The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

M r. Barton’s head case

“Mr. Barton’s Head Case” appears here for the very first time in English. It was originally written for a German anthology of short stories that revolved around the biblical theme “Thou Shall Not Murder.” I chose the little-known story of Balaam and Balak, and it evolved into a modern-day fable with all the gravitas of the sixties series My Mother the Car, featuring Jerry Van Dyke. (Strangely, the car in that sitcom not only talked, it spoke in English. Just a step more bizarre than Mr. Ed, the talking horse: “Oh, Willlllburrrr!”)

And God opened the mouth of the she-donkey and she said to Balaam: “What have I done to you that you have struck me these three times?… Am I not your she-donkey on which you have ridden since you have been in existence, until this day? Have I ever been in the habit of doing this to you?”

– Bamidbar (Numbers) 22 parashat Balak

“It’s business,” he said. “nothin’ personal. well, maybe a little personal. Hell, it’s a lot personal. I can’t stand the son of a bitch! You wanna know why?”

Actually, Billy didn’t want to know why. The less he knew, the better. But the man was paying him good money, so he played the game. “Why’s that, Mr. Barton?”

“ ’Cause he’s a goddamn self-righteous son of a bitch, that’s why. Comes from nothin’… less than nothing. Comes from garbage. And now that he’s got a badge, he thinks he’s hot shit.”

“A badge?”

“Yeah, a badge. He’s a Fed.”

“Whoa, whoa, Mr. Barton,” Billy protested. “You didn’t say anything about knocking off a Fed.”

“What?” Barton’s eyes narrowed to slits, swallowed up by the thick lids that topped them. “You think I’m payin’ you all this money to pop Joe Schmuck?”

“You didn’t say anything about a Fed, sir.” Billy touched the knot of his tie, a Stefano Ricci. Put him back heavy in the buck department, but only the best. The jacquard silk had been dyed jewel blue, perfectly setting off his crisp white Brioni shirt. His mocha-colored double-breasted suit was Kiton, a cashmere blend and made to measure. His barrel chest necessitated custom clothes. “Feds got protection, sir. Heavy-artillery protection. At this stage in my life, I’m not sure I want the heat.”

“What stage?” Mr. Barton protested. “C’mon, Billy. What are you? Thirty-five? Forty?”

“Forty-two.”

“You’re a young man.”

“I’ve seen a lot of action, Mr. Barton. I’ve had a good career. You want to go out on a high note, you know what I’m saying?”

“I’m paying for your high note.”

“I’m not saying the money isn’t good. It’s good. Your money is always good, sir. But there are other considerations.”

The old don slid back into his leather chair, interlaced his stubby fingers, and set them in his lap. “You gotta do this for me, Billy. I ain’t givin’ you an option, I’m givin’ you an order.”

Billy regarded Barton in his flashy silver lamé Valentino getup. Same black shirt and tie-yesterday’s statement. The man had no originality, no class. “Sir, with all due respect, and I’m giving you lots of respect ’cause you deserve it, sir. But with all of the respect-due and otherwise-I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. And if I’m not comfortable, that very much increases the chance of a fuckup. And the one thing you don’t want, sir, is that fuckup. So you can order me to do it. And knowing who you are and all that, I’d do it. But keep in mind what I just told you.”

“You’re gonna fuck this up on purpose?”

“I never fuck up anything on purpose.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Now Barton was irritated. Not good to get him irritated, especially because Billy knew that Barton had a Heckler amp; Koch 9mm Parabellum resting in his desk drawer. Probably had other pieces as well. Not to mention those two gorillas outside the office door, and the two gorillas down the hallway. Barton had more gorillas than the Bronx Zoo. Billy felt naked without his piece, but it was part of the process. Whenever he went to see Mr. Barton, the goons outside always copped his steel.

Billy pretended to be thinking about things, busied himself by looking around the office. Barton had come up in the world- from a two-bit bouncer to the head of a very lucrative construction firm. He had punctuated his rise in social status by acquiring things-the big hulking rosewood desk, the new wet bar with the Lalique Scotch tumblers (the clod had left the labels on the bottom of the glasses), and the contemporary artwork that Billy’s three-year-old niece could have done in her sleep.

“You ain’t answering my question, Billy.”

“Look, sir…” Billy leaned across the desk. “This is a prime opportunity for some young stud to cut his teeth on. I’m getting old-yeah, I know, I know, I’m only forty-two. But I’m getting out of the business soon. Maybe it would be best if you started breaking in someone with a little more grit.”

“You’re the best. I want the best!”

Billy said nothing. No sense disagreeing with the obvious.

Mr. Barton laughed, showing off big porcelain-capped teeth. That grin sitting between heavy shadowed jowls reminded Billy of a bulldog. When Barton was younger, thinner, he’d been a dead ringer for Richard Nixon, right down to the ski-slope nose. Now the man was a quintessential crime boss-the gaudy custom suit, the blow-dried gray hair, the collar pin, the gold Rolex, and the flashy pinkie ring. Still, Billy was smart enough to know that although Barton was a caricature, he was no cartoon.

“It’s the money, right?”

“I already told you that money wasn’t the issue.”

“Money is always the fuckin’ issue,” Barton growled. “I’ll make it worth your while, Billy.”

“You already did that, sir.”

“I’ll give you double.”

Billy couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

“You heard me, kiddo. I’ll give you double.”

“You must really hate this guy.”

“Yeah, I do. He gets in my way.”

Again Billy looked around the room, but in his mind, he was already spending the cash. Amber would look dy-na-mite parading around the Caribbean, wearing one of those skimpy little things… basically tit pasties and butt floss. She had the body, that was for sure, and what Mother Nature had left out, surgery sure helped along. “Yeah…” Billy nodded. “Yeah, okay. You want it done that bad, I’ll make sure it gets done.”

Barton grinned. “See, I told you it was the money.”

“You’re right, Mr. Barton. You’re definitely right!”

“You can smile now, Billy.”

Billy felt his lips move upward, then he felt himself beaming. “You are one hell of a crazy motherfucker-”

“Watch your mouth!”

“You’ve got a file on this guy?”

“Do I got a file on this guy?” Barton leaned back in his chair. “Pshhhh. I got everything you want on this guy, twenty-four/seven. I know when he wakes up in the morning to take a piss, I know how he takes his coffee, I know where he stops to buy his lotto ticket, I know what position he likes best when he fucks his old lady. She’s okay, you know. The old lady. You might wanna-”

“It leaves evidence, sir.”

Barton laughed. “You never heard of a rubber?”

“As tempting as it sounds, I’d like to get the job done cleanly. In and out.”

“Clean, dirty, I don’t care. Just so it gets done and it don’t come back to haunt me. You wanna know what the beef is, Billy?”

“Anything you want to tell me, Mr. Barton, I’m listening.”

“The beef is, he’s a self-righteous son of a bitch. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us. Makes all of us working stiffs look bad.”

Barton was repeating himself. Billy said, “I don’t like self-righteous assholes, either.”

“He came from garbage. He got above his raising. Such impudence can’t go unpunished.”

Billy nodded. “I’ll take the file whenever you want.”

“Go on, Billy. Tell me how you’ll do it.”

“As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know.” Billy tried out his best smile. “I’ve got to read the file first.”

“Fair enough.” Barton leaned forward. “You still ride that piece-of-shit jalopy?”

“I don’t need anything fancy.”

“Fancy is one thing. But that broken bag of bones? What is it? A Honda or a Hyundai or a Daewoo… some small piece of Oriental crap. Don’t you need something with accelerated pickup?”

“The engine’s modified, sir.”

“Why don’t you get yourself one of those nifty little two-seater jobs from the Krauts? They really know how to tune an engine.”

“Those kind of cars are noticeable, Mr. Barton. What you want for the job is something plain and ordinary. Like Sal.”

“Who the fuck is Sal?”

“My car, sir. Her name is Sal.”

Barton gave him a strange look. “You name your car, Billy?”

“Yeah. We’re like… like old friends. She’s my workhorse. A mule, actually. That’s why I named her Sal, after that song about the Erie Canal from grade school.”

Barton looked at him with suspicious eyes.

“You know what I’m talking about?”

“I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“The mule that helped build the Erie Canal…” Billy hummed a few bars. “That don’t sound familiar?”

“Not in the least. I went to Catholic school. Only thing I remember about the music was a chance to stare at Katherine O’Neal’s tits as she sung in the choir.” Mr. Barton shook his head. “Just make sure it don’t break down.”

“I guarantee you she won’t. We’ve been through a lot together, Sal and me. She’s sort of my… my good-luck charm.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t tell you how to do your job. But I am saying that she could use a permanent date with the compactor.”

“Maybe one day, but not yet.”

Barton got up from his chair, signaling Billy to do the same. He handed Billy a black briefcase. “Everything you need is in there.”

Billy nodded. The two men shook hands-a gesture of clinching the deal rather than one of trust or friendship. They stood eye-to-eye, locked for a moment in an ocular pissing contest. Then Billy broke it off. After all, the man was paying a considerable sum of cash. He held the rights to being the alpha dog. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Billy. As always, it’s a pleasure doin’ business with you.”

“Absolutely.”

“I do got a question for you.”

“What, sir?”

“You keep calling your hunk of junk a mule. And you also keep callin’ it a she. Aren’t mules males without balls?”

Billy thought for a moment.

The man wasn’t educated, but he sure as hell wasn’t stupid.

Billy did what he always did before he went on the road. He brought Sal in for a complete tune-up. Harry announced that she-in Billy’s mind, Sal was always going to be a she-was healthy and fit enough to travel anywhere Billy wanted to go. Afterward, he gave Sal a wash. Her bronze coat had faded to peanut-butter brown, and primer was peeking through some of the bigger dents, but Billy loved her more because of her imperfections. To him, the dings and scratches were war medals, emblems of fine service and a job well done. Her interior leather had begun to crack, little spiderweb lines in the seat cushions, but for a ten-year-old baby, she was still soft and supple.

The next part of the routine was the meal: the biggest, baddest, most cholesterol-laden piece of motherfucking cow you ever wanted to eat in your whole life, served specimen-rare-blue, they called it-with blood still running from the animal’s veins.

Just hit the beast over the head and put it on a plate.

The waiters knew what he liked, had heard him order like that before. Still, they laughed at his corny joke whenever he told it. They knew a good tip when it bit them in the ass. The eatery he liked best served his cow with a mound of french fries dripping with oil or a baked potato the size of Idaho. Salad, too. Yeah, it was good to eat something green. He called the meal his primary-color dinner-red, yellow, and green-until Amber pointed out that green wasn’t a primary color, blue was, and that green was actually a mixture of blue and yellow. That’s when he told her to shut up unless she wanted her crème brûlée shoved in her face. (He said it a little nicer, but that was the gist.)

After the meal came the bedroom calisthenics, one for the road, and usually pretty slow after eating all that meat. But Amber was patient and kept up the moans and groans until it was over. Then she’d fall deep asleep, her soft smooth leg draping over his. He’d catnap but inevitably wake up, leaving her apartment as she squeaked and snored with that cute little grunt of hers every time she exhaled. He liked Amber. She didn’t cost him a whole lot of money, she wasn’t too demanding, and she didn’t have a whiny voice. It was sultry-low and hoarse, no doubt from the cigarettes, but still, it was sexy.

Yeah, Amber was all right, he thought as he left her place, walking down the empty streets of the city. But Sal was better. Sal was his true-blue friend who always showed up no matter how tough the going got. The night was warm and muggy, and Billy heard the constant hum of air-conditioning from all corners. Life was decent and would be even better as soon as Billy took care of this business. He couldn’t say for sure that it was his last job, but he did have other things in mind now that he was older. He had lived within a four-mile radius his entire life, his spectrum of experience limited to the dull city rhythms of his formative years. The same people, the same food, the same girls, the same thugs. He was tired of freezing his bones off in the winter, tired of battling mold and damp walls and wind tunnels and freezing pipes and hissing radiators.

He wanted to try out new things: someplace that was warm in the winter with an ocean nearby. He could picture himself and Sal driving down the East Coast to the Keys to visit his sister, Fiona, who was a big pain in the ass but was the only living relative he had who still talked to him. Her husband was a doofus but played a decent game of golf.

Surely he could do better than Fiona.

How about cross-country? A coast-to-coast excursion, just Sal and him and the open road. Maybe find some hot little spot in Ma-li-bu!

The heels of his shoes made a clacking sound on the sidewalk as he dreamed about his future.

Trouble was, the Malibu chicks liked those sardine-box sports cars-little two-seater numbers with souped-up motors and ear-blasting boom-box jungle-bunny stereo. No, no, no, anyone who couldn’t appreciate Sal didn’t stand a chance with him.

He took off his jacket and draped it over his arm and thought some more.

Those Malibu babes were fine numbers. He remembered that bathing-suit special about them on T V, all those luscious asses. So hey, if the girls wanted glitz, he’d get a Harley. He certainly could afford one after this job, that was for sure.

A Fed.

He really didn’t want to whack this Fed or any Fed. Feds had protection. Feds had nice families and went to church picnics and taught their kids how to play baseball… Well, not all Feds. He didn’t know a thing about the Fed Barton wanted him to take out. Maybe this Fed was a monster. Maybe he was that kinda self-righteous prick who would hide under the guise of being a law-abiding citizen, be all prim and proper but would be, in actuality, a secret diddler of little boys.

Billy thought about that as he made his way home. In his mind, he was picturing this guy-this Fed-coming in backdoor on some little six-year-old boy screaming bloody murder.

It always helped to demonize the enemy.

The Fed had a name: Benny Jacopetti. He was middle-aged, average height, average build, average face, just an average guy with nothing that distinguished him from any of the other working stiffs. The guy had a family that included a wife and a slew of kids. He lived in a spanking-new housing development in the middle of nowhere. That was a mixed bag-the city versus the burbs. In the city, Billy was a known quantity; the police were constantly on his ass. Also, town cops were much sharper than their suburban counterparts. But it was also bad, because that far into the burbs, the wilderness, really, there wasn’t any cover… nowhere to hide. Things got spotted and reported and gossiped about.

That meant the city wasn’t the ideal location, but the burbs weren’t any better.

He’d clean him on the road.

Mr. Barton hadn’t been lying when he said he had Jacopetti’s life down to the minute. After a few days of spotting, the guy’s routine was as predictable as sunrise. He left the house around seven to get in to work at eight, leaving Billy about an hour of commuter time to get the job done. The route broke down into the following legs.

Trek One:

This portion of the journey-about ten minutes-took Jacopetti from his house to a bypass road, traveling through suburban developments and past a couple of shopping malls. Wide-open spaces, no cover, and other cars on the streets. Meaning it wouldn’t serve his needs for the job.

Trek Two:

Tooling down a bypass road: another twenty minutes. This route meandered through the posh houses of the burbs: two-story brick estates sitting on lots of land. Most of the homes were perched on a knoll of lawn, obscured by mature trees and thick clumps of planting. The majority of the area was even devoid of sidewalks. No big commercial developments, only cute little Victorian houses that doubled as offices: One was a real estate agency, another rented to a law firm, and a hairdresser and nail salon took up a third. There were also a couple of small cafés and a Starbucks.

Wherever you went in America, there was a Starbucks.

Four dollars for a cup of java.

And the Feds accused the loan sharks of usurious vigs.

On this pathway, there was better coverage due to the trees. But because it was a bypass road, there was often tons of morning traffic. Plus, the road narrowed down to two lanes, making quick escape in a car damn near impossible. Also, good ole Sal would stick out among all the Mercedeses and Beemers that marched in the early-morning workers’ commute.

Billy scratched Trek Two as a possibility.

Trek Four:

Jacopetti’s route to his job ended with a twenty-minute ride on the highway. Billy was tempted to whack him while racing down the multilane roadway. Here, Sal would blend into the clump of morning traffic-just another hunk of steel chugging down the pockmarked asphalt. But there were other considerations besides fitting in. Billy would have to make a quick getaway. He’d have to make sure that no one saw him pull the piece.

That was the trick.

On the highway, there was always traffic, and that meant there were always possible witnesses. Also, what if there was an accident that caused vehicular backup? It would stink if he shot Jacopetti only to get jammed because of a bumper-to-bumper tie-up.

No, the highway was out.

Trek Three was the option of final resort:

For a lone ten minutes, Jacopetti turned off the first bypass road, detouring onto a smaller secondary bypass road-a bypass to the bypass-that twisted and turned but eventually led to the on-ramp to the highway. Sometimes the lanes got crowded. But at least half the time, traffic was light, almost empty, especially if Jacopetti got an early jump from the house. This small swath of asphalt had only two stoplights and, like the first bypass road, it meandered through large properties but for a major exception.

There was this one spot, a nature preserve that was filled with overgrown bushes and large trees. The parking lot to the forest was hidden behind foliage. It sat at the first of the two traffic light intersections, neither street having any visible road signs. You just had to know it was the first intersection in the bypass to the bypass.

Billy thought this looked promising, so he scoped out the surroundings.

About twenty yards from the lot-twenty feet into the park- stood a tall, lush pine tree next to a thick old cedar, forming a green wall of foliage and needles. Both trees fronted the road. Almost directly behind the cedar and the pine was an old oak that met up with an old sycamore, their branches melting into a leafy canopy. The spot was perfect: nestled and secluded, with a great view of the road and the parking lot. The topper was this little tiny service lane that started at the parking lot, snaked through the park grounds, then ended at the first bypass road across the street from a big mother brick colonial house.

So here was the plan.

Every morning around six-thirty, Billy would drive over to the park and wait, perched in the oak tree, hidden by all the leaves and brush. He’d bide his time, drink a cup of coffee, do the crossword puzzle until it was close to J-time. Then he’d pick up his gun and stare out through the scope, waiting for Jacopetti’s station wagon to travel over the second bypass road. Most of the time, Jacopetti would make the light: That couldn’t be helped, because the traffic light favored the road, which meant it was green most of the time. But odds had to have it that one time- one itty-bitty time-Jacopetti would miss the light. Then he’d have to wait at the intersection, even if it was just for a moment.

That was all Billy needed: a single moment to clip him.

After the pop, he’d simply scale down from his arboreal hiding spot, jump into Sal, and tear out the back way, dumping the gun while speeding through the park. Then he’d hook up with the first bypass road, which led out to the highway, where he’d be free and clear.

He’d wait a couple days, then pay Mr. Barton a quick visit.

With this final and fruitful score put to bed, he’d be off the radar. It would be retirement from his old life, sunbathing in Florida or Ma-li-bu or someplace with an ocean.

Free and clear with bread falling out of his pockets.

That was the plan.

The first week, Jacopetti made the light, flying through the intersection at high speed. The second week, Jacopetti made the light five times in a row. Third week, same story. Billy was getting pissed.

To make up for the supreme waste of time he had passed perched in a tree getting needles in his ass, he decided to pack a bender over the weekend, drowning out his bad luck with Scotch and sodas. So it was as hard as hell to wake up Monday morning. Even with the money incentive looming large in the back of his mind, Billy was groggy with a hangover and in a foul mood. He managed a quick shower, then put on a polo shirt, a pair of chinos, and sandals without socks. He packed his gun in the waistband of his pants, locked the door to his apartment, and then went underground to fetch Sal from her parking space.

From the moment Billy fired up Sal’s ignition, he was on autopilot. Going through the route without thinking about it until the unexpected happened. At 6:22 on a muggy summer morning, eight minutes before Billy’s arrival at the nature reserve, Sal stalled.

“Shit!” Billy proclaimed. “This is all I fucking need.”

He tried again.

The engine kicked in, but as soon as he slipped the transmission into drive, it died.

“Fuckin’-A shit!” Billy popped the latch for the hood and got out of the car. He stared at the engine block. Nothing was smoking, and the fluids looked okay. He checked the tubes, then the wires. Everything seemed in working order.

So what’s up with that?

He got back inside, slamming the door, and tried the ignition again.

The engine spat out a few helpless coughs and then died.

“Fuck!” Billy pounded the dashboard.

Sal said, “Cut it out!”

Billy’s heart started racing, his eyes widening as he sat up and jerked his head from side to side.

What the fuck was that?

Calm down, Billy! You’re hearing things.

Okay, okay, try the motor again.

He tried the motor again. It was silent, as dead as his last whack in Jersey.

This time he slapped the steering wheel.

“Ouch!” Sal protested. “Whatcha doin’, Billy? Why you takin’ out your frustration on me?”

This time Billy sat still, his hands balled up into fists. “Who said that?”

“Who do you think said that?” Sal said. “You think it’s the trees talkin’ or something?”

Billy’s eyes darted from side to side, but he remained motionless. “Who… are… you?”

“You have to ask?” Sal said. “We only been partners for, like, ten years. I, for one, am insulted. And while I got your attention, stop slammin’ the door. Just like you, I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

Billy swallowed hard. “Sal?”

“Fuckin’ bingo! Can we get out of here? We ain’t gonna get anything done today.”

Billy sat up in the seat. He shook his head several times, knocked on his forehead. “Let me get this right. You’re Sal… my car… and you’re talking to me.”

“Ain’t no one else here.”

Throwing back his shoulders, Billy opened and closed his mouth. He checked the CD player. It was empty. The radio was off.

What the H is going on?

If you can’t beat it, join it. Billy decided to play along. “Cars don’t talk.”

“Guess again,” Sal said. “Look, Billy, I understand your confusion. Normally I don’t talk. But extraordinary circumstances demand extraordinary things. First of all, you’re whoppin’ me, and I didn’t do nothin’ to deserve that, so stop, okay? I mean, we’ve been together for ten years. Haven’t I always gotten you from point A to point B without a hitch?”

Billy broke into a sweat. “Yeah. Yeah, you have.”

“I’ve been good to you, right?”

“Right.”

“So why you whoppin’ me? I tell you, guy, you’re losing it.”

And that was a true statement. Because here Billy was, having a conversation with a car.

Sal said, “You ain’t gonna make it to the park today. Let’s just get out of here.”

Billy’s eyes continued to flit in their sockets. “Why’s that?”

“Why’s that?” Sal sounded frustrated. “Open your eyes, Billy. We can’t get nowhere with that tree impedin’ the roadway. I can talk, sure, but I can’t pole-vault. I’m a friggin’ car, for God sakes! Just turn me around and let’s go home.”

Billy looked at the road.

And there it was. The toppled tree had to have been at least sixty feet tall, the five-feet-diameter trunk lying across the asphalt, completely blocking both lanes of the bypass roadway.

“Motherfu- Why didn’t I see it before?”

“You know, Billy, you’re a good guy, but sometimes you don’t trust yourself. When you said you didn’t want to clean a Fed because Feds are protected, maybe you shoulda stuck to your guns. Maybe this is the Big Guy’s way of telling you to follow your instincts.”

Shaking his head, Billy continued to stare at the tree. “I can’t understand why I didn’t see it before.”

“Billy, did you hear what I told you?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Yeah, yeah, yourself. Go back and tell Mr. Barton that it ain’t gonna work with the Fed.”

“I can’t do that. He already paid me fifty percent down.”

“So give him back the money. Givin’ up the money is better than sitting in Sing Sing.”

Just then the absurdity of the situation dawned on him. He was carrying on a conversation with his car. No, not just a conversation. A debate! An argument! And as far as Billy was concerned, the car was winning.

“Look,” Sal said. “There’s no sense discussing this here. People are gonna start coming, traffic’s gonna be murder. You ain’t gonna do anything today with this mama log blocking the street. So go home and do me this one favor, okay? Tell Mr. Barton no. I mean, I’ve been with you ten years-perfect service-so you owe it to me to just think about what I said, okay?”

“Okay,” Billy answered. “Okay, let’s go home.”

He put the key in the ignition, turned it to the right, and the engine fired up as sound and strong as ever. Billy blew out air, did a U-turn, and headed home.

Sal was making perfect sense.

More sense than any other broad he’d ever talked to.

It took Billy three days to fully realize the absurdity of the situation. He was listening-no, not just listening-scratching a lucrative job on the advice of a talking car! But knowing he was sane, that he wasn’t prone to auditory hallucinations even when piss-drunk, he eventually accepted the ludicrous predicament as real.

Still, he spent time reevaluating his options, which were really only two-to do it or not to do it. Not to do it involved talking to Mr. Barton and telling him why he didn’t want to do it. When Billy thought about that, it really wasn’t an option at all. Though he knew he wasn’t crazy, Billy couldn’t figure out how to explain a loquacious vehicle to Mr. Barton.

So there was no choice. He had to do it. And while it was true that he was fond of Sal-they’d been through lots together-it would be a cold day in hell before he’d let anyone or anything dictate who he’d clean. People talked all the time, and Billy never listened. No way a car was gonna tell him what to do.

It offended the sensibilities.

“I’m tellin’ you, this ain’t a good idea-”

“Shut up!”

“Now you’re getting nasty,” Sal said. “See? Already you’re chokin’.”

“Don’t you come with a mute button?”

“Ten years, we never have one disagreement. I open my mouth one friggin’ time for your own good, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Sal, I love you, but you’re sounding like a broad.”

“I am a broad. You made me a broad!”

“I mean a human broad.”

Sal let out a cough from the engine in disgust. “Billy, I’m scared. I’m scared it ain’t gonna work and they’re gonna take me away from you. You know what happens if someone else gets ahold of me?”

“No one’s going to take you away from me.”

“It’s compactor time.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, okay?” Billy was getting pissed. Sal was sounding more and more like a broad with each passing moment. Billy figured if he wanted to shut her up, he should use a little broad psychology. “Look, Sal. I promise you, it’s going to turn out fine. Nothing’s going to happen. We still got lots more miles in this relationship, okay? Trust me, baby. I promise you it’ll be okay.”

Again Sal’s engine coughed. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Billy. ’Cause I’d rather you junk me for parts than… than go to the compactor.”

“You’re not going anywhere, and no one’s going to junk you for parts. Don’t talk like that.”

Sal was quiet.

Billy said, “Hey, baby, just get me to the park and let me take it from there, all right? What the hey. Jacopetti will probably hit a green light, just like he’s been doing for the past three weeks, and this entire debate will be for naught.”

“I don’t know, Billy. I think it’s coming to a head.”

“Just get me there.” Sal got him there.

“Stay here,” Billy whispered to his car.

“Where am I going to go, Billy?”

“Shhhh.”

“Be careful, Billy. I love you.”

“Love you too, babe.” Billy closed the door gently and quietly. With practiced skill, he scaled the pine tree, taking up residence on his favorite branch, which was by now denuded of needles. The day was warm, the skies were clear, and his view was perfect. All he needed was Lady Luck to shine her sweet eyes on him this one last time and he’d be through. Maybe Sal would shut up and leave him alone for good. Because if she didn’t-if she persisted in spouting off unasked-for advice-he’d definitely ditch her. There was no way, shape, or form Billy was going to put up with Sal yapping at him when he couldn’t even get some sex out of it.

Billy took out his gun, settling it into a V-shaped intersection of branches to help support its weight. He aimed the bore of the weapon at the road.

“This ain’t a good idea,” the gun told him.

Billy’s mouth fell open.

The seconds ticked by. The gun said, “Did you hear me?”

“Et tu, Brute?”

The gun sighed. “If your car’s tellin’ you it ain’t gonna work, and I’m tellin’ you it ain’t gonna work, then maybe you should start listening.”

“This is unreal!”

“Go back to Mr. Barton-”

“Fuckin’-A unreal!” Billy let go of the grip. “I’m going crazy!”

“No, you’re just being stubborn as a mule.”

“Fuckin’ nuts! I’m getting out of here!”

Billy started down the tree. As luck would have it, the light turned red. Jacopetti’s wagon slowed, then braked to a stop.

“What about me?” the gun asked as Billy climbed down the trunk of the oak. “You ain’t gonna just leave me here, are you?”

“Fuck you!” Billy shouted.

“Don’t talk like that to me! What have I ever done but given you good service-”

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” Billy shouted to his weapon as his feet hit the ground.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Sal wanted to know.

“Fuck you, too!” Billy screamed.

Jacopetti rolled down his window and stuck out his head. “Hey, buddy, you need some help?”

Billy was frothing at the mouth. When he saw it was Jacopetti, his eyes went wide. He ran over to him, panting and sweating. “You gotta get outta here, mister. They’re out to get you.”

“It’s okay, buddy-”

“No, it isn’t okay, mister, I’m telling you, they are really out to get you. He sent me to do it, but then the car and the gun… they told me not to. They both said to me, ‘Don’t do it, Billy, don’t do it.’ So when a car and a gun start talking to you, you know you better start listening.”

“Buddy, I’m going to call someone for you,” Jacopetti said. “I’ll wait until someone gets here-”

“No, you can’t wait. You’ve got to leave. Just because I didn’t do it don’t mean that it’s not going to get done. He’ll just hire someone else for the hit. I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out of here!”

“I will, just as soon as someone comes to help you!”

A horn honked. Jacopetti pulled the wagon onto the side of the road. “Just stay here. I’ll wait with you.”

“No, you’ve got to get out of here!” Billy pounded on the hood of Jacopetti’s car. “Out!” Another series of sharp pounds. “Out, out, OUT!”

And that was the way the ambulance found him-thumping on the hood of Jacopetti’s car, warning him of danger and murder and ranting on about cars and guns that could talk.

The day was beautiful-clear skies with a slight perfumed breeze. The lawn was exceptionally green and sparkling from its early watering with the hose. Almost everyone was outside today, enjoying the wonderful weather. Even Fiona’s spirits were lifted as she scraped the bottom of the bowl with a spoon, offering its contents to the man huddled in the rocking chair. As the spoon neared his mouth, his lips opened like automatic supermarket doors.

Fiona smiled as she extracted the spoon from her brother’s mouth. “Billy, you ate very well today.”

There was no response.

“Ah, Billy, it’s such a pretty day. The flowers are blooming, the birds are singing. The sky is blue… a perfect day for just lounging around. Maybe we should take a swing on the hammock. You used to love the hammock. Remember at Grandma’s, we used to swing on the hammock? And then Daddy would set up the tire and you’d push me high in the sky?”

Billy remained mute.

“So high,” Fiona recounted. “I used to feel like I was flying. I felt as light as a bird. You were such a good big brother.”

Nothing.

Fiona sighed. “Oh, Billy! If you could just nod or something… it would help. It would…” Tears in her eyes. “All you have to do is talk, Billy. When you start talking, the doctor says that’ll be a breakthrough. Then… then there’s a good chance that we can get you outta here. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To come back to my house? I got a room set up in the back with a TV and a treadmill.”

She punched her brother’s arm. “Just in case you want to keep in shape.”

Billy continued to stare out through vacant eyes.

“C’mon, Billy. Nod or grunt or fart or do something. You don’t want to stay here the rest of your life, do you?”

But Billy didn’t answer.

Fiona blew out air. “Billy, I’ll be right back. I gotta take a pee. You just…” She patted his knee. “You just enjoy yourself. I’ll be right back.”

The warm sun beat down on Billy’s back. In the stillness of the summer morning, if Billy strained hard enough, he could hear the sound of waves lapping on the distant shoreline.

A small smile tickled his lips.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Why should he?

He finally got his place by the beach.