. Together, they'd figured out how to put the top down; Lazslo's Fleetwood was now open to the stars.
Fred drummed lightly on the steering wheel. "Not a good idea?" he said. "Why not?"
Piney didn't answer.
Fred said, "Piney, how many times in your life you get to ride in a Caddy? Lotta people, they get to do it once. They get a bigass Caddy hearse with that chrome thing like a baby carriage. Guys like us, would we even get that one fancy ride? In a pig's eye, we would."
They reached the intersection of South Roosevelt and the highway. Fred was having a splendid time savoring the car. He snuggled his butt against the cushy, low-slung seat, squinted with pleasure at the softly glowing numbers on the speedometer. He steered with one hand while the other absently fondled the curves and knobs and swellings of the dashboard.
Pineapple said, "Fred, you got a license?"
He didn't answer. He was having some second thoughts about picking Piney up. If he was only gonna be a killjoy...
"What if a cop stops us? What then, Fred?"
"Fuck 'em if 'ey can't take a joke," said the driver.
But Pineapple was not impressed and Fred tempered his bravado.
"Look, I'm not even going the speed limit," he said. He turned north, the same way he turned on his rusty bike to get to the seven-thirty shape-up on Stock Island. He wished it was morning now and the whole crew could see him roll in behind the wheel.
"The guy whose car it is," Piney chipped away. "What if he reports it stolen?"
"Why would he report it stolen?" answered Fred. "He wants it lost, not found."
"What if he changes his mind?"
Fred kept driving but his enjoyment of it was already starting to erode. After a moment he said, "Why would he tell me lose it if he wasn't pretty fucking sure?"
"This guy says sink his car and I'm supposed to follow his logic?" Piney said. "All I'm saying, I'm saying it's a little strange a guy pays you money to sink his car. I'm not sure it's such a good idea is all I'm saying."
Fred
"Why you wanna sink this car?" asked Fred.
"Questions," Lazslo said, "that's not part of the arrangement."
Fred rubbed his walrus moustache. He'd lived in Key West a lot of years, he didn't want this guy to think he didn't know what was what. "Drugs."
It was not a question and Lazslo didn't answer, just tried to coax his clawed face and stained eyes into an expression that suggested, Yeah, it's drugs, some residue of some shit in the glove compartment.
Fred said, "This car, what kind of car is it?"
Lazslo frowned. His voice caught. He loved that car. "Cadillac. Fleetwood 1959. Mint condition."
Fred's nose tickled, he rubbed the tip of it. "Shame to sink a car like that."
Lazslo held his hands up like a surgeon, letting them dry in the air. He'd been outrunning exhaustion and disgust and an insanity of guilt, but with every moment they were catching up with him. He was no longer the least bit confident that he was thinking straight or that he'd settled on the right sucker for the job. Once again he felt the heat of Suki's throat against his thumbs.
Wearily, his eyes receding, he said, "Yeah, it fucking is a shame. So thousand dollars. Yes or no?"
Fred thought about it a moment more, then said, "Sure, why not?"
Lazslo told him where the car was parked, handed him the keys and ten exotic fifty dollar bills. "Everglades," he said. "Make sure it fucking disappears."
Fred pocketed the money and then just stood there, his elbow on the dented metal partition.
"So what're you waiting for?" said Lazslo.
Shyly, Fred nodded toward the urinal. "Ya don't mind," he said, "I gotta take a leak."
Chapter 14
"Fred," said Pineapple, "I'm not so sure this is a good idea." They were cruising past the incongruities of Houseboat Row—the gangways festooned with flower boxes, gingerbread trim carved in the shapes of anchors and compass roses. Fred had stopped off at the hot dog to pick up his roommate; he couldn't resist showing off the doomed car. Together, they'd figured out how to put the top down; Lazslo's Fleetwood was now open to the stars.
Fred drummed lightly on the steering wheel. "Not a good idea?" he said. "Why not?"
Piney didn't answer.
Fred said, "Piney, how many times in your life you get to ride in a Caddy? Lotta people, they get to do it once. They get a bigass Caddy hearse with that chrome thing like a baby carriage. Guys like us, would we even get that one fancy ride? In a pig's eye, we would."
They reached the intersection of South Roosevelt and the highway. Fred was having a splendid time savoring the car. He snuggled his butt against the cushy, low-slung seat, squinted with pleasure at the softly glowing numbers on the speedometer. He steered with one hand while the other absently fondled the curves and knobs and swellings of the dashboard.
Pineapple said, "Fred, you got a license?"
He didn't answer. He was having some second thoughts about picking Piney up. If he was only gonna be a killjoy...
"What if a cop stops us? What then, Fred?"
"Fuck 'em if 'ey can't take a joke," said the driver.
But Pineapple was not impressed and Fred tempered his bravado.
"Look, I'm not even going the speed limit," he said. He turned north, the same way he turned on his rusty bike to get to the seven-thirty shape-up on Stock Island. He wished it was morning now and the whole crew could see him roll in behind the wheel.
"The guy whose car it is," Piney chipped away. "What if he reports it stolen?"
"Why would he report it stolen?" answered Fred. "He wants it lost, not found."
"What if he changes his mind?"
Fred kept driving but his enjoyment of it was already starting to erode. After a moment he said, "Why would he tell me lose it if he wasn't pretty fucking sure?"
"This guy says sink his car and I'm supposed to follow his logic?" Piney said. "All I'm saying, I'm saying it's a little strange a guy pays you money to sink his car. I'm not sure it's such a good idea is all I'm saying."
Fred
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