The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

down.
    “Stay there till the ambulance comes,” he said.
    “You called an ambulance?” the first cop asked.
    “No.”
    They stood for a few beats listening to the distant sound of music, waiting to see who would go back to the car and call for an ambulance.
    “I don’t need an ambulance,” I said finally, getting up. “Ambulances take you to hospitals and send you bills. Nothing’s broken.” I felt my body. Nothing seemed to be broken.
    “Suit yourself,” the first cop said with a shrug. “You’re going to have to get your car off the street and I’m going to have to give you a ticket.”
    “A ticket?”
    “Reckless driving, suspicion of driving under the influence of alcohol, disruption of a public thoroughfare,” he ticked off, as I staggered to my lump of a car. The radio was playing and Dinah Shore was singing and the sun was shining.
    “Thanks,” I said as I lurched forward.
    “We won’t arrest you this time,” cop one said.
    “I appreciate that,” I said appreciatively.
    The cop with glasses caught up with me and handed me the ticket, saying, “You better get this wreck off the street in half an hour. We’ll be back to check.”
    “God bless you, Officer,” I said.
    I didn’t watch them get in the car and drive off. I tucked the ticket into the same pocket as the $50 bills, shook my head, which failed to make things any clearer, and looked around for a telephone. There was none. I had to walk four blocks to something approaching civilization and found a phone in a Thrifty drugstore and called No-Neck Arnie, who grunted in response to my sad tale and said he’d be right there.
    Twenty minutes later he drove up in his truck and found me sitting listening to the music slowly fade out as my car battery died. No-Neck climbed out of the truck, spat in the street, wiped his hammy hands on his greasy overalls and walked over to where I leaned against what had once been my hood.
    “It’s a total wreck,” he said, hands on hips.
    “You’re kidding,” I said.
    “Just look at it,” he said, pointing to the wreck to prove his point. “I ask you.”
    “A total wreck,” I agreed.
    A car or two negotiated past us as we negotiated, but I was feeling hot and still a little dizzy. My seersucker suit was dirty, which was no great problem. It had been dirty before the encounter with the Chrysler.
    “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Peters,” No-Neck said, looking for a cigar stub in his pocket and finding none. “I’ll take this in trade, give you thirty bucks for it, and charge you only fifteen to tow it away.”
    “You’ll give me fifteen dollars,” I said, employing my lightning-fast mathematical brain.
    “And,” he said, still circling the car, “I’ll let you apply the insurance to a payment on one of the cars I’ve got back at the garage.”
    “I’m not insured,” I said.
    “Tough.”
    “I’ve got four hundred dollars,” I added, showing him the wad of fifties and the ticket.
    Arnie’s eyes went from sandpaper brown to shiny amber.
    “I’ve got a yellow ’41 Crosley,” he said, wiping his hands again on his overalls in anticipation of touching the cash.
    “I don’t think a indent-size human can fit into a Crosley,” I said.
    “Are you kidding? There’s plenty of room. What do you want for four hundred dollars? A new car. You can’t get new cars unless you’re a doctor or a nurse.”
    That wasn’t quite true. I knew it and Arnie knew it. Ministers and people in certain civil services could buy new cars, in addition to all persons directly or indirectly employed in the prosecution of the war, including factory workers, miners, farmers, and lumberjacks. What Arnie meant was that I was one of the few people in Los Angeles who couldn’t buy a new car even if I could afford one.
    “Crosley’s a good car,” he whispered confidentially, though there was no one within five blocks. “Four-cylinder cobra engine made out of brazed copper and sheet steel, weighs about