Ring Game (11 page)

He blew his last three grand at the craps table. And he
never
played craps.

Then, crossing Nebraska, wondering if he had enough gas money to make it back to Minnesota, he noticed the oil light beaming at him from the dashboard.

“Not now,” he muttered, looking out at the endless fields of newly planted corn. The oil pressure gauge read zero. That couldn’t be right. He had checked the oil a thousand miles ago. The engine sounded fine. The gauge must be broken. Would that make the oil light come on? He had no idea. He kept his foot on the gas. There was a town coming up, another ten, twelve miles. He’d stop there and check the oil.

Two minutes later Crow heard a faint clattering sound. Was that the engine? It became louder, a troupe of manic tap dancers under his hood. Crow lifted his foot from the accelerator and was rewarded with a metallic squeal and the unmistakable reek of superheated metal.

Two hours later the Jag, its black exterior spattered with dead bugs and road dust, sat parked in front of Hansen’s Garage, hood up, its back end still hooked up to the tow truck. Crow stood with the garage owner and his mechanic, staring down at the engine.

“He smoked ’er,” said the mechanic in a nasal twang, avoiding Crow’s eyes. Both men wore shirts with the name
Harl
embroidered on the chest. Harl the mechanic’s baseball cap read “Go Big Red.” “Smoked ’er good.”

Crow felt a wave of despair and shame wash over him. He had abused his fine European automobile, and he was stuck in Alma, Nebraska, with fifty bucks in cash and a maxed-out VISA card.

“What will it take to get me back on the road?” he asked.

Harl the mechanic snorted.

Harl the garage owner said, “What you think? Three, four weeks?”

“Take longer’n that just to get the motor shipped out here,” the mechanic said.

Crow said, “You telling me it needs the whole engine replaced?”

The mechanic stared at the ground. “You fried both cams, mister. You run your oil out, that’s what happens.”

“I checked the oil in Vegas,” Crow said.

The mechanic shrugged, refusing to look at him. “This ain’t a lawnmower,” he said.

It took the two Harls another ten minutes to convince Crow that his car was, in fact, going nowhere.

Crow said, “Well if you can’t fix it, how about you buy it from me?”

It took a few minutes, but Crow was finally able to coax Harl the garage owner into the driver’s seat of the crippled Jag. A car salesman had once told him that was the key to making a sale. Get the guy in the car and let him imagine it’s his.

“I dunno,” said Harl, gripping the Jaguar’s pink steering wheel, looking about as comfortable as an aborigine in a tuxedo. Reaching down with one thick-fingered, grease-rimed hand, he poked the pink leather passenger seat. The Jag had once belonged to one of the Crow’s former clients, a flaky plastic surgeon who had custom ordered the pink leather upholstery.

“I dunno,” Harl repeated.

Crow said, “It’s a nice car. Worth twenty, twenty-five thousand.”

Harl the owner shook his lumpy head. “Not like this it ain’t.”

“So figure it with a new engine. Cost maybe, what? Four thousand?”

“More like eight,” said Harl the mechanic.

Crow said, “Okay then, eight. So it’s worth, worst case, it’s worth twelve.”

Harl the owner stared at the pink leather knob on the shifter, moved his hand, pulled back before touching it. “Not in Alma it ain’t.”

“So you tow it into Lincoln. Sell it to a dealer.”

“Prob’ly have to take ’er all the way to Omaha.”

“So you take it to Omaha.”

“Long friggin’ drive, that.”

“Look, I’m not trying to come out on this. I just want to get into something that runs. I’ve got to get back to Minneapolis.” In reality, there was nothing waiting for him in Minneapolis. He just wanted to get the hell out of Alma.

“Can’t say I blame ya.”

“You’re in the car business. I’m offering you a chance to make a few bucks.”

“I dunno. You want twelve? I don’t got that kind of money.”

“So make me an offer.”

Harl the owner shook his head, opened the car door. He stood and hiked up his jeans, recovering his confidence now that he was free of the Jaguar’s hot pink grasp.

“No sir,” he said. “I don’t believe that I want to own this vehicle today.”

Crow sighed. He felt the weight of the Jaguar on his soul, dragging him down and holding him on the bottom like a three thousand-pound pink leather anchor. He said, “Look, suppose I was to sell it to you for a hundred dollars? Would you buy it for a hundred?”

“Shee-it, I’d buy ’er for a hunnert,” said the mechanic, suddenly interested.

Harl the owner gave his mechanic a disgusted look. “Since when’d you have a hundred bucks, Gunner?”

“I could get it.”

Harl, of whom there was apparently only one, shook his head and said to Crow, “You sayin’ you’re gonna sell me this for a hundred bucks?”

Crow shook his head. “I’m just making a point.”

Harl waited for more.

“I’m saying,” Crow said, “I want you to buy this car off me. You’ve got me over a barrel here. I’m not going anywhere. We just have to find a price we can both agree on.

Harl pushed out his lips, then gave his head a quick shake. “Mister, I’m going to tell you something straight out. I don’t need another broken-down car, especially a foreign one, especially one with pink insides. I don’t have the kind of money you want.”

“I can get a hunnert, Dave,” the mechanic said.

The owner, whose name was now Dave, said, “He ain’t gonna sell it for a hundred bucks, Gunner, so just shut your yap.”

Crow said, “Maybe you’ve got something to trade.”

For the first time, Dave showed a spark of interest. He said to Gunner, “Smitty still trying to sell off his Judge?”

“Last I heard.”

Dave said to Crow, “You wait right here, Mister.” He went into his cluttered office.

Gunner said, looking at the Jag’s ruined engine, “I do believe she’d take a Chevy short block.”

Crow tightened his lips and looked away. He had mixed feelings about the Jag, but replacing its twelve-cylinder powerplant with an outdated Chevrolet V-8 bordered on sacrilege, like pouring ketchup on foie gras. He walked away from Gunner and the Jag, stood at the side of the road and looked west, thinking again about Las Vegas, about the last hand he’d played, going on a hunch, going all-in, eight thousand four hundred dollars on a lousy pair of jacks. Why had he done that? Crow thought he knew why, but he didn’t like to think it out loud.

It was the same impulse that caused young boys to leap from high places. The same urge felt by skydivers and war heroes: the thrill of stepping into the unknown; flouting the odds; wallowing in the brief heady moment of “I don’t give a damn.” Even as he now regretted betting those jacks, he felt himself careening toward another such decision. He was going to let these Cornhuskers have his Jag. He was going to take whatever they offered, because he wanted to get into something that rolled, and he wanted it now, and he didn’t give a damn.

He heard a rumble and screech. A bright yellow, three-decade-old Pontiac GTO pulled up to the gas pumps. The decal on the rear quarter panel read, “The Judge.”

For as long as Planet Earth shall spin through Space and Time, until the Eternity of Love shall shrivel on the Vine of Life, so Everafter shall our Endless Love shine upon this Universe.

—Wedding vows of Gerald Roman and Sophie Stevens, 1975

W
ITH THE RIGHT STICK
or the right carrot, it was possible to turn an Asshole into a Player. Hyatt had seen it happen many times. Businessmen and politicians and cops were particularly easy. What was more difficult, though not impossible, was to turn an Asshole into a Sucker. This was the challenge he faced now, sitting in Perkins over a poorly made vegie omelet, looking into Sophie Roman’s harsh blue eyes.

The luncheon with Sophie had been Hyatt’s idea. “I just want to get to know my future mother-in-law,” he’d told her. Sophie had accepted his invitation with an ungraceful, “I suppose.” Hyatt had suggested Cafe Brenda, an upscale downtown restaurant with a good selection of vegetarian entrees. Sophie had countered with, “How about if I just meet you at the Perkins?”

They’d spent the first half hour at Perkins eating and discussing the wedding. Sophie had not been impressed by Reverend Buck.

“I don’t know,” Sophie said. “He seemed kind of strange; laughing all the time. Why did he laugh when he shook my hand? I spent the whole meeting wondering if I had something stuck in my teeth. Besides, we’re Catholic. I don’t know if I like the idea of Carmen being married to a Quaker by a Lutheran.”

Hyatt had told Sophie he was a Quaker. He’d met a Quaker once.

“The Reverend’s a marriage specialist,” Hyatt said. “Besides, Lutherans and Catholics and Quakers are pretty much the same these days. A lot of Catholics are marrying Quakers, you know. In fact, the Reverend was telling us that in Europe they go to each other’s churches.” Hyatt didn’t know whether there were any Quakers in Europe, but he knew that Sophie was impressed by anything European. “Whichever one is closer, that’s where they go. Methodists and Lutherans, too. It’s all about creating harmony, and getting people together, you know.” Hyatt had no idea what he was talking about, but he kept talking, watching Sophie, waiting for her eyes to glaze over. “The basic ceremony is the same, no matter what the religion is, and since a lot of people get married outside in parks and like that, it doesn’t matter anymore where you get married, either.”

“I don’t see why they don’t have Jesus Christ at that church,” Sophie interrupted. “How come it’s ‘Christ-Free’?”

Hyatt had wondered that, too. He had asked Buck Manelli about it, Buck had laughed. “
Ha ha ha ha ha
! Jesus, Hy, it’s not like ‘sugar-free.’”

That had confused Hy.

Buck had explained. “It’s not like, ‘Christ-Free,’ as in free of Christ. It’s like the
Christ
… Free-Lutheran-Church. Get it?”

Hyatt got it, but when he opened his mouth to explain to Sophie, he once again became confused. “It’s just a name,” he said. “They have as much Jesus Christ as any other religion. They have pictures of him on the walls. Did you see the pictures?” He was giving it everything he had, but Sophie, picking at her chicken salad, remained distant and cool.

Hyatt decided to change direction. “How are you doing on finding a place?”

“Fine. We found an American Legion hall that’s pretty nice. Axel wants to take a look at it, but I think it’ll be fine. I still don’t see why you two don’t want to get married in a church.”

“It’s because of the Catholic-Quaker thing,” Hyatt said, once again plunging into the murk. “According to the Vatican, a union between a Catholic and a non-Catholic can be recognized by the church if it’s sanctioned by the state, but not performed on consecrated ground. Remember when they started letting you eat meat on Fridays? That whole deal, with all the new rules, this was part of it. It’s okay for Catholics to marry Quakers, but only if it’s not in a church, and that’s not me talking, it’s the pope.”

Sophie’s eyes finally glazed.

Hyatt said, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

Sophie blinked. “I just don’t know if you’re right for my daughter.”

“I can understand that. I’m a few years older than Carmen, and you don’t know me. I’m not a doctor or a lawyer. I understand that you want better for your daughter.”

Sophie lit one of her long brown cigarettes. That was good, Hyatt thought. She wasn’t talking back at him, putting all her energy into forming her own thoughts. She was listening.

Hyatt said, “I won’t lie to you. I’m no altar boy. But I’ve never asked a girl to marry me before. Carmen is special.”

“She’s no altar girl herself,” Sophie said dryly.

Hyatt allowed himself a smile, holding his breath to force a blush onto his face. He said, “I know she’s had her problems. She told me all about that guy she was with before. Marriage will change all that. It’ll be a new life for both of us.”

Sophie flicked an ash onto the remains of her chicken salad. “You think so? I got married, that’s when my problems really started to kick in.”

Hyatt spread his hands, palms forward, and bowed his head, accepting the validity of her experience. Sophie continued. “Gerry had a good job at LeJeune Steel when I married him. He had a seventy-three Buick Electra, and he looked like Robert Redford’s baby brother.” Sophie squinted at Hyatt and frowned. “He was a big guy, about your size. Treated me like a princess. Two weeks after the wedding, I found out I was pregnant. You know what he did when I told him we were going to have a baby?”

Hyatt shook his head.

“He hit me.” She touched her left cheek. “Here.”

Hyatt held his breath again, clamping his jaw, closing his throat, and contracting his abdomen to produce a look of suppressed rage.

“When I was three months pregnant, he got fired from LeJeune and never worked another day as long as I knew him. We stayed married three years,” Sophie said. “The worst three years of my life.” She stabbed out her cigarette on a lettuce leaf.

Hyatt said nothing. He was still holding his breath.

Sophie said, looking at Hyatt’s red face, “It was a long time ago.” She let a hand flutter into the air, releasing him from his silent fury.

Hyatt let his breath out slowly, let his shoulders drop down. “I don’t hate anybody,” he said, “except a wife-beater.”

“He came back a few years later, and we gave it another try, but it was the same story all over again. He hit me, and I stuck him with a paring knife. Stuck it right in his cheekbone.”

“Jesus!”

“The funny thing was, I missed him when he left. Both times. But only for a few months. A man—even a terrible man—can make a woman need him. Even when he’s the last thing she needs.”

Hyatt nodded, not entirely sure where this was going.

“What do you think Carmen needs?” she asked.

Hyatt hesitated, letting the question hang tantalizingly before him. He believed he knew the correct answer, the answer that would make her happy. Carmen needed what Sophie craved for herself. It wasn’t romance, or excitement, or intellectual stimulation, or children, or fame. Sophie was fifty years old, unmarried, and living in a mobile home. She wanted one thing above all others.