Buick in the Driveway
Bodie's got a plan to steal a classic Buick from a short-shorts-wearing geek. His girlfriend, Gloria's got a plan of her own. The mark's got the best plan of all.
“If you want it, take it.”
I never needed an excuse to grab what I wanted, but Gloria’s whispered temptations filed the edge off the guilt whenever I indulged. The classic Buick Grand National sat in the driveway of a rundown colonial, and if the house’s owner hadn’t committed grand theft auto, then I’m an honest used car salesman out for the good of my customer.
“You work hard,” she said, brushing the red-headed flowers poking from somebody’s weather-worn picket fence as if the coming statement dripped with innocence. “Look at the state of that house. There’s no way he bought such a ride fair and square.”
“Maybe it belongs to a visitor.”
“I saw it there yesterday. And the day before.”
“Could be somebody —”
“Oh, Bodie, am I the only thing you’re gonna take a chance on?”
Quick to anger, Gloria. When set on something, she slips an arm through mine and entices me with that girly voice my old man taught me to prize and guard against. But she pulls away the moment she senses hesitation. You see, I don’t have the feminine tones to get me out of scrapes. Broken ribs and a caved-in cheekbone attest to that, so strategy is what I need. Who owns that motor? Are they slick, wired, and connected, or an easy mark? The scar around the cheekbone reminds me to play chess, not checkers.
We stared too long at the sleek black beauty, so I slapped Gloria’s ass to move her along, and she yelped, playful, understanding our exposure.
***
A week is too much time for my woman. Her appetite demands instant gratification. It’s why she’s with me. I bumped into her at a Wendy’s a year ago and asked her out on the spot. An initial flash of annoyance sparked into ooh-la-la at the speed I moved, and she pushed me into bed that very first night, teaching me some mad moves. But such a woman sees no ambition in my apartment, and seven days scoping that house put her on edge.
“Baby,” she said, “I think it’s a flip. He bought that thing cheap, and he’s going to sell it high. You know how much it’s worth?”
“If it’s in mint condition, over two-hundred.”
“Imagine what we can do with that?”
“A lot, sweetheart. I’ll buy a record player and a hoard of vinyl. Top-level speakers. The neighbors won’t realize what hit them. Then …” I jerked my arms, followed by my hips, and swished my feet along the cheap linoleum tile in a dance Gloria could not resist until we ended nude in the bedroom. Needing to replace the mattress with the proceeds if we carried on.
In the early hours, as I stood alone, butt-naked in the window with all the lights off, Gloria slapped my ass and wrapped her arms around me. “I don’t like your plan,” she said.
“I don’t have a plan.”
“That’s what you say.” She came round, her bare ass on the windowsill. “You’re going to steal that car and spend nothing on me. That’s not nice. It’s me who gave you the idea.”
“But you’re looking at me to execute it.”
“So you’ll blow it all on yourself? Really?”
“Of course not. We’re partners. Co-conspirators. And I reckon the owner … I’m not sure yet … is a goofball.”
“You seen him?”
“Yeah. Wears a short-sleeved, collared shirt. Checkered. Top button buttoned. Side-parting. Bottom of his slacks touching his ankle bone. You’d think he’d keep the house in better condition.”
“You are a sly dog. Have you been watching him without little old me?”
“As you can see, I can’t concentrate when my beauty’s at my side. I lose all control.”
“Well, let me put you at ease.”
***
I run past every morning before work, working out how that car and the house matched. Weeds in the driveway brushing its wheels in the breeze, a rusted wheelbarrow on the dirt patch to the side, nature’s green pockmarking the home’s sidings. Who wouldn’t expect a rough rider to step out the door, dressed in torn jeans, scuffed boots, and a leather vest? This buttoned-up office square, today wearing not only his usual short-sleeved collared shirt, but that dopey outfit tucked into above-the-knee beige shorts, is not somebody who revs a classic as he rolls by hot ladies in a nightclub line. No way.
Okay, he lives for the Buick, not the home or his love life. His budget stretches for one, not the other. He’s a geek. A mark. The photo I snapped of him getting into the vehicle made a fine memento for Gloria to relish over. My old ma always told me I needed to learn some tact and discretion, a lesson I remembered now because somehow, he clocked me snapping him. In the wing mirror? Dunno, but he marched across the steaming asphalt, freezing my photography session, his brazen, oncoming confrontation stopping me laughing at the knobble in his knees.
“Are you taking pictures of me?”
Gotta say, the voice boomed deeper than expected, failing to match the ginger in his side-parting. Whatever laughter remained in my belly dissolved at the bass.
“No. No, I’m snapping a picture of your ride. It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s a rare thing to see when every car in the world looks exactly the same. It’s a beauty. You want me to delete the photo?”
“I’d like that, yeah.”
“Like now?”
“I don’t know you. Who’s to say you’re respectable and not lying to me?”
“Damn. Sure. Let me find it.”
Soon as I opened the photo app, he snatched the cell from me and wiped it out himself, doing the same in the Deleted section. Left me standing, looking after him as he marched back to the car in his iddy-biddy shorts. Made me feel less of a man, all told. I shouldn’t have to take that from another dude wearing such apparel. It’s just not right. I snapped a sly one and hurried off before he realized what I’d done.
***
“He did what?”
I ran through the photo incident.
“But he missed this shot.”
“Took it when he wasn’t looking.”
I love it when she pushes my shoulder as if I gained unfair advantage over a teacher she hates. It’s an invitation to kiss her. Once we finished eating each other’s faces, she pinched my lips between thumb and index finger, wiggling my mouth as her ventriloquist dummy as she said, “It’s time to put a date on it, lover. You’re behind on your rent, and we need to aim higher.”
“Higher’s where we’re flyin’, babes. We go on Sunday night. He looks like a worker bee. He’ll sleep same as a baby, ready for a day of mindless instruction.”
If making a plan keeps her libido on the roller-grill, then I should get myself to Staples. Though I’m not sure about my ability to keep up. If we pull this off, she might just fuck me dry.
***
Gloria, did anyone ever have a more qualified name? In a world of Britneys, Joannes, and Sophies, this one shines bright, a bouncing neon sign of can-do spirit. She’d already set me up for a visit to the North Woods, where my old friend, Stevie Browne, is doing bird.
When I sat opposite him, I feared for his diet. Some inmate must have stolen all the beef from his plate, leaving him with just the string beans. I reckon he could slide beneath any door any time he wanted.
I jumped in after a bunch of pleasantries wore down my patience. “I have a Buick Grand National. Classic.”
Stevie whistled, clamping it shut because of the attention he gained. Some characters in here could sniff an opportunity through a brick wall.
“What year?”
“My app says 1987.”
“Jesus. You got the VIN?”
“Don’t have the car yet.”
“Then why are you wasting my time? Shit, man, get your ducks in a row.”
“The owner’s a dupe. It’s as good as mine.”
“You planned the job down to the finest detail?”
“Sure.”
Why he stared at me through letterbox eyes, I’m unclear, but the itch it caused pushed me to scratch out some strategy.
“If you don’t have a plan, then I’m not reaching out. Those fellas never fuck about, Bodie.”
“What percentage will they take?”
“Forty. At least.”
“Forty? That’s daylight robbery.”
I didn’t like how he leaned toward me as if we conspired against the Pope. “You’re part is the easy bit. Forty is what they’ll receive, and if you get feisty, they’ll grab the whole lot and put you in a ditch.” I breathed when he tilted back again, allowing the world’s reentry into my life. “Are we moving forward?”
All the momentum over the previous couple of weeks came to a hesitating ahh and hmm, stuck in my throat. Best to release neither, fearing my friend in the way he talked, the spike in his gaze, and how he sat in such comfort around these rough inmates. I don’t pretend I’m cultured, and wouldn’t dream of looking down my nose at my old pal. I’ve stolen and fenced all kinds of goods, but no chance would I last more than a week in North Woods. It’s all about love for me, even when stealing, and Stevie’s hard eyes are not the set I want in my skull.
Sixty percent is still a good stash. And Gloria deserves more than I have. She’s right. We have to move on and get ahead.
“Yeah, we’re on.”
***
On Saturday night the window AC struggled to clear the sheen on my forehead, so Gloria stripped me bare, sat on me, and squeezed her zen deep into my bones. I woke up at 3am, the glory in my loins still buzzing, working to banish Stevie Browne’s’ unsettling effect on my intentions.
Gloria’s absence shot me out of bed. Why would she calm me with bedroom gymnastics and then wind up my anxieties by slipping out? It did me no favors to accuse her, but not even her scent hung around. My caution proved too much. She didn’t expect I’d follow through. She answered none of my ten calls or twenty texts. It burst the dam on my adrenaline. It washed through my blood, sweeping away all the blockages. Okay, she wanted a result. She’d see me when I’d taken the chance.
***
The next day, Sunday, I worked out. Ran the streets, lifted some weights at Mikie’s gym, and hydrated. Listened to my self-help podcast, and everyone might scoff, but this bro makes me feel I’ll achieve anything I want. Even more than Gloria, who injects can-do positivity into everything I do.
By 8pm, the window’s my cinema screen where I waited for the action to begin. Her most-loved tune, Favorite Crime, played over the speakers. It turned me maudlin, doubtful, lethargic, so I replaced it with Double Talkin’ Jive and got my groove on. Outside, the humidity showered you even at 11:30 p.m. It’s two blocks to get to Short-Short’s house, which isn’t much, but I’d over-exercised, and the air made it feel like trudging through maple syrup. My hands burned, greased with sweat. My tools would slip if I didn’t keep them dry, prolonging the job and increasing the chances of getting caught in the act.
Only one of my steps faltered. Otherwise, I marched to the junction and turned onto the sidestreet, ready for a round of spending, exciting me, never mind my woman. Before the motor came into view, a panic attack almost stalled my heart, thinking: what if the owner had taken the car somewhere else? How would I find its whereabouts? I’m an opportunity criminal, not the finely tuned blueprint type. But there it sat, gleaming in shadow. Research told me this thing could fetch over $200k. I’d break in, take it to Gloria’s on the opposite side of the city, her apartment in a rabbit warren district where even residents got lost, and then wait for Stevie Browne to work his magic. Forty percent … I’m no good at math, but I reckoned that an eighty-thousand loss. Eighty goddamn grand. The risk on their end meets twenty, tops. There’s negotiation to be had, and they’ll have it.
The moment had come to concentrate. Mr. Short-Sleeves caught me by surprise that time. I underestimated his chutzpah, but with the photo I’d taken, he’d picture me first when his car went missing. A month at Gloria’s would sort that out. The loss would leave him inconsolable, and he’d grow to distrust the area. He’d move residence and lick his wounds.
The ancient motor needed a slim jim to pull the internal manual locks. Halfway down the window, I pictured how Geek Boy marched across the road to confront me. The memory caused hesitation and hallucinations in the window’s reflection. Half-a-dozen checks of the shoulder reassured me, and as I latched the lock, confidence restored, I even jigged at the celebrations Gloria would cook for me. Unlocked, I slid into the driver’s seat. The gray and black interior touched new, the wheel solid. The owner must have maintained it over the years without it leaving the garage. Why park it outside now? Had PeeWee decided to display it and himself to the world, in a bid to shake the shackles marking him this part of town’s biggest dweeb?
Before I fiddled with the ignition, paranoia demanded one last check of the area. A concert of late-night crickets is something to behold, but wouldn’t smother the click of a door, the whirr of an opening garage, or the footsteps of an approaching owner. That’s what I figured, but it hid the sound of the man staring at me from the backseat, eyes blacker than coal before the moment they’re ignited. I reckoned I broke a rib against the wheel by jumping out of my skin, but before I could regain myself, the sharp end of a needle punctured my neck. Whatever he pumped into my veins prevented a thaw.
It’s as if I watched it all from above, an out-of-body experience full of blind terror. Why did he use a drug that kept me conscious and alert even as every muscle degraded into malleable mush? I’m about a hundred-and-eighty. Not a heavyweight, but not a duck-feathered eiderdown either, but this geek dragged me from the car like a trash bag of internal organs to the popped trunk. A black hole awaited me. It was time to graduate from opportunity criminality and begin planning. If I got out of this. He lifted me as if I weighed the same as a rolled rug. I should have searched beyond his surface and seen all those hidden depths. Why did Gloria leave last night? Did she know something I didn’t?
Damn, he cradled me in his arms, and I must have looked such a baby as I stared, limp in his grasp. He half-dropped me, banging my head against the trunk’s rim. The bash blurred everything for a moment, but my vision returned soon enough. Panic competed with curiosity, an effect of whatever narcotic he injected, I guessed, but alarm won out as he rolled me into the car’s rear and I came face-to-face with the love of my life. Gloria lay as ragdoll as me, eyes balls of regret. This lunatic had bound neither of us with physical constraints, but the drug acted better than any zip-tie. How did she end up in this trunk? Did I see guilt in those peepers? Because she’d made a solo attempt on the car? What the hell?
The car jerked into a stuttering motion, suggesting the static years behind shocked its system. It soon found its rhythm, a low thrum I felt through the numb, and then a change of speed even its reputation didn’t prepare me for.
Both of us worked to speak through our fat tongues and loose-hinged jaws. The flapping fish in our mouths produced nothing intelligible. If her eyes spelled guilt, mine showed stupidity. I’ve flopped from one occupation to the next all my adult life, without a thought for what I wanted except wads of money I hadn’t the skills for. What would that cash do? Make me live like a king for a few months before the following half-assed attempt at a job came along?
The drug’s control waned half-an-hour into whatever journey the dweeb took us on, enough to allow communication. It started with Gloria. She mangled Bodie, but I recognized her.
“Why … you … here?”
“Thought … I … could … seduce … him … out … his … car.”
“Jeysus …”
Jealousy spiked motion into my fists, and a limp grip on her throat swelled her eyes, but only from surprise.
“I’m … sorree … Did it … for … us.”
For us? She had no faith in me. And here I lay, proving her right, but it still stung that this woman, who I love more than myself - goddammit, who would have guessed I’d have considered someone beyond myself - had no regard for my life skills. It put us both in danger.
“I’m fucking mortified you don’t believe in me.” The tongue motored anew, almost as smooth as the Buick.
“How do you figure I’m holding up, baby, when my rescuer is in the trunk alongside me?”
“Sweetheart, it ain’t over yet. The blood’s flowing. Can you feel my fingers flexing?”
“We’re back.”
We shuffled closer together, the future a possibility again. I ran my digits over my corner while she searched hers, hoping to find something sharp, or at least metallic. John Denver playing over the speakers paused our efforts for a second, something sinister creeping through us. Traffic thinned to nothing, the road turned bumpy, and the driver sang along, civilization’s shackles thrown off.
We’d found nothing but our own hands. They’d have to do. The car slowed, rolling over one last bump in a slow-motion exclamation point proclaiming our end. In his grip: either gun or needle. He’d watched us watching him. Expected something incoming. We’d underestimated the geek by overestimating ourselves.
I kissed my Gloria, deep, in case it was our final tango, ecstatic when she pressed back. The man didn’t seem the firearms type, so I told Gloria to fly at him the moment he opened the trunk.
“Why me?”
“He’ll try to drug us again. If he wastes his shot on you, I have the violence to do him in. Sweetheart, claw out his eyes, knee him in the hoo-haws. If he gets me first, we’re finished.”
“Baby, you’re saying I’m too delicate?”
“You’re the toughest lady I ever saw. And I have total faith in you.”
We attacked each other for good luck, tongues wrestling for a last taste of pleasure. The music stopped. The door opened and slammed shut, and footsteps plucked the courage out of my ass. Her grip on my arm, stronger by the second, re-injected the spunk, and we waited. The moment it popped, my tigress clambered over me and head-butted our captor. He screeched, falling backward with her on top of him. I know the strength of her thighs. He’d had it. The taillights lit them red and hellish. The fascination slowed me down. I should have beaten his head with a nearby stone by now, but watching her tower over him, slapping both hands on his ears, made compelling viewing.
Nervous my woman would accuse me of not contributing to the end of this shifted my gears, but the way she jolted rigid, fingers splayed out by her sides, slipped me into neutral, as if the drugs came roaring back. Gloria slid sideways off his body, landing with a sickening thud, a needle sticking into her eyeball, the other eye glassy and vacant.
The man dug his heels and backpedaled on his ass, short-sleeved shirt still tucked into his Boy Scout shorts. None of this went according to our plans, and his screeching hollowed the woods of its scattering wildlife.
“You bastards. You absolute bastards. Keep your damn paws off my car.”
It was a deep-throated cry I couldn’t dispute. I mean, a man’s property is his property. And I pondered how we’re built on those rights as I plucked the needle from my poor Gloria’s eye and thrust it into his neck. Once, twice, three times, until the gurgling halted a fourth.
“Bodie, baby?”
“Gloria?”
“I’m hurting. Real bad.”
“Not for long, sweetheart. Not for long.”
I cradled her as we watched the man die. Out here, thick with mosquitoes, chiggers, and I reckoned, coyotes, nobody would find a body in one of the many wooded ponds. Once unconsciousness clawed Gloria deeper than the needle’s pain, I threw him into water bordered by thorns and high grass. I hoped he’d sink, but casual hikers wouldn’t notice him if he floated.
***
Those bastards commissioned themselves eighty percent in the end, leaving us with enough to operate on Gloria’s eye. She wore a patch and indulged my pirate impressions. I didn’t fight them, or even dare renegotiate. Violence scared me. Gloria, too. I still shook from stabbing the geek. We planned a legitimate future based on our limited skill sets, and held hands on a bunch of day trips, trying to reinvigorate some innocence.
Until we spotted a Ferrari SF90 XX in the well-to-do neighborhood a couple of miles down the road.
Thanks for reading, everyone. As always, much appreciated.
The Book: I’ve gone from Salem’s Lot (it was okay) to Walter Moseley’s The Long Fall. Early stages, but enjoying it.
The Film: The Public Enemy (1931) starring James Cagney. Didn’t know what to expect, but for some reason I did not expect Cagney to play the rising gangster with a vicious relish. I expected him to make a play for the viewer’s sympathy, but he’s a bastard. I think I’ve watched too much Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart from the pre-war period and that coloured my thinking. Anyway, I loved it, even if it’s a little creaky in parts.
The Music: The Last Splash by The Breeders. Still cracking after all these years.
Good job with this one Jason. Enjoyed it. - Jim