Read Online Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? by G. M. Ford - Free Book Online
Authors: G. M. Ford
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"Not yo sign, yo name, honey."
"That is my name."
"Well then, Leo the lion, what's yo sign?"
"If I go to my cap, it's a hit and run." She didn't have a clue.
"You're funny, just like Arnie. You a friend of his?"
"We go way back," I said, stopping just in front of the battered
steps. "What about you?" I asked.
"Oh, ahm just staying' here for a bit," she said, slowly peeling
the blue towel from around her body and rubbing it around in her hair. She
seemed totally at ease standing out o the back steps in the nude. She was
perfect. Small pert breasts stood at attention above her flat stomach, a small
trail of dark fuzz led invitingly down into her thick black bush. Not a stretch
mark. Not a blemish. Not a single vein in sight. Not a chance in hell.
She finished working on her hair, draped the towel around her neck, and,
still holding the ends, smiled at me through her hair.
"You just gonna stand there gawkin' or you want to come inside?" I
presumed she meant the house.
"I'd better get the Buick going," I said weakly.
"Whatsamatter, you a queer or something', honey? Or maybe you're just
shy." I was beginning to wonder myself. She moved down a step. I
retreated. I kept my mouth shut. My silence was making her nervous.
She retrieved the towel and wound it quickly back around her body.
"Just a guy that knows his limitations," I said, trying to put her
at ease.
She shrugged. "And here I had a notion you'd be kinda grateful like old
whatshisname that lives here. You been listenin' to too much of that safe-sex
talk, Leo, become a prisoner of the media."
"In my day, safe sex meant a padded headboard."
She shook her pretty head, turned on her heel, and headed back into the
house, slamming the door behind her. My envy returned.
My fingers didn't want to work as I bolted the new plates on. Probably
insufficient blood supply. It took a while, but I got it done. I was better at
the heavy work. I cleaned out the interior in record time, piling the parts
neatly by the side of the fence.
The moment of truth was at hand. The keys were in the ignition. I brushed
the driver's seat, sat, and turned the key. The big V-8 rolled over slowly. I
got out and checked the oil. A quart down, no problem.
I tried again. The Buick shook and rocked as the engine caught, spluttered,
and finally died once again. On the fifth try it ran. For the first thirty
seconds the dry valves sounded as if they were about to come right out of the
block, but gradually, as the oil pump managed to move the sludgelike oil through
the system, things quieted down. I gunned it, looking in the mirror.
It looked like I was crop dusting. Thick blue smoke billowed into the air.
The smoke got blacker as I put the pedal to the metal. I let up. The big boat
idled nicely, if you didn't count the noxious blue smoke. I got out and closed
the hood. I replaced Arnie's tools in the little tool shed, opened the gate,
and drove through. As I reclosed the gate, my peripheral vision said she was
standing above me in the window. I looked the other way. The exhaust from the
Buick had left a two-foot black circle on the cedar fence.
All in all, the Buick drove pretty well, a bit spongy in the turns perhaps,
and the squealing of the brakes would probably open garage doors within a
three-mile radius, but overall, not too bad. I stopped at a BP station on
Eastlake with a do-it-yourself car wash. I hosed her down inside and out,
filled her up, and added a quart of oil. I checked the stick. Burned a little
oil, Arnie'd said. I'd burned half quart since I'd left his yard. I went back
inside and bought a case of oil and a blue plastic funnel and tooled downtown
to check on the crew.
Chapter 6
By Thursday morning we'd worked up a preliminary picture of how Save the
Earth spent his day and were formulating a plan for getting a line on the
elusive Caroline Nobel.
The boys had been thrilled by the Buick. A Bentley couldn't have pleased
them more. They'd spent a full twenty minutes
"Not yo sign, yo name, honey."
"That is my name."
"Well then, Leo the lion, what's yo sign?"
"If I go to my cap, it's a hit and run." She didn't have a clue.
"You're funny, just like Arnie. You a friend of his?"
"We go way back," I said, stopping just in front of the battered
steps. "What about you?" I asked.
"Oh, ahm just staying' here for a bit," she said, slowly peeling
the blue towel from around her body and rubbing it around in her hair. She
seemed totally at ease standing out o the back steps in the nude. She was
perfect. Small pert breasts stood at attention above her flat stomach, a small
trail of dark fuzz led invitingly down into her thick black bush. Not a stretch
mark. Not a blemish. Not a single vein in sight. Not a chance in hell.
She finished working on her hair, draped the towel around her neck, and,
still holding the ends, smiled at me through her hair.
"You just gonna stand there gawkin' or you want to come inside?" I
presumed she meant the house.
"I'd better get the Buick going," I said weakly.
"Whatsamatter, you a queer or something', honey? Or maybe you're just
shy." I was beginning to wonder myself. She moved down a step. I
retreated. I kept my mouth shut. My silence was making her nervous.
She retrieved the towel and wound it quickly back around her body.
"Just a guy that knows his limitations," I said, trying to put her
at ease.
She shrugged. "And here I had a notion you'd be kinda grateful like old
whatshisname that lives here. You been listenin' to too much of that safe-sex
talk, Leo, become a prisoner of the media."
"In my day, safe sex meant a padded headboard."
She shook her pretty head, turned on her heel, and headed back into the
house, slamming the door behind her. My envy returned.
My fingers didn't want to work as I bolted the new plates on. Probably
insufficient blood supply. It took a while, but I got it done. I was better at
the heavy work. I cleaned out the interior in record time, piling the parts
neatly by the side of the fence.
The moment of truth was at hand. The keys were in the ignition. I brushed
the driver's seat, sat, and turned the key. The big V-8 rolled over slowly. I
got out and checked the oil. A quart down, no problem.
I tried again. The Buick shook and rocked as the engine caught, spluttered,
and finally died once again. On the fifth try it ran. For the first thirty
seconds the dry valves sounded as if they were about to come right out of the
block, but gradually, as the oil pump managed to move the sludgelike oil through
the system, things quieted down. I gunned it, looking in the mirror.
It looked like I was crop dusting. Thick blue smoke billowed into the air.
The smoke got blacker as I put the pedal to the metal. I let up. The big boat
idled nicely, if you didn't count the noxious blue smoke. I got out and closed
the hood. I replaced Arnie's tools in the little tool shed, opened the gate,
and drove through. As I reclosed the gate, my peripheral vision said she was
standing above me in the window. I looked the other way. The exhaust from the
Buick had left a two-foot black circle on the cedar fence.
All in all, the Buick drove pretty well, a bit spongy in the turns perhaps,
and the squealing of the brakes would probably open garage doors within a
three-mile radius, but overall, not too bad. I stopped at a BP station on
Eastlake with a do-it-yourself car wash. I hosed her down inside and out,
filled her up, and added a quart of oil. I checked the stick. Burned a little
oil, Arnie'd said. I'd burned half quart since I'd left his yard. I went back
inside and bought a case of oil and a blue plastic funnel and tooled downtown
to check on the crew.
Chapter 6
By Thursday morning we'd worked up a preliminary picture of how Save the
Earth spent his day and were formulating a plan for getting a line on the
elusive Caroline Nobel.
The boys had been thrilled by the Buick. A Bentley couldn't have pleased
them more. They'd spent a full twenty minutes
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