Blacktop Wasteland(31)

Beauregard sat in the chair Howard had just vacated. “I need a favor,” he said.

“I haven’t heard anything about any jobs yet,” Boonie said.

Beauregard shook his head. “I need a car. I can’t pay you up front, but I’ll get you on the back end. Doesn’t matter what condition the body is in, but the frame gotta be tight,” he said.

Boonie leaned back in his chair. It wailed under his weight. “You got a line on something?” he asked.

Beauregard crossed his legs at the ankles. “Something like that,” he said. He could feel tremors coming up from the floor as a dually drove by the window. Boonie rocked back and forth in the chair. It cried out for mercy.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Ronnie Sessions, would it?” Boonie said. Beauregard held his face in check, but the shock registered in his hands. He squeezed them into fists so tight his knuckles popped. They sounded like pieces of glass thrown against a brick wall.

“Why you say that? Did he tell you that?” Beauregard said. His words came out in a slow monotone.

“Nah. But he came in here this morning talking a mile a minute with five rolls of copper that I know he fucking stole and five bags of mulch that I also know he stole, but I can’t figure out why. I gave him four for the rolls. They were worth five, but I don’t like that boy. He like to play dumb, but he as slick as two eels in a bucketful of snot. He told Samuel he had a job in the works and needed some money for tools. Told him it was a rocking chair job. He wouldn’t never have to work again. And now you asking about a car,” Boonie said.

He let the statement hang in the air between them. Beauregard didn’t say anything. He kept his face placid.

“Well, shit. Just promise me you gonna be careful. Let’s go out back. I think I got something for you,” Boonie said.

They wandered through the maze-like back lot of Red Hill Metals. Dozens upon dozens of junk cars littered the landscape like the dead husks of some great forgotten creatures. The smell of stagnant rainwater mixed with oil and gas and grease filled the air. Dust devils chased at their feet as they crunched across the gravel. Finally, they came to a dark blue two-door sedan.

“Just got this the other day from Sean Tuttle’s old house. ’87 Buick Regal GNX. The motor’s shot but I don’t guess that gonna bother you much. The bones on this ol’ boy are rock solid. Transmission was still good too. Sean didn’t see himself doing anything with it, so we picked it up. I was gonna start selling parts off it, but I can let you have it for a grand.”

Beauregard peered through the driver’s window. The interior was torn and busted in multiple places. The headliner was drooping like a stroke victim’s cheek. The front bumper had a hole in it the size of an offensive lineman’s fist. Pockets of rust covered the hood like some oxidizing eczema. The side mirrors were barely holding on. A good stiff wind would send them flying. It saddened him to see a car in such a state of disrepair. It made his skin crawl to see a car deteriorate like this. There was a part of him that wanted to fix up every junked broke-down rambling wreck he saw. Kia told him he felt about cars the way most people felt about puppies.

“Can you bring it by the shop tomorrow?” Beauregard asked.

“Yeah, I can. Probably shouldn’t, though. I know you pressed up against it, Bug, but I don’t trust that boy. He so crooked they gonna have to screw him into the ground when he dies,” Boonie said.

Beauregard knew Boonie meant well. He knew the old man cared. But Boonie had options. Beauregard didn’t. “I’ll get you straight after it’s all done,” he said.

“I know that. Just make sure you straight after it’s done. And if that cracker come at you sideways, get at me and we’ll make sure he meets Chompy Number One up close and personal like,” Boonie said.

He better not come at me sideways, Beauregard thought.

“You know I used to drive too. Got hung up one time, almost didn’t get away. Your Daddy said something to me that made me stop driving. Get into the other side of things.”

Beauregard wiped his hands on his pants.

“What was that?”

“He told me that I had a wife who loved me. I had the yard. He said, ‘Boonie, a man gotta be one thing or another. You either gonna run the yard or you gonna be running in the streets. Man can’t be two types of beasts,’” Boonie said.

“Too bad he didn’t take his own advice.”

“Didn’t he, though? Ant wasn’t a mechanic who drove. He was a driver who sometimes worked as a mechanic. Love him or hate him, he knew who he was,” Boonie said.

“You think I don’t know who I am?”

“I think you know. You just don’t like it,” Boonie said.



* * *



He left the scrap yard and headed for his sister-in-law’s place to pick up the boys. As Beauregard pulled into Jean’s driveway, he wondered, not for the first time, how a single mom could afford such a nice house on a hairdresser’s salary. He parked the truck but before he could get to the door of the two-story brick Colonial Darren was already running out the door.

“Daddy, look, Javon made me a tattoo!” Darren said. He rolled up the sleeve of his Captain America T-shirt to show Beauregard the drawing of Wolverine on his arm.

“It’s just magic marker. It’s not permanent,” Javon said. He was walking out behind Darren.