for only thirty-one cents. My right rear skipped over the sidewalk, bounced off a brick wall, and made an old guy wearing a beret do a hell of a ballet leap to keep from getting killed. I heard a hubcap clatter down the street and felt my stomach being kissed and mugged by the steering wheel. The Chrysler was in front of me now. There were two figures, big ones, in the front seat. One, the passenger, looked back at me to see if I was hurt. I wasn’t, at least not enough to suit him.
As I bounced forward trying to control my Ford, the Chrysler stopped and began to back up toward me, the passenger guiding the driver.
The Basque ballet dancer I had almost hit was charging at me. I could see him in my now cracked rearview mirror. He was shouting and twirling a bony fist. I hit the gas, hoping my hopping tires would grasp the street and send me out of the path of the oncoming Chrysler, but the Ford had had enough. The radio went on about Prem. The Basque cursed and hit what was left of my right fender and the Chrysler plowed into me, crushing the passenger side of the car.
My left shoulder and head hit the door, which popped open. The Ford spat me out into the street like a bitter peach pit. I rolled over two or three times and lay on my back, looking up at the sun. It was too bright. I closed my eyes and heard what must have been the dancing Basque shout, “Craziness. Craziness. Crazies all over the streets.”
Something was grinding inside my head or near it. I opened my eyes and saw what was left of my car moving sideways toward me, the door open like a mouth ready to scoop me up and digest me. The damned radio was still playing and Lorenzo was sighing as he and my Ford, urged on by the Chrysler beyond, skidded toward me.
I rolled, tried to get up, crawled a few feet, wondering where the hell the people of Los Angeles were when I needed them, and fell on my face. I kissed the curb and prayed to Pearl Buck, sure I had ingested my last taco. Then the grinding stopped.
A car door opened and I turned my head to see a square head looking over the top of my wreck. It was the Chrysler passenger. He came around one side of my former Ford while his partner came around the other.
They were slightly-off bookends, barrel-chested, wearing identical yellow Hawaiian shirts with pineapples on them. The driver was humming something. I couldn’t tell what it was till he came around the car. It was a passable version of “Love in Bloom.” The passenger, slightly bigger, wasn’t humming at all. He did grunt a little when he pushed aside the Basque, who tried to stop him.
“There’s an injustice here,” the old man shouted. “What, do you think you own the streets, you cossacks?”
I managed to make it to a sitting position on the curb, though I knew my stomach would have preferred I stay in the gutter. I didn’t know what the two fugitives from a demolition derby had in mind.
My .38 was indently in the glove compartment of the piece of modern sculpture that had recently been my car. I didn’t know where the .38 was now. I’ve never had particularly good luck with the gun. Sunday’s soiree had been one in a long series of firearms fiascos over the past few years. Just the same, I would have felt better having it to wave at the oncoming pineapples.
A car came down the street, saw the mess, swerved just in time to miss the party, and sent the Basque leaping again. This time the old guy finally got the point, decided to leave the battle zone, and hurried down the street shouting about the madness of civilization.
“Peters?” the bigger pineapple said.
“No,” I said. “You’ve got the wrong guy. My name is Ross, Barney Ross.”
“Barney Ross is a fighter,” said the second pineapple.
“It’s Peters,” the big pineapple confirmed. He reached into his pocket and I tried to get to my feet for a gallant lunge before he could shoot me. My legs had been through this kind of thing too many times. They just wouldn’t
As I bounced forward trying to control my Ford, the Chrysler stopped and began to back up toward me, the passenger guiding the driver.
The Basque ballet dancer I had almost hit was charging at me. I could see him in my now cracked rearview mirror. He was shouting and twirling a bony fist. I hit the gas, hoping my hopping tires would grasp the street and send me out of the path of the oncoming Chrysler, but the Ford had had enough. The radio went on about Prem. The Basque cursed and hit what was left of my right fender and the Chrysler plowed into me, crushing the passenger side of the car.
My left shoulder and head hit the door, which popped open. The Ford spat me out into the street like a bitter peach pit. I rolled over two or three times and lay on my back, looking up at the sun. It was too bright. I closed my eyes and heard what must have been the dancing Basque shout, “Craziness. Craziness. Crazies all over the streets.”
Something was grinding inside my head or near it. I opened my eyes and saw what was left of my car moving sideways toward me, the door open like a mouth ready to scoop me up and digest me. The damned radio was still playing and Lorenzo was sighing as he and my Ford, urged on by the Chrysler beyond, skidded toward me.
I rolled, tried to get up, crawled a few feet, wondering where the hell the people of Los Angeles were when I needed them, and fell on my face. I kissed the curb and prayed to Pearl Buck, sure I had ingested my last taco. Then the grinding stopped.
A car door opened and I turned my head to see a square head looking over the top of my wreck. It was the Chrysler passenger. He came around one side of my former Ford while his partner came around the other.
They were slightly-off bookends, barrel-chested, wearing identical yellow Hawaiian shirts with pineapples on them. The driver was humming something. I couldn’t tell what it was till he came around the car. It was a passable version of “Love in Bloom.” The passenger, slightly bigger, wasn’t humming at all. He did grunt a little when he pushed aside the Basque, who tried to stop him.
“There’s an injustice here,” the old man shouted. “What, do you think you own the streets, you cossacks?”
I managed to make it to a sitting position on the curb, though I knew my stomach would have preferred I stay in the gutter. I didn’t know what the two fugitives from a demolition derby had in mind.
My .38 was indently in the glove compartment of the piece of modern sculpture that had recently been my car. I didn’t know where the .38 was now. I’ve never had particularly good luck with the gun. Sunday’s soiree had been one in a long series of firearms fiascos over the past few years. Just the same, I would have felt better having it to wave at the oncoming pineapples.
A car came down the street, saw the mess, swerved just in time to miss the party, and sent the Basque leaping again. This time the old guy finally got the point, decided to leave the battle zone, and hurried down the street shouting about the madness of civilization.
“Peters?” the bigger pineapple said.
“No,” I said. “You’ve got the wrong guy. My name is Ross, Barney Ross.”
“Barney Ross is a fighter,” said the second pineapple.
“It’s Peters,” the big pineapple confirmed. He reached into his pocket and I tried to get to my feet for a gallant lunge before he could shoot me. My legs had been through this kind of thing too many times. They just wouldn’t
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