Well, what’s it to be? he says blandly. Fix it, junk it, or sell it? Tell the truth, I recommend junking, but I might be persuaded to buy it off you.
I don’t know.
You got to decide soon. But take your time.
I don’t like this Anton. What he’s saying is I might as well resign myself to dying today but it’s all right to wait an hour or two for the actual event.
That guy in the Caddy, Link says to Anton. Link has been standing to the side, watching us and scratching his tilted head actively as if its itch is perpetual.
You know the guy in the Caddy? Anton says.
No. Just wondered what the deal was all about. Don’t have to know if you don’t want to tell me.
Don’t mind telling you, sport. It’s business, after all. You might be a prospective client. I have converted what used to be the Ramada Inn here into the biggest brothel in the west today. You must have noticed the building as you drove in. Ramada sign’s still up. I prefer to have it that way, although—would you believe it?—there’re still people, older people, who stop by the lobby and ask for a room for the night. That really overwhelms me. You don’t see many older people willing to venture out of their comfortable enclaves in the cities. You wouldn’t think they’d take the risks of traveling our highways and expressways. I hope they survive, I really do, but I expect not. I’m not that old, but I always go out with protection. Ah, I don’t have to go out much anyway. So—if you want to use the facilities, the prices are reasonable and the girls are clean.
Well, says Link, not my style but I’ll keep it in mind case some windfalls drop my way.
You do that. (To me:) What about the Mustang then?
I'll have to see, get some money.
I can save you the trouble. I can use some of its parts at least before junking it. Say, a hundred dollars for it.
Hundred? I paid five bills for it in the first place.
You were cheated. Hundred’s as high as I can go.
No, I want to fix it, get back on the road again.
Well, how about a trade for a car in good condition. I got a reconditioned Pinto that—
Shove it! No Pintos. I wouldn’t take a Pinto if you—
Link touches my arm to calm me down. I glance down at his hand. Its skin has a purplish cast to it. Never noticed that before. I’m probably conscious of it because of Anton’s unnaturally glossy skin. Link’s got a take-it-easy look in his eyes. His eyes look purple too, maybe it’s the fluorescent lighting of this damn garage, turning Link into more of a freak than he already is.
The garage is so neat, everything on a shelf or a hook or a goddamned bright nail. I can’t really believe a mechanic actually works here. There are a few grease spots on the floor but they look like they could be wiped up with one piece of a paper towel.
I wouldn’t trade, period, I say, as calmly as possible.
Perhaps, Anton says. But you have to do something if you want your car back in any kind of drivable shape. I might have some ideas.
I remember The Mech and the special jobs he used to arrange for Cora and me, the doperuns and all. Okay, if a few runs’ll get me back my car, I'll even do them for Anton.
Okay, what? I say.
That young lady over there, he says.
What young lady over where?
He is momentarily taken aback by my confusion, but then whispers to me:
The young lady leaning against the Coke machine of course.
I come close to laughing in his face. I stopped seeing Victor as a woman some time ago, even when he was, like now, wearing his Vicki outfit. On the way here, he said the first thing he’d do after we got the car deal straightened out was deal himself some new threads—though without money I wasn’t quite sure how he could buy so much as a handkerchief.
I decide not to let Anton in on Victor’s secret. If he’s going to persist in being a transvestite, it’s up to him to tell all. I’d feel too foolish to spill those particular beans, so I say to Anton:
Oh? You mean Vicki?
Pretty name. I had an aunt named Victoria. Used to make all sorts of jokes about the Victorian age, etcetera. Your Vicki is very attractive. Even in her, well, somewhat battered condition.
Battered’s the word for it all right. Without his upper plate, Victor’s upper lip sinks in toward the gum unattractively. He’s got a ninety-year-old mouth on a twenty-five-year-old face. The encrusted dirt on his face and clothes doesn’t add to his overall appeal either. Still, there are the eyes and the finely sculptured face and what Anton undoubtedly imagines is a slim teasingly curvaceous body beneath the tom clothing. If the dress had been ripped in a couple of different places in the accident, Anton would know right away it isn’t Vicki he’s ogling. I don’t know whether to establish a complicated and dangerous con or to try to escape from the problem by changing the subject. I hate Anton so much already I’d really like to play him along for a short time. However, he seems to be the chief honcho around here and I don’t want any chief honchos infuriated at me.
One thing we should clear up, I say to Anton and Link looks ready to explode. You said your Vicki. She’s not my Vicki. She’s just a—well, just a friend.
There, that ought to get me out of any reprisals that might come from Victor’s identity becoming suddenly revealed. Link seems relieved by my answer.
Just friends, eh? Anton says. His voice sounds lascivious but the hell with it, I take a step back, pretend to examine a tire rack, as a way of trying to disengage myself from the subject.
Well, Anton says, I can suggest to you how you might obtain money for the car. A different kind of in-trade situation, as you might call it.
Victor is walking forward, toward us. He’s been listening closely to the conversation. Anton had meant to include him in on it from the first. Oh, God, he’s going to do his I’m a transvestite not a fag number. I gird myself for the worst.
Link takes a step toward Victor, makes a hand-wave that looks like W.C. Fields frustrated, but does seem to mean something to Victor.
Vicki, he says, I’d like you to meet Anton. He’s going to fix Lee’s wheels if we can come up with some cash.
Victor nods, rubs a hand across his forehead as if he can apply further beauty by some kind of magic in his fingertips.
We’re just flush out of money, Anton, Victor says, a guarded sweetness in his voice.
Yes, I heard, young lady, Anton says, brightening up at Victor’s interest. But there’s something might be done about it.
Yes?
I have never seen Victor look more provocative. Jesus God in Pittsburgh, the worst, the truest and deepest worst, I can feel it coming.
I run a little, um, establishment over at the Ramada, Anton says. A little business for the relaxation of, as you might call them, the knights of the road.
You needn’t be coy with me, Anton, says Victor. I’m quite familiar with the concept of whorehouse. Brothel. Bordello. Catshack.
Then you have some experience in them? I can pay more for—
Experience? I tell you, Anton, I was born to the breed. I know any trick that you can imagine.
She’s right there, Link chimes in. She got top prices back east.
My stomach runs through a shredding machine. This is even more dangerous than the con I was thinking of and rejected. What’s gotten into their heads? Link nods knowingly at Victor’s every word and innuendo. Victor’s voice has slowly descended the scale to sweet and husky. I’ve hooked up with a pair of lunatics. One of us’s gonna wind up dead, maybe all of us, but me for sure. There must be a way out. I can run. I can do that, I can run. I look at the car, hanging helplessly from its hook. It doesn’t appear to be fixable, but I want it fixed.
I don’t know if I can offer top prices, Anton says to Link. For a moment my mind is in a complete muddle. Is Anton talking about Vicki or the car? At least, Anton continues, not until we’ve let a couple of our boys have a run or two at her, but your Vicki’s as good as you say, young fellow, and
you might have this car repaired and paid for in less than a week. Who knows what I can get you if you stick around a while?
I think we can negotiate, Link says.
We can negotiate? I say.
Can it, Lee, Link says, then turns to Anton: Lee don’t exactly approve. A bit of a prude, you see, but he’s straight. Just give him a job that’s not tied in with the main business of your institution.
Hmmm, yeah, Anton says, I do need somebody to clean up the kitchen.
Good, Link says, he’ll take it.
I’ll take it? Damn it, Link—
Won’t hurt you for a week, Link says, and then makes a peculiar wink at me. I don’t know how to interpret a wink from that face—a body language expert would be baffled by messages from that complicated physiognomy—but I keep quiet anyway.
Anton strokes Victor’s arm. Not lasciviously—more like an inspector of prime meat, which is what he is, I suppose. Or maybe he’s exactly what he appears to be, a mechanic looking for the vehicle’s body flaws. Angling his body away from Anton’s touches, Victor is carefully keeping the man from letting his busy fingers suddenly discover any of the more revelatory areas.
All right then, Anton says, after satisfying himself that Vicki passes the initial inspection. A deal? he says.
Deal, Victor says.
Deal, Link says.
Deal? I say.
But first, Link says, you got to assure us you’ll get right to work on the car.
Done, Anton says. My boys’ll be starting it soon as you boys get out of the way. I’ll dip in and attend to the hard parts—you know, where skill is absolutely required. Looking at the state of that car, I’d say maybe more than skill will be needed. I’ll get out one of my old missals. You all go over the Ramada and ask for Maria. She’ll assign you, give you instructions, feed you. Show you the ropes.
Sure thing, Link says. We’ll go over there now.
Wait! Victor says.
Link looks at me worriedly and I can tell the same thought is going through both our heads: What’s Victor going to do to screw us up now?
What is it, young lady? Anton says. I can see by his growing familiarity with Victor, Anton’ll be looking out for a staff freebie any day now. What the hell am I thinking of? Any day now? How can Victor and Link hope to carry on this masquerade more than a day, a night, an hour, a few minutes? What is going on in their twisted minds?
I wanted to say, Victor says, I got pride in my profession and I don’t like to do things second rate.
Good, exactly the policy of my organization. Good business with the people, good business with God, that’s my motto.
The God reference stops Victor a moment, then he says:
I can see you’re a real pro all right, sir, and so am I. That’s why I can’t, um, turn any tricks until I look the part better. I’m certainly not useful to you looking like this.
Anton laughs.
I’m always amazed, he says, that—whatever social change alters her status—one thing never seems to depart from woman: vanity. Ecclesiastes had it right on target so long ago. You’ll look beautiful, young lady, believe me.
I’m grateful, but clothes aren’t my greatest worry. Clothes make the woman and the woman makes the man and all that, I agree, but in this profession good looks are a mite more vital for good business. I can’t do the job well with damaged looks.
Well, we can provide you cosmetics or—
Not just that, sir. Victor stares, quite primly, at the shiny garage floor. You see, this is embarrassing to talk about but my dear friends know anyway. You see, when we had the dreadful accident that damaged yon car—
Did Victor really say yon car? Dreadful accident? Dear friends? Things are really getting too messy. I better take off before I find a limp grey mop in my hand as defense against ten layers of dirt on that kitchen floor.
—that accident damaged, well, my teeth. My, well, upper plate fell out and it’s broken and I can’t imagine how I can face a man looking like this and I’m afraid I can’t take the job if, oh, I don’t know what to say.
Suddenly Victor goes into this convincing crying act. So convincing that I scrounge around in my pocket to see if I can find a Kleenex. Anton puts his arm around Victor’s shoulder and begins patting his back, saying dumb there, there things. Victor moves a step sideways to keep out of any possible detecting maneuvers Anton might try.
Don’t worry, young lady, Anton says. I don’t keep a dentist on staff but I'll send for one. Be out here tomorrow, next day at the latest. It’ll take him no time to fix your plate or make you a new one.
It’s so embarrassing, Victor says. He manages a shy but tight-lipped smile. He looks for a minute like an old woman who hates being on the dole.
Jesus, don’t worry, Anton says. I understand. I’ve had a full set of choppers all my adult life.
They look so real.
Here. Look.
And damned if Anton doesn’t take out his false teeth and display them for us. They are as clean and shiny as the man, his garage, and his tools. Seeing them disattached from his mouth makes me feel queasy. Even faint. Really. With no self-consciousness, he pops them back into his mouth and gestures us away. We start off up the many-colored stone path to the Ramada.
What’s this all about? I whisper to Link.
His face twists into something approximating amusement.
It’s all like an old sex farce, kind of play like Getting Gertie’s Garter or Up in Mabel’s Room, which no doubt you’ve never heard of.
Oddly enough, I have. My dad’s an actor.
(I wonder why I speak of his profession in the present tense?)
Victor and I’ve pulled this before, Link says. And it’s like one of those plays, where the good guys’ real dilemma is keeping the other guys from discovering the awful truth. We just have to put all these dudes off as long as we can, then figure something else.
Oh, great! What something else?
We’ll face that when the time comes. We’ve got more time than I’d hope for, thanks to Victor and his teeth ploy.
Damn it Link, I want those teeth, Victor says, some menace in his voice. I won’t leave until after the dentist does the job.
Time’s in our favor, Link says.
But is fate? I say.
— 2 —
I am paralyzed. It came over me, swept through my entire body, as soon as I sprawled out on this motel bed. I don’t think I could move if God came down and said, Lee, well, you done some good deeds in your time, not sensational but B-plus good, and I’m gonna let you off from this shithouse mess, but next time keep your burn clean, hear? I’d have to beg Him to just let me fall beneath a shower of martyr’s stones, I want blankness so much just now.
The room is painted all white. What with the sun glaring in the wall-to-wall window, I get shooting pains behind my eyes every time I raise a lid. As far as decor goes, there’s none of the usual motel room landscapes and scenes of pastoral simplicity adorning the white surfaces. Instead, we have delicate erotica. The dominant print in this room is of a rather fleshy naked lady lying on a purple velvet divan backed by red curtains. Her skin is painted with a suggestion of bright red that carries through the color scheme of the curtains. I don’t know what I’d do if I actually met a woman with skin color like that.
Ever since we got in the room, Link has been lying on the other bed, but he’s hardly paralyzed. It’s one of those beds where you put a quarter in and the mattress vibrates for a half-minute. The management has thoughtfully supplied a pile of quarters on the bedstand, and Link keeps feeding coins into the slot and vibrating away. If he’s getting any sensual pleasure from the experience, he’s keeping it to himself.
Victor is watching TV. Anton’s got his own closed-circuit setup and, apparently, videocassettes in a wide variety. Victor’s intent on some episode of an ancient series called It’s a Man’s World. He keeps repeating the title to me so I’ll appreciate the irony. I have to admit he maintains the womanly disgui
se with efficiency. His curled-up pose in a red and white striped chair seems quite feminine. (Link told us on the way over that we better behave as if Anton’s got concealed cameras in every room, which, considering his fascination with electronics, he probably has. It’s frustrating. I desperately need to discuss our situation with Link and Victor but am not allowed to say a word about it.)
Maria keeps coming by to check we are okay. She’s a pretty thing, Maria. Short, a bit too fat to be a client’s first choice, but large-breasted and small-waisted, the appropriate whore for the nineteenth century pictures. Whatever, she certainly has a vast repertoire of sexy moves and gestures. Only thing that distorts her appearance is her blind left eye, which she keeps half-shut with only the white staring out under the lid. She has what may be a Spanish accent, although her skin seems a shade too light for that background, and she has light-brown hair whose color looks natural. I kind of like her, or would if I were not so paralyzed with fear to feel much other emotion.
Knock on the door. Three taps, light. Maria again, she uses the same knock each time. Link shouts come in. The vibrator device of his bed runs down just as she steps daintily through the doorway. She’s wearing a tighter costume this time, a dark-blue turtleneck sweater that emphasizes the roundness of her tits, and levi’s that don’t let in much ventilation. I think the high-heeled red shoes with a line of red sequins around each rim are incongruous, but I’ve never had much fashion expertise.
I can see by your outfit that you are a woman, Link says agreeably.
Maria smiles. The only accurate word to describe that smile is enchanting.
’stime for assembly, she says.
Assembly, Link says. Are we.back in high school or something?
No. Mr. Anton likes to bring all of us together at four o’clock each afternoon for announcements, orders, little talks, on Friday distribution of bonus commissions, and silent prayer.
A Set Of Wheels Page 14