Read Online The Spark and the Drive by Wayne Harrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Wayne Harrison
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knucklehead twenties, I did a job for some disorganized people that cost me twenty-eight months in North Dade. I say so because I notice how you got your arm around your plate.”
The dangerous moment came when they watched each other, each man frank and undaunted, and even after Bobby nodded there was a long, uncertain second before he spoke. “They got me on a stretch up here just about like that. Twenty-six months.”
Dennis leaned back from the table and sipped his beer, and when I saw that his inquiry was finished, I said to Bobby, “Tell them how you did it.”
Bobby set down his fork and tried to laugh it off with modesty that was only half genuine. “I’d like to hear it,” Eve said, and she held him with her big pale eyes as if no one had ever interested her as much.
Bobby looked away first, dragging a forkful of enchilada through his guacamole and leaning over for a bite. “Well,” he said, wiping a napkin over his mustache, “looks like I got the floor now. So back in my ‘knucklehead’ twenties,” he said, and Dennis gave a polite laugh, “I realized that about twice my paycheck was going into drink and drug. I had a girlfriend was working at the Howard Johnson’s in Hopeville, which is out of downtown, but not too far. You can’t see the parking lot from the street. It’s where a lot of secretaries and their bosses like to go for a nooner. It’s sort of famous for it.”
Bobby left out that everyone called the hotel “Blow-Jos,” and that he’d keep his story clean for a woman gave me the strange feeling of laughing inside. Often Bobby seemed remote and a little dangerous, a former taker of bad pills and a drunk, a former thief and convict, a current biker with biker friends, and whenever I saw a recognizable behavior—due to manners, in this case—I felt that we weren’t so different, that whatever made us different wasn’t more than the random matter of life experience.
“A guy I knew ran a chop shop over in Bunker Hill,” Bobby continued. “‘I’m always getting guys bringing me Town Cars and Audis,’ he tells me, ‘only I can’t unload ’em. What I need is Hondas, Camrys, Escorts, like that. Joe Lunchbucket rides.’”
“Because who gets high-end parts from a chop shop?” Eve said.
He opened out his hands in affirmation. “So I’ve got Melanie keeping her eyes open for couples that show up, no bags. Cash. They try to leave the make and model blank on the form, but Melanie tells them they’ll get towed. So when she gets a good one, she puts ’em in front so they can’t see the parking lot from their room. Then she gives me a call. I slim-jim it, hammer the steering column. I’m out in a minute and a half. Leave my own rig in the lot, pick it up later.”
“Oh my God,” Eve said. “It never gets reported.”
“Or if it does, they say it got took from work, or from Bradlees or somewhere. By the time it even comes over the radio that Camry’s in fifty pieces, VIN numbers ground off. And I’m out the door with a tax-free grand in my pocket.”
Nick and Ray were finished eating, and Nick lit a cigarette. Eve gave Bobby a chance to chew his food, but she never stopped watching him, and the way she just barely squinted made her eyes seem enchanted and capable of extracting all your secrets.
“You miss it?” she said.
“What, jacking cars?” He grinned, his forehead shining. “Nothing too severe. You get cocky, and in the clink you go. I keep that in mind. But I think about walking out of that place with my money, and knowing the car’s their problem now, and I wasn’t going to get caught. All you keep saying to yourself is, ‘It worked. Holy fuck, it worked.’ Yeah, that I miss.”
Though drugs were never mentioned that night, I couldn’t help thinking that these were serious felons, and I found myself putting on an act of casualness, shaping the ash of my cigarette on the rim of my plate or faking a yawn when I was certain they could all hear my
The dangerous moment came when they watched each other, each man frank and undaunted, and even after Bobby nodded there was a long, uncertain second before he spoke. “They got me on a stretch up here just about like that. Twenty-six months.”
Dennis leaned back from the table and sipped his beer, and when I saw that his inquiry was finished, I said to Bobby, “Tell them how you did it.”
Bobby set down his fork and tried to laugh it off with modesty that was only half genuine. “I’d like to hear it,” Eve said, and she held him with her big pale eyes as if no one had ever interested her as much.
Bobby looked away first, dragging a forkful of enchilada through his guacamole and leaning over for a bite. “Well,” he said, wiping a napkin over his mustache, “looks like I got the floor now. So back in my ‘knucklehead’ twenties,” he said, and Dennis gave a polite laugh, “I realized that about twice my paycheck was going into drink and drug. I had a girlfriend was working at the Howard Johnson’s in Hopeville, which is out of downtown, but not too far. You can’t see the parking lot from the street. It’s where a lot of secretaries and their bosses like to go for a nooner. It’s sort of famous for it.”
Bobby left out that everyone called the hotel “Blow-Jos,” and that he’d keep his story clean for a woman gave me the strange feeling of laughing inside. Often Bobby seemed remote and a little dangerous, a former taker of bad pills and a drunk, a former thief and convict, a current biker with biker friends, and whenever I saw a recognizable behavior—due to manners, in this case—I felt that we weren’t so different, that whatever made us different wasn’t more than the random matter of life experience.
“A guy I knew ran a chop shop over in Bunker Hill,” Bobby continued. “‘I’m always getting guys bringing me Town Cars and Audis,’ he tells me, ‘only I can’t unload ’em. What I need is Hondas, Camrys, Escorts, like that. Joe Lunchbucket rides.’”
“Because who gets high-end parts from a chop shop?” Eve said.
He opened out his hands in affirmation. “So I’ve got Melanie keeping her eyes open for couples that show up, no bags. Cash. They try to leave the make and model blank on the form, but Melanie tells them they’ll get towed. So when she gets a good one, she puts ’em in front so they can’t see the parking lot from their room. Then she gives me a call. I slim-jim it, hammer the steering column. I’m out in a minute and a half. Leave my own rig in the lot, pick it up later.”
“Oh my God,” Eve said. “It never gets reported.”
“Or if it does, they say it got took from work, or from Bradlees or somewhere. By the time it even comes over the radio that Camry’s in fifty pieces, VIN numbers ground off. And I’m out the door with a tax-free grand in my pocket.”
Nick and Ray were finished eating, and Nick lit a cigarette. Eve gave Bobby a chance to chew his food, but she never stopped watching him, and the way she just barely squinted made her eyes seem enchanted and capable of extracting all your secrets.
“You miss it?” she said.
“What, jacking cars?” He grinned, his forehead shining. “Nothing too severe. You get cocky, and in the clink you go. I keep that in mind. But I think about walking out of that place with my money, and knowing the car’s their problem now, and I wasn’t going to get caught. All you keep saying to yourself is, ‘It worked. Holy fuck, it worked.’ Yeah, that I miss.”
Though drugs were never mentioned that night, I couldn’t help thinking that these were serious felons, and I found myself putting on an act of casualness, shaping the ash of my cigarette on the rim of my plate or faking a yawn when I was certain they could all hear my
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