Drive by James Sallis Read Free Book Online Page B

light. The car went skidding out of control, nose gone from north to northeast when wheels came back online and took the car the way it was headed—off the road.
    To everyone’s surprise, the stunt went down without a hitch, first take. The director shouted Yes! when the two of them climbed out of their cars. Scattered applause from cameramen, onlookers, gofers, set-up men, hangers-on.
    “Righteous work out there,” Driver said.
    He’d driven with this guy once or twice before. Patrick something. Round Irish moonface, harelip poorly repaired, shock of unruly straw-colored hair. Belying the ethnic stereotype, a man of few words.
    “Yourself,” he said.
    999
    Dinner that night at a restaurant out in Culver City, place packed to bursting with ponderous Mission furniture, plaster shields and tin swords on the wall, red carpeting, a front door like something you’d see on movie castles. Everything new and made up to look old. Wooden tables and chairs distressed, ceiling beams etched with acid, concrete floor ground down by polishers, cracks laid in. Thing is, the food was great. You’d swear two or three generations of women were back in the kitchen slapping out tortillas by hand, squatting by fires to roast peppers and chicken.
    For all he knew, maybe they were. Sometimes he worried about that.
    Driver had a few drinks in the bar first. Everything there shamelessly new, stainless steel, polished wood, as though to refute what lay outside the bat-wing doors. Halfway into his first beer he found himself in a political discussion with the man sitting next to him.
    Knowing nothing of current affairs, Driver made it up as he went along. Apparently the country was about to go to war. Words such as freedom, liberation and democracy surfaced repeatedly in his companion’s patter, causing Driver to remember ads for Thanksgiving turkeys, how simple it’s become: just stick them in the oven and these little flags pop up to let you know they were done.
    Causing Driver also to remember a man from his youth.
    Every day Sammy drove his mule cart through the neighborhood crying out Goods for sale! Goods for sale! His cart was piled high with things no one had need of, things no one wanted. Chairs with three legs, threadbare clothing, lava lamps, fondue sets and fishbowls, National Geographics. Day after day, year after year, Sammy went on. Why and how, no one knew.
    “Can I cut in?”
    Driver looked to his left.
    “Double vodka, straight up,” Standard told the barkeep. He took his drink to a table near the back, beckoning Driver to follow.
    “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”
    Driver shrugged. “Working.”
    “Any chance you’d be available tomorrow?”
    “Could be.”
    “I’ve got something lined up. One of those check-cashing places. Way off the beaten path—off any path. Nothing around at all. Gets its bankroll for the week—and for the weekend—tomorrow before opening.”
    “And you know this how?”
    “Let’s just say, someone I met. Someone lonely. Way it looks, we’re in and out in five, six minutes tops. Half an hour later you’re sitting over a lunch of prime rib.”
    “Okay,” Driver said.
    “You have a vehicle?”
    “I will have. The night’s still young.” On one hand, he didn’t like so short a lead. On the other, he’d had his eye on a Buick LeSabre in the next apartment complex. Didn’t look like much, but the engine sang.
    “Done, then.” They set a meet time and rendezvous point. “Buy you dinner?”
    “I’m easy.”
    Both of them had steaks smothered in a slurry of onion, peppers and tomato, sides of black beans, pimento-studded rice, flour tortillas. Beer or two with dinner, then back to the bar after. TV’d been turned on but blessedly you couldn’t hear it. Some brainless comedy where actors with perfect white teeth spoke their lines then froze in place to let the laugh track unwind.
    Driver and Standard sat quietly together, proud men who would forever keep their own