Friday, April 10, 2009

Hunter was in the blue Plymouth standing at the hospital entrance. He turned the key as Raymond got in…held the key, his foot pressing the accelerator, but the car wouldn’t start. It gave them an eager, relentless, annoying sound, as though it was trying, but the engine refused to fire… Hunter said, “Fucking car…”…"Drive this piece of shit, you know why they’re fucking going out of business.” The engine caught and Hunter said, “I don’t believe it.” City Primeval – High Noon in Detroit, Elmore Leonard, 1980 Clement bought a ten-shot .22 Ruger automatic rifle, a regular $87.50 value for $69.95, and a box of .22 longs at K-mart in the Tel-Twelve Mall. He went over to the typewriter counter and asked the girl if he could try one. She said sure and gave him a sheet of notepaper. Clement pecked away for a minute, using his index fingers, pulled the notebook paper out of the Smith-Corona and took it with him. He saw a black cowboy hat he liked, put it on and walked out with it…down a block to Red Bowers Chevrolet where Sandy Stanton was wandering around the used car lot in her high-heel boots and tight jeans. She saw him coming wit the black hat on, carrying the long cardboard box sticking out of the K-mart sack and said, “Oh my Lord, what have you got now?” He told her it was a surprise and Sandy brightened. “For me?” Clement said not, for somebody else. He looked around at the rows of “Fall Clean-up Specials” and asked her is she’d picked one out. Sandy led him to a Pontiac Firebird with a big air scoop and the hood flamed in red and gold, sunlight flashing on the windshield. “Isn’t it a honey? Looks like it eats other cars right up.” Clement said, “Sugar, I told you I want a regular car. I ain’t gonna street race, I ain’t gonna hang out at the Big Boy; I just need me some wheels in your name till things get a little better. Now here’s seven one-hundred-dollar bills, all the grocery money till we get some more. You buy a nice car and pick me up over there – if I can make it across Telegraph without getting killed – where you see that sign? Ramada Inn? I’ll be there having a cocktail.” Sandy got him a ’76 Mercury Montego, sky blue over rust, with only forty thousand miles on it for six-fifty plus tax and Clement said, “Now you’re talking.” A boy who was born on an oil lease and traveled in the beds of pickup trucks till he was twelve years old would be likely to have dreams of Mark VIs and Eldorados. Not Clement. He had driven, had in his possession for varying periods of time in his life, an estimated 268 automobiles, all makes and models, counting the used ’56 Chevy four-barrel he’d bought when he was seventeen and the used TR-3 he’d bought one time when he was feeling sporty; all the rest he stole. Clement said cars were to get you from here to there or a way of picking up spending money. If you wanted to impress somebody, open their eyes, shit, stick a nickel-plate .45 in their mouth and ear back the hammer. City Primeval – High Noon in Detroit, Elmore Leonard, 1980