We arrive at the raid a little late. The raiding party cars are already in the flat of the valley. Our victims are running all about. Their first concern, it seems, is protecting their families, making sure the children are hurried into the forest, although a few people, brandishing knives and axes, are attempting futile stands against our onslaught.
Link has this shiny well-maintained Toyota Corolla in his sights.
That one, he says, I want that one.
But that’s foreign. You don’t—
Shut up!
I rush at two men who are retreating more slowly than the rest, hoping and praying they’ll get out of my way. Link waves his rifle threateningly at them. Chuck had wanted me to ride shotgun, but I refused outright. I told him I wouldn’t touch a gun and he almost liked me for saying it. The two men jump aside. One seems to be reaching into his shirt for something. It’s a gun, I know it, they’ve got guns and they’re going to be shooting any second now. And damn it I’m right. Almost as soon as I think it, there are shots on the other side of the clearing. I swerve out of their way fast.
We come alongside the Toyota Corolla. Link leaps out of the Mustang and climbs in the Toyota with one smooth motion. He drops out of sight for a moment. We’ve all been given the course in hotwiring and Link proved to be one of the most adept at it. He remarked to Chuck that he’d had a bit of practice in his shady past. The Toyota Corolla’s engine roars to life. ^
In spite of the gunfire, everything seems to be going smoothly. Nobody seems hit, none of our cars are down. I’ll shepherd the Toyota Corolla out of the valley and our part of the raid’ll be over. I feel strong, on top of things, ready to win again and again and again. Every time I feel like that something seems to go wrong. I should learn.
* * * * *
Link leans halfway out the Toyota’s window and waves his arm at me in a circular motion, the signal that we better hit the road. I signal back and the Toyota Corolla lunges forward. And stalls. Glancing at me, Link smiles a half-smile through his half-beard. He leans down for a second and gets the car running again. My foot starts putting pressure on my accelerator. I’m anxious to get away from here. When Link rises again, he signals a second time.
I see the man coming around the Toyota before Link does. He’s a short, squat, ugly man. Though beardless, he could pass as a relation of Link’s—a younger brother, a close cousin. Before I can warn Link, the man grabs his signalling arm and starts to pull hard on it. The surprise of the ambush plus the attacker’s strength makes Link’s body straighten and his foot comes down on the Toyota’s accelerator. It jerks forward, stalls again. The attacker skips along beside the car, keeping his footing with the same kind of determination he’s using to maintain his hold on Link’s arm. There’s intense pain on Link’s face. His arm may have been wrenched back unnaturally. Maybe it’s broken.
Around me I can sense the meadow clearing of cars. Chuck said the entire raid should last less than a minute. The short squat man reaches a hand in the Toyota and grabs Link by the collar. In spite of Link’s holding onto the steering wheel with his free hand, the man gets Link partway out of the window. In a minute all our guys’ll be gone and the nomad tribe’ll come out of the woods ready for blood. I got to do something. Chuck said we should protect our partners but not be afraid to clear out if something goes wrong. I can leave Link behind. It’s all right. Nobody’ll blame me. Maybe. So I can go. No, I can’t. I can’t leave Link. Damn it. I got to help.
The man’s attack is stalled. Link’s grip has slipped off the steering wheel, but his thick body is lodged halfway through the window. The man keeps pulling fiercely. He releases his hand from Link’s collar and jabs him about the head. Link, his eyes dazed, looks like he’s going to pass out any minute.
Scrambling out of the Mustang and almost flying across the short distance to the Toyota, I leap at the man, grab his hair and pull at it hard. His head jerks back. My move loosens his hold on Link’s arm just enough for Link to revive, pull out of the man’s grasp, and twist his body back inside the Toyota. In the meantime, I’ve figured there’s no way I can take the ambusher in a fair fight, so I manage a quick hard kick to his crotch and retreat without looking back.
I climb into the Mustang, fully expecting somebody’s going to grab me from behind. Nobody does. Link has already got his Toyota in motion, this time with no stalling, and I follow him out of the valley and up the hill.
— 7 —
After we’ve put a few miles between us and the clearing I begin to relax. The sting goes out of my shoulders, the pain out of my upper thighs. I feel all right. Now I’m a confirmed outlaw. The big time. Part of an outlaw gang. Loyal to my partner. Fighting when trouble appears. Fighting dirty. The real thing.
I feel all right, yes sir, all right.
But only for a moment.
This has got to be the sleaziest car I seen in my entire life, says a voice that’s like a nasal jackhammer. A voice directly behind me.
I look in the rear-view. Sitting in the middle of the back seat, like a pint-sized tycoon, is a kid with the largest set of ears I’ve ever seen.
My entire life, the kid says.
I am too stunned to reply. I stop the car and turn around in my seat.
He’s a skinny kid, the kind whose ribs show through several layers of clothing. He’s got just enough hair so you can’t call him bald. His eyes seem to look at me and somewhere else at the same time. He’s got just enough nose so you can’t call him a genetic mistake. His mouth is a genetic mistake, all disapproval and no shape.
Sometimes you see a kid and you get all tender. Not this one. This one I want immediately to throw out of my car fingers first without opening any windows. I’m no good at guessing age, but I’d say this particular mutation checked in at around eleven or twelve.
Where’d you come from? I ask.
Up ahead Link’s Toyota has stopped, and he gives me a horn-blast. Not knowing just how to communicate with a car horn, I just give him a single blast back. That seems to satisfy him.
We snuck in while you were busting Cap’n Chickenwings, the kid says.
Did you say we? I ask, panicking.
Yeah. Me and Scotty there, we climbed in this jalopy while you were out.
Scotty?
Yeah. There.
He points to the floor between the seats. I lean over the back of the front seat and see Scotty lying there, looking up at me.
Scotty isn’t just another kid, he’s a little kid. He’s very blond and cute, a cereal commercial kind of kid. Except he’s got marks all over his face. And his hands. And his clothes. In one hand he holds a black magic marker. In a shirt pocket (with large leak spots underneath) is a red magic marker. As I look down at him, he smiles tentatively. He’s got an upper front tooth missing. After his brief smile he rubs his nose. With the hand holding the black magic marker. He leaves a new spot, a line of black war paint, across the bridge of his nose.
What’re you kids doing here? I say, trying not to scream at them.
Handles, the kid on the seat says.
Handles? I say.
That’s my name, he says. What they call me anyway. You think it’s a good name, right, with these big ears on me and all.
Well, no, I wasn’t exactly thinking that, I was just surprised at—
I have to tell everybody right away. So they know it’s all right. I like the name. I like being called Handles. It’s good for me.
Oh. Really?
My real name’s Hamlet. After the prince. The melancholy one. My parents thought it was cute. To be or not to be. Shit. Rather be Handles than Hamlet any day. Wouldn’t you? Well, wouldn’t you?
I don’t know. I’m glad I don’t have the problem, I’ll say that.
Another horn-tap from Link. I realize I’m sitting here chatting with this prepubescent mutation instead of getting on with our job.
Are you guys going to get out or what? I say.
Nope, Handles says.
Hey wait! I
say. I’ve got to get hopping here. My—my partners are waiting for me. I can’t ferry you guys around.
We’re not asking for chauffeur service, Handles says. This is serious. We want out of that camp, so we’re glad you came along. I wouldn’t go back there if you paid me. What about you, Scotty?
What? Scotty says.
I said we don’t want to go back to the camp. Right, Scotty?
Right.
He doesn’t always listen, Handles says to me. He’s always saying what, making everybody repeat all the time. So—drive on, we’ll go wherever you go. Anything’s better’n back there.
Hey, I can’t take you guys with me.
Why not?
It’s kidnapping. Abduction of minors. I don’t know, some law covers it, I’m sure.
You ain’t abducting anybody. We want to go. We’re stowaways. We’re cooperating. We’re joining up with you. See? You’re not abducting us.
I can’t take you back with me. You’ll just get me into trouble.
Trouble, Handles says sarcastically. Jeez, I thought you’d be tougher than that. Some big outlaw! Afraid for his ass. Scotty, maybe we should get out of here.
What? Scotty says.
Never mind.
But what?
I said forget it.
I want to know. What?
You’re a pain, you know, Scotty? I was just thinking of crashing out of this car.
Okay.
Scotty springs up, ready to get going. I look around. It’s really dark along this stretch. All around us are trees and shadows and mysterious nightmarish patches.
You think you guys’ll make it back all right? I mean, you can just follow the road.
We’re not going back there, Handles says. We’re not. Right, Scotty?
What?
I said we’re not going back to camp.
I guess so. Do we have to?
Do we have to what?
We have to stay out here? I’m hungry.
You said you’d go out of camp with me.
I know that. I changed my mind.
Well, I’m not going back. You can find your own way back.
Let’s go back, Handles.
No.
Scotty starts to cry. Handles sighs and reaches for the door handle. Link blasts on his horn.
Wait, wait, I say to the kids. Okay, you can come with me. Tonight. But tomorrow, you got to work out something else. If he wants, I’ll take Scotty back to your camp on my own and you can do whatever in hell you want to.
Handles looks a little frightened. Maybe he’s been bluffing all along. But he nods in agreement. He tells Scotty they’re staying with me, Scotty says what, and he tells him again.
I signal with my horn to Link and we start up again.
Hey mister, Handles says.
Yeah? I say.
What’s your name?
Lee.
Hey, Lee.
Yeah?
You really mean what you said?
About what?
About taking Scotty back to our camp.
Yeah, I meant it.
He laughs. Meanly.
Boy, I’d like to be there for that. I would. I sure as shitshootin’ would.
Why?
I’d like to see your face after Cap’n Chickenwings decides to walk all over it.
Cap’n Chickenwings?
He’s tough, ‘man. Just you wait.
We hit the open road and start to speed up. In the distance I can see the gang’s motorcade. Silently, I point them out for Handles and Scotty. Scotty leans over the front seat to see better. He has been wiping his teary eyes with his magic marker hand. His eyes are circled with smudges of black ink. There now seem to be more spots on his face than skin showing. Even this dirty, he’s pretty cute.
— 8 —
Our rendezvous is at an abandoned recreation center. Link and I are the last ones to arrive, naturally. The gang is assembling in an open playing field adjoining endless rows of tennis courts. Soon as I stop the Mustang, Handles mutters I’ll check with you guys later, stay close to Lee, Scotty. Before I can protest, Handles is out of the car and running. He has a curious way of running. Unsure but determined, none of his limbs working quite efficiently but with a kind of grace. He rushes up to Link and starts talking with him. Link shrugs, then Handles runs off. He runs first this way, then that, stopping only to talk briefly with members of the gang, all of whom seem bewildered by the kid’s sudden appearance in their midst.
Let’s go, Scotty, I say. I got to find out what kind of drill Chuck’s running.
Outside the car, Scotty reaches up and takes my hand. The move seems automatic with him.
You still hungry? I say to him.
What? he says.
Come on, I’m going to get us some food, kid.
He nods. Obviously no big deal. He expects to be fed. ^
As we approach Link, he points a stubby finger at Scotty.
Another one? he says.
I explain about Handles and Scotty. Link seems amused, not at all troubled.
What’ll Chuck say? I ask Link.
He won’t mind. He loves kids. But we have to return them, Lee.
I know. I’m willing to drive Scotty back, but Handles refuses to go. I think he wants to join up with the gang.
Don’t worry. Chuck won’t allow it. He’ll figure out what to do with him, wait and see.
Handles reappears, climbing onto the hood of one of the stolen cars, a Honda. Using what looks like four arms, he scrabbles over the windshield onto the car roof. Without a single cautious move, he stands up and raises his arms (there are only two) in the air. Some of the gang see him, point, laugh, then start a foolish mock dance around the Honda. Handles loves it.
One of Chuck’s aides-de-camp informs us that we’re to join an assembly on foot at the football field near the tennis courts. I take Scotty’s right hand, and Link takes his left. I look down and, just my luck, I’ve gotten the hand with the magic marker. A thick black line divides my thumb from the rest of my hand.
* * * * *
At the assembly Chuck orders the drivers of the stolen vehicles to drive them to the outdoor swimming pool on the other side of the main building. The rest of us are to walk there. While Chuck speaks, Handles climbs around the bleachers. Sometimes he runs along the seats, sometimes he ducks under them and presumably plays Tarzan, swinging among the supports, sometimes he climbs onto the bleacher’s iron railings and slides down a few feet. Every once in a while he stops and does a few hops, skips, jumps—again graceful in his awkward way. I think of Gene Kelly in the rain and umbrella dance in Singin’ in the Rain, another of the many antique movies old Dad forced me to sit through more than once, and I can easily see Handles moving and dancing like that if he ever gets his muscles to respond in logically human fashion.
After the meeting Link and I take Scotty up to Chuck, and Link tells him about our stowaways. Chuck smiles down at Scotty while he listens to Link.
Okay, he says when Link’s finished. I don’t think with us is the best place for them, even though who knows what kind of life they’re running away from. Lee, up to you. Somebody’s gotta take ’em back, like you say, might as well be you. Okay?
Sure.
He stares at me, then says, I trust you to come back, right?
Right.
Time for the burning now. It’s the part of all this I most look forward to. Let’s go. Ah, Link…
Yeah, Chuck?
About that Toyota. It’s no go on the Toyota.
Link looks downcast.
I know. It drove like shit all the way back.
But I might have something else for you. Check with me after the ceremony. So, for now, you know what to do with the Toyota.
Yeah.
Link gently disengages Scotty’s hand and says to the kid that he’s got to take care of something but don’t worry he’ll be back soon. Scotty seems regretful to see him go but walks patiently with me toward the swimming pool. O
n the way we stop by a campfire where a bunch of the guys are roasting hot dogs. I grab two for Scotty and me and deal for a couple bootleg Cokes. Before taking the food, Scotty makes an elaborate ritual out of capping the black magic marker and putting it in his shirt pocket beside the red one. Dots of mustard join the spots of ink on Scotty’s face as he, with great seriousness, consumes his hot dog. We are passed by many of the stolen cars on their way to the swimming pool. I feel like we’re at the center of some kind of sloppy, dirty, rusty parade. As soon as he finishes his Coke and hot dog, Scotty grabs my free hand again.
The swimming pool area is in the kind of organized chaos that seems to be Chuck’s specialty. The pool itself looks like a chasm. It’s empty of water and there are cracks running along the surface of its bottom and sides. You can hardly read the depth numbers. Chuck stands on the high diving board, his concentration intent on the array of cars coming to a stop on three sides of the pool. The autoless side is a set of bleachers where those not involved in the ceremony are expected to sit. Picking Scotty up (he seems quite heavy for his size, maybe he’s an adult that’s gone through a compactor), I make my way up to the top row. It’s already almost filled, but a couple of the guys, smiling at Scotty, push and shove sideways to make room for us. I hold Scotty on my lap, hoping the ceremony is over before his mysteriously concentrated weight puts my legs to eternal sleep.
The last of the stolen cars is driven up. The driver shuts off its motor, swtiches off its headlights. I think it may be Link in the Toyota Corolla but it’s too dark for me to be sure. At the moment the only light comes from a pair of spotlights which are directed toward Chuck on the high board. He looks ghostlike, I think spectral is the word, even his clothes seem washed of color. He raises a hand toward the bleachers and receives almost instant quiet. He glances around at the cars massed below him, to his left, and in front of him at the other side of the pool. For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to bless them. I’ve never been able to fit him into the whole Wheeler shithouse anyway. Instead, he makes a circular gesture with his left arm. All around the pool, car headlights switch on simultaneously, blindingly. Most of the crowd in the bleachers instinctively raise their hands to their faces, shield their eyes. In a moment, though, I can see better, my vision only slightly distracted by a Dodge Omni’s skewered headlight that seems pointed right at me.
A Set Of Wheels Page 23