Albuquerque in front of an expensive home in an upscale
neighborhood on the slopes of the Sandias
The rush of adrenaline
kept Bill gloriously pumped whenever he stole a car, like a line of coke that heightened his perceptions, made him think faster, made him smarter. His hands remained rock-steady though, going about their deft manipulations as if he were a gigolo paid to make
love to a beautiful woman. He smiled as the engine came to life,
smooth and clean the way only a new engine can, tuned right to
factory specs. He took great pleasure in doing things well, and
he had honed boosting cars to a fine art. The little Jag,
still with dealer’s plates, had made his mouth water as soon as he
had spotted it, bright red with sweet, tight lines and a certain purr
to it that couldn’t be matched by any other machine.
He had
finessed the expensive alarm system without the slightest hitch and
lovingly coaxed the sassy little car to life with hardly any effort
and only minimal damage. He savored that sweet new-car smell, caressed the leather seats, kneaded the thick
carpet. The smell told him this baby was a virgin -- had never even
been smoked in. Engine running, he gave her a few little kicks on
the accelerator with his foot on the clutch just to hear her moan.
Life was good, and he lit the car’s first cigarette and smiled some
more. He took his time on a deep, satisfying drag when anyone else
would have been a bundle of nerves and wanted to scoot like a lizard
under a rock. Boosting a car always made him feel like he owned the
world, gave him a hard-on just like sex, especially in broad daylight
like this. He’d learned to savor that feeling, milk it for all it
was worth.
He exhaled casually, then stroked
her into reverse, squealed her tires a little as he withdrew from the
circular drive and away from the BMW, the Jag responding to his
expert touch and obeying his every wish. Then he smoked her tires
big-time once he hit first gear, laying rubber for fully ten yards in
the street in front of the fancy house. It was Bill’s way of
saying, “Hey, I just stole your fucking car, stupid!”
He knew he would be hours away before this fool knew his car was
even gone. This would show that little prick, Vic or Victor or
whatever. This would show that little runt who he was dealing with,
who he was supposed to be “training”. Hell, Bill knew more about
boosting cars than anyone -- including the guys in the joint. Who
was it they always came to for info on boosting cars? Bill, that’s
who, because he had a way with cars. Cars loved ole Bill.
Seven blocks through
the mid-day heat over hot Albuquerque streets took no time in his new
little babe, and there was Vic the prick standing on the corner in
front of Big Jim’s Family Dining, standing there like a hall
monitor waiting for little Billy to return to class from the
bathroom. Serve him right if ole Bill just slid right on past him
without even waving goodbye, but Bill didn’t know where they were
supposed to go. Vic the prick knew he had to keep ole Bill in the
dark, or he’d take over this Mickey-Mouse operation and leave Vic
standing on the street corner like a cheap date. Just look at that
fool with his cowboy hat and fancy boots, thumbs hung in belt loops
of his jeans that he had pressed in the laundry all nice and crisp
with a pretty crease, big silver belt buckle with a chunk of
turquoise on it. Typical Albuquerque cowboy queer. Probably wore
ruffled underwear, too.
He brought the car to a quick stop
right in front of Vic and buzzed down the passenger-side window with a satisfying whine, leaned down to look Vic in the eye
and grinned. “What do you think, Vic?” But he knew what Vic
would think. Damn quick to boost some fine wheels with an alarm
system like that. That’s what Vic would think. Vic would think
gee this Bill is no fool, know’s what he’s doing, might even
teach me a thing or two. That’s what Vic would be thinking about
now. He took a drag on the smoke, savoring the moment. It was like
walking into a fine restaurant with a beautiful young girl on his
arm, and he loved performing this little dance, loved being admired
for his way with beautiful cars.
“It’s Victor,” said Victor,
ignoring Bill’s question, no humor at all, just looking at the car.
“Get out,” he said. “I’ll drive.” He came off the curb
toward the driver’s door.
“Hell, no,” said Bill, buzzing
down the driver’s-side window. “I picked her up; I’ll drive
her, Vic.” He grinned again, knowing he had the upper hand, and he
was IN the driver’s seat where he belonged. Vic was standing
outside the driver’s door.
“Victor,” he said again. “It’s
Victor, not Vic.” He paused, kept standing there waiting for Bill
to get out, waiting for something that he just didn’t seem to
understand wasn’t going to happen. “No, man. Just get in, I’m
driving,” said Bill. He exhaled a double lungful of smoke out the
open window toward Vic, not on him, just kind of in his general
direction. No sense in insulting the man unless he got really
cheesy.
But before he could take another
drag on the smoke, the driver’s door was open, and Bill was coming
out of the car through no will of his own. Must have just caught
Bill off-guard, pulled him clear out of the car by the shirt collar,
by the arm, and Bill was getting mad. Bill was going to have to
squash this little bug and show him who was who. And then Bill felt
the pain in his side, in his back, and he was madder now, was going
to smack this runt into next week, but he was falling. That little
prick had sucker-punched him somehow, and he had never even seen it
coming. He was going down on his knees, because of the pain, and he
couldn’t breathe, and it hurt so bad he was getting dizzy. He was
so mad that he was afraid he might kill this little prick -- he’d
have to be careful not to hit him too hard. He just had to get his
breath, but he was on the pavement and couldn’t get up, and he
couldn’t breathe, and it hurt so bad, and he was going to black out
like a kid after a cheap cigar.
Bill was
sprawled out on his belly in the gutter between cars, the heat from
the pavement actually burning his skin and the cute little Jag staring
down at him. He tried to get up, but the pain in his back and the
dizziness kept him down. His throat burned with the taste of vomit,
and he felt like he might have pissed his pants, but he knew he
couldn’t have been that out of it. He was staring at Vic’s
shiny-clean boots on the hot pavement right in front of his face, and
he was hurting. He was hurting like something was broken inside,
something broken that couldn’t be fixed. It hurt that bad, maybe
not bones, but his spleen, or liver, or gall bladder, or something;
Bill didn’t know exactly, but it hurt that bad. He could still
hardly breathe, every breath in a gasp against the pain that
came with it. Every breath out made his eyes close against the sharp
knife of pain in his back and between his ribs. Jesus it hurt!
Every breath stung his nostrils with the hot, acrid stench of the
street and the gutter, a smell of dirt, motor oil, exhaust fumes,
tire rubber, and filth, like the dumpster behind a tire store and a
burger doodle, all at a hundred and twenty degrees in the sunshine.
And there was the smell of something dead, too; yet every
excruciating gasp of breath was precious to him.
“Just lie there,” said Victor.
“You’re not hurt, so just get your wits and listen.” Vic stood over him as he looked up at the man,
no expression on Vic’s face at all. He had one of those faces that
could have been thirty or sixty; Bill couldn’t tell how old. And
he could have been kicking his dog or kissing his daughter on the
forehead, you couldn’t tell from his expression.
“Don’t call me anything but
Victor when you have to call me anything, and don’t ever question
what I tell you. Just do what I say, and I won’t have to do that
to you again. Your specialty might be stealing cars, but mine is
internal injuries. That’s one thing you’re going to remember
real well after today. You’re not hurt, so get up and get in the
car. End of lesson one.” Victor placed his attache' behind the drivers seat, then folded himself in, adjusted the mirrors, and closed the door with a
tidy thump. Then Bill heard the emergency brake release and knew he’d
better get up. He forced himself to his feet, trying his best to
ignore the pain, determined to keep from showing Victor how badly he
hurt, and failing miserably. The stabbing pain in his back and his
side was almost more than he could bear, and he fought simply to
remain standing, to collapse into the car seat where he could quietly
pass out again.
Albuquerque had faded to a dim memory by
the time he awoke, but the pain hadn’t. “Pull over, man. I’m
gonna puke,” he said to Victor weakly. Victor obliged, whipping
the little car over onto the shoulder quickly from highway speed.
Bill barely opened the door and struggled not to fall out on the
dusty ground. The heat hit him like a sack of hot rocks, and after
retching, he was relieved to notice that the sun was beginning to set
over the mountains to the west, beyond what he recognized as White
Sands. An endless sea of yucca shimmered in the lasting heat of the
desert, and a dusty haze lay over the landscape. At least it would
be cooling off soon.
“Get over it,” said Victor,
shifting into first again, spotless cowboy boots on the clutch and
gas. “I want to dump this car in El Paso, and I want to do it
before dark.” By the time the car door was closed, the car was
spinning twin rooster tails of white, powdery dust from the rear
wheels. Bill reclined the leather seat and closed his eyes again.
“Then I want you to get us another
car, one that doesn’t announce itself so flagrantly,” Victor
said. “I want a nondescript sedan, something with four doors,
maybe a couple of years old. Not too clean. Maybe a Taurus or a
Volvo. Grays and browns are good. Something to make us invisible.”
He looked over at Bill, who had sought refuge from the pain in sleep
once again.
El Paso looked to Bill like an
endless expanse of military-like housing, small houses on tiny lots
with no trees anywhere, some cactus and weeds, but many yards without
vegetation of any kind, just gravel or painted concrete. Some made
no pretense of a yard and just made the whole lot into driveway. As
they drove, he guessed they were heading to the seedier parts of
town, cars up on blocks, the occasional refrigerator on the front
lawn, proud testament that the family provider was prosperous enough
to afford a new one, dirty little kids playing in the streets that
became increasingly just graded dirt roads off the main
thoroughfares, dust everywhere so thick it stuck to the car, to the
windows. Bill wondered if it ever rained out here, and he looked out
to the west at the blue/purple mountain range overlooking the city,
naked, seemingly without vegetation anywhere.
Victor pulled into a Fina station,
stopped the car, and opened his door. The heat was unbearable still,
as it sucked out all the cool air generated by the car’s air
conditioner; and it made Bill’s pain worse to be so hot and
smelling gasoline fumes. “Okay, time to do your thing, Bill. I’m
going to buy some gas and use the head. Pick me up two blocks east
of here on the corner in exactly ten minutes. And make it the right
car this time.” He got out of the car and began the process of
fueling the ZX, like he wasn’t going to just leave her there. In
this neighborhood, the beautiful car would disappear an hour after
they left her. It would end up in Juarez, maybe in a million pieces
by morning.
Bill was hurting. His image was as
pale as the Pillsbury Doughboy staring at him from the side mirror,
and his breath was coming in short gasps to minimize the pain. But
he wasn’t going to give Victor the satisfaction of getting the best
of him. He climbed laboriously out the car and limped to the men’s
room, where he discovered he was pissing blood. That couldn’t be a
good sign. It was all he could do to keep from fainting right there
in the filth of the men’s room; but he would die before he did
that. He left without flushing, wanted Victor to see what he’d
done to his kidney, or whatever it was that was leaking blood.
Leaving the men’ room, he was pleasantly surprised by the fact that
though the sun was barely out of sight, the air was beginning to cool
off. He felt a bit stronger and began looking for the “right car”.
He spied a convenience store half a
block away, and he headed for it at what seemed like a snail’s
pace. He could get a sixpack and check out the parking lot. It
looked like a good place to get a car quickly. He looked around, and
Victor was gone. He wasn’t at the ZX, not in the station, not
headed for the men’s room, not walking away anywhere that he could
see. Victor was just gone. Gas nozzle was still sticking out of the
little red ZX, like he was going to be right back. It made Bill sad
somehow and glad at the same time. He was beginning to get that rush
again that comes with boosting a car, though, and that took his mind
off both the sadness and the pain in his back.
The Caprice was just ugly enough to
satisfy Victor, all rounded and huge on the outside, but a good
engine with plenty of go and a smooth ride for the road and a big
back seat where he could lie down for a while. It was a good choice
that should make even Victor happy.
He had to stand in line behind three
Mexican construction workers just getting off the job and buying
beer, just like him. They bought singles, and the cashier put them
into little paper bags, so they could drink them on the road in their
dilapidated pickup. He finally paid for his sixpack to a girl that
couldn’t have been fifteen years old and he wasn’t sure knew any
English. The construction workers kept flirting with her, teasing
her in Spanish, saying all kinds of things for which he could only
imagine the meanings. They laughed and hooted, and she said nothing,
but smiled and blushed a little. She was a pretty girl, and he
thought about her tight little body, thought about taking her along
with him and Victor in the Caprice, because he already had a hard-on
from thinking about boosting the Caprice. It wasn’t as sexy as the
ZX, but this little girl would have made up for that. But he knew
that was out of the question -- too many people, too much attention,
and then there was Victor. The pain was better, but he wanted no
chance of a repeat of that sucker punch.
She ignored his stare as she rang up
his purchase and said nothing to him, so he just read what the cash
register told him and gave her a five. She made correct change,
though, so he headed outside casually, like he walked out of there
every evening. The line formed again behind him, and the
construction workers didn’t leave, but hung around to watch the
girl some more. He could have killed them all and taken the girl
before they knew who they were dealing with. They had no idea.
He walked half a block to the gray
Caprice parked in front of a little grocery store, dust covering
every inch of it, three years old, piece of cake. It wasn’t
locked, but no keys in the ignition; so he’d have to hotwire. No
problem. Hell, ole Bill could almost do that with his toes. He
opened the door and placed his beer on the front seat beside him,
casually, like he owned the car, but keeping a sharp lookout for
anybody that might take notice of him. The owner would be in the
grocery store, and he didn’t have any way of knowing when he or she
would be coming out. He had to work fast, and he knew he could do
it, had done it a thousand times before.
He had the engine started in record
time, and nobody had taken any notice. He reversed, and then drove
off to the west at a reasonable speed. No sense announcing this one.
Things were too close, and he didn’t want any trouble for Victor
to complain about. He hung a right, another, then headed to the
intersection where Victor had told him to pick him up, glancing at
his watch. He was right on time and couldn’t help but smile to
himself, but he expected no praise from Mr. Victor No Smiles. But
remembering the pain quickly doused the smile and put a damper on the
rush of stealing the Caprice. He just stopped in front of Victor to
wait and see whether he was driving or riding, and Victor got in on
the passenger’s side, closed the door.
“Take a left at the next
intersection and get on the Interstate going east. We’ll stop and
get some burgers for the road. It’s still a long drive.” He
said nothing about the car, and Bill was relieved.
Hours later on the dark and lonely
highway out of Artesia, Bill heard an electronic chirp and glanced
down at the dash, a side effect of his new-car habit; but it was
Victor’s cell phone. Victor pulled the phone out of his attache
case in the back seat and answered.
“Yeah.” It wasn’t a question,
just authorization for the other party to speak; and Bill couldn’t
hear what the other party was saying. “About fifteen minutes or
so,” he said to the anonymous party. “Right.” He disconnected
and offered no further information.
“So. . .?” Bill couldn’t
stand the suspense. Victor just looked at him with that lack of
expression, and Bill remembered the pain in his side.
“So shut up and drive,” said
Victor. When I want you to know something, I’ll tell you.” Bill
obliged without comment, but observed that Victor seemed to be
looking for a turnoff. It felt like a long time, but Victor finally
said something.
“Okay, slow down. . .there’s a dirt road off
to your right, not too far now. Take it. It’s a rough road, so
you’ll have to take it kind of slow. About three miles, you’ll
see the airstrip.”
