Twin Cities Noir (7 page)
It was Tom’s turn to shrug. “I guess.”
Jorge said, “Does it bother you he calls you
Frenchy
?”
Tom said, “I never really thought about it. Just like I never really think about why I’m still here.”
“I guess I like the flexibility,” Jorge said, “and the money’s not bad. It leaves me time for my music. That’s what I care about. Kind of like you and your French.” Jorge stopped, looking at Tom. “How long does it take to finish a French major, anyways? You’ve been at the U how long now?”
Tom thought a better question would be, how long had it been since he’d registered for a class at the U.
“It’s not like there’s a rule about how long it takes,” Tom said. “I’m doing a lot of independent reading. I’ll finish when I finish.”
Jorge’s eyes narrowed and he continued to look at Tom. “So you finish your French major or whatever. What do you do then?”
This was a question that Tom got a lot, and he liked it less every time somebody asked.
“It’s not like with a French major there’s a job that you do. I could do a lot of things. Like teach, or translate or—whatever.” He changed the subject. “The thing is, I’ll be qualified to do something. That’s what you need to be thinking about, Jorge. You need to have options. You need to have a Plan B in case your music thing doesn’t work out. You don’t want to end up like Earl, working at the impound lot when you’re sixty years old.”
“I got a Plan B,” Jorge said.
“Such as…?”
Jorge looked away from Tom. “You ever been to First Avenue?”
“First Avenue?”
“The club down by the Target Center. You know. Where Prince filmed
Purple Rain.
The Replacements played there in the ’80s. Every major rock and roll band from the ’70s and ’80s played there when they started out. It’s, like, a historic venue.”
“I was there once, I think. Music’s never been that big a thing for me,” Tom said.
“Maybe not for you, but for a lot of people, First Avenue is like Mecca. People who know anything about music, they’ll, like, come thousands of miles to see First Avenue. Just to breathe the air. Just to say they’ve been there.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring out how this music Mecca ties in with your Plan B.”
A smug look settled on Jorge’s face. “I’ve got two cans of the paint they used to paint the place. The original black paint.”
Tom shifted around a bit. “I’m still not seeing two cans of black paint as being your Plan B.”
“It was when I was helping out with the sound system at First Avenue. I found the paint in a back room at the club. One of the owners said I could have it. I’m going to sell it on eBay. It’ll be worth a fortune.”
“That’s it?” Tom said. “Two cans of black paint from First Avenue? That’s your Plan B?”
Jorge looked disgusted. “You really don’t know anything, do you? Some guy just sold part of a cheeseburger Elvis bit into for thousands on eBay.”
Tom shook his head. “All I can say is, good luck.”
“Timing,” Jorge said. “Timing is the thing. If they close First Avenue—if Prince dies—my price goes up.”
Timing turned out to be important the third time Earl ducked.
Earl’s third duck came during what everyone was calling the storm of the century. It started as an eerily balmy January morning: the sun dim early on, heavy clouds gathering as the day progressed. The snow started slowly, purposefully. Like it had plenty of time to do whatever it wanted to do.
What it wanted to do was bury Minneapolis. Not once, not twice, but three times over a five-day stretch.
Tom, Earl, and Jorge had been in place behind the bulletproof windows for thirty-six hours, taking turns sleeping on an inflatable mattress Earl had in a corner on the floor, when the guy in the camel-hair coat showed up.
He came up to the window without standing in line. Ignoring the shouting from his fellow towees.
“Here comes trouble,” Earl said. The guy in the camelhair coat wasn’t your typical towee. The only thing he had in common with your typical towee was that he was mad. Really mad.
“Money on it,” Earl said. “He’s the classic white Porsche parked in A-33.”
Earl pushed the speaker button. “Back of the line, buddy.”
The guy stabbed a leather-gloved finger against the glass, his mouth moving furiously. Behind him, a towee clapped both hands on the guy’s camel-haired shoulders and started to move him away from the window. The guy spun, sucker-punching the other towee.
“That’s it,” Earl said. “I’m calling security.”
In the minutes it took for security to show up, almost everyone in line was involved in the fracas. Earl turned the speaker on to tell security to take the guy in the camel-hair coat. Then he yelled, “Everyone else. Shape up, or nobody’s getting their cars out of here today!”
The speaker was on long enough for them to hear the guy in the camel-hair coat’s final words.
“This isn’t over, jerkoffs. That car is worth more than the three of you will make in a lifetime. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” Then he threw the tow ticket on the floor.
To the guy standing nearest the window, Earl said, “You. Pick up that ticket and pass it through.”
Earl looked at the ticket and said, “Yeah. The classic white Porsche. A-33. Just like I said.” He tossed the ticket to the side and said, “Georgie. Frenchy. Watch yourselves when you leave. What I said first. This guy is trouble.”
Nothing happened, except two days later a guy came to pick up the classic white Porsche. Not the guy in the camelhair coat, but the paperwork was in order, so they released the car.
“A lackey,” Earl said. “Some guy he’s hired to clean up after him. Probably a full-time job.”
Earl ducked on the fifth consecutive day of the snow emergency.
Things had wound down, mostly because every car that could possibly be towed had been towed by then. Lines at the window had dwindled and Earl, Tom, and Jorge were spending hours back on the air mattress, too punch drunk to organize themselves back to a normal schedule.
It had been just Earl and Jorge at the window when Tom, on the mattress, heard Earl say, “Oh shit. Look what they’re hauling in. A junker. I’ve told them a hundred times, a car like that isn’t worth the price of the ticket. It’s just gonna sit here, and the city’s gonna end up paying to get it towed out.”
He turned. “Tom, take the window. I’m going out to tell the tow truck to get that thing the hell out of here.”
From inside the service center they couldn’t see what happened, but they heard it. First a small pop. Then a boom, followed by quiet, followed by a series of booms, sequential, one going off after the other. They could feel the explosions as much as they could hear them. The floor under their feet vibrated.
“I always said, the third time I duck I’m done with impound work.”
Earl was still at Hennepin County Medical Center, Tom and Jorge standing beside his hospital bed.
“Everybody said I’m lucky. Once they get the metal or whatever out of me, I’m pretty much okay. Damn lucky that the first explosive didn’t go full bore. Bomb squad said there were three bombs in the trunk. Then it hit the gas tanks on a couple other cars. Only by the grace of God it didn’t take down the overpass.”
He looked at Tom and Jorge. “Man, wouldn’t that have been something? The whole shebang coming down?” I heard that first pop and I knew what was happening. Gave me time to duck.” He paused. “I told them. Told the cops. It was the guy in the camel-hair coat. I can smell it. Knew he wasn’t going to walk away from what happened.”
“So they’re going to get him?” Jorge said.
Earl frowned. “That’s the only thing that really bothers me about quitting now. They say one chance in a million they’ll be able to tie it to the guy in the camel-hair coat.” Suddenly, tears welled in Earl’s eyes. He reached out, putting bandaged hands on each of their arms.
“Not the only thing that bothers me about quitting. I’ll miss the two of you guys. I won’t forget that it was you guys who pulled me out.”
Tears rolled down Earl’s face. Embarrassed, he smiled. “I’m gonna will you my dirty drawers. The two of you will have to fight over who gets to wear ’em.”
“It’s okay, Earl,” Tom said. “We’ve been talking. It won’t be the same without you. We probably should have moved on a long time ago. We’re through with impound work too.”
They stood in front of the hospital for a while before they headed home.
Tom said, “Time to implement Plan B, Jorge.”
Jorge was quiet for a long time, then said, “I already did. Go ahead. Laugh. It didn’t work.”
Tom looked sideways at Jorge. “You put the paint on eBay?”
“The day the place blew up.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Not a nibble.” Jorge’s expression changed from depressed to angry. “I can’t believe it. I mean, where are people’s values, anyway? When a moldy cheeseburger is worth more than a piece of musical history…”
Surprising himself, Tom felt bad. At that moment, having Jorge’s Plan B work out would have made him feel better.
“Like you said, timing is everything. Who knows, a year or two from now it could still go big. Prince dies, you put the paint back on eBay with all the history about Prince and First Avenue…”
Jorge shook his head. But his face changed again. He didn’t look exactly happy, but he looked pleased with himself.
“Talking to Earl just now. It made me think. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hauling that paint around. It’ll just make me feel like a loser. I’ve got another idea.”
“Like what?” Tom said.
Tom pulled a wheeled piece of luggage behind him as he and Jorge walked down the parking ramp.
“You’re sure about this?” he said.
“I’ve spent the last week checking everything out,” Jorge replied. “Trust me. The setup is perfect for us. He’s got the Porsche parked in a special section just beyond the checkout booth. Supposed to give him extra security. But the checkout guy faces in the opposite direction, sleeps ninety percent of the time. If the Porsche was in the other part of the ramp, there’d be security cameras. But there’s nothing on the other side of the checkout booth. And it’s mostly contract parking, so not a lot of traffic going in and out this time of day. Just act normal.”
It was like Jorge said. The guy in the checkout booth didn’t even look up when they walked by him. There was a Lincoln Navigator next to the Porsche that completely blocked the view between them and the booth.
“Another piece of luck,” Jorge said, giving the Navigator a pat with his gloved hand. “You want to say something in French before we do this? Kind of like a baptism?”
“Let’s just do it and get out of here,” Tom said. He bent over and unzipped the suitcase, pulled out one can of paint, handing it to Jorge. Then he took out the second can and pried the lid off.
Together, it took maybe three minutes to cover the white Porsche in black paint. When there was maybe six inches of the thick, viscous old paint left in Tom’s can, he said, “Jorge. Check the driver’s side. See if the door’s open.”
“You want to do the interior?”
“No. I want to do the engine, if we can pop the hood.”
They were a half-block down the street when Tom noticed their boots were tracking black paint.
“Damn,” he said. “We’ve got to break our trail. Wipe down our boots over there, on that snowbank.”
Tom looked over his shoulder at the snow after they’d cleaned their boots.
“Now I want to say something in French,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“
Très convenable
,” Tom said.
“Tray what?”
“Very appropriate,” Tom said. “The snow back there. Where we wiped our boots. It reminds me of something that happened the first day I started working for Earl.”
K
id showed up at the river in the shadow of the High Bridge with a grin on his face, a bottle of Cutty in his hand, and a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket. Kid was usually in a good mood, but I’d never seen him quite so happy. Or so flush. And I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a bottle of good scotch.
It was going on dark. I had a pot of watery stew on the fire—rice mostly, with some unidentifiable vegetables I’d pulled from the dumpster behind an Asian grocery store.
I held up the Cutty to the firelight and watched the reflection of the flames lick the glass. “Rob a bank?”
“Better.” Kid bent over the pot and smelled the stew. “Got a job.”
“Work? You?”
“There’s this guy took me up on my offer.”
Most days Kid stood at the top of the off-ramp on Marion Street and I-94 where a stoplight paused traffic for a while. He held up a handmade sign that read, “
Will Work For Food.
” He got handouts, but he’d never had anyone actually take him up on his offer.
“What kind of work?”
“Chopping bushes out of his yard, putting new bushes in. This yard, Professor, I tell you, it’s big as a goddamn park. And the house, Jesus.”
He called me Professor because I have a small wire-bound notepad in which I scribble from time to time. Why that translated into Professor, I never knew.
I wanted badly to break the seal on the bottle, but it wasn’t my move.
Kid sat down crossed-legged in the sand on the riverbank. He grinned up at me. “Something else, Professor. He’s got a wife. A nice piece of work. The whole time I’m there, she’s watching me from the window.”
“Probably afraid you were going to steal something.”
“No, I mean she’s looking at me like I’m this stud horse and she’s a…you know, a girl horse.”
“Filly.”
“That’s it. Like she’s a filly. A filly in heat.”
I watched the gleam in Kid’s eye, the fire that danced there. “You already have yourself a few shots of something?”
“It’s the truth, swear to God. And get this. The guy wants me back tomorrow.”
“Look, are we just going to admire this bottle?” I finally asked.
“Crack ’er open, Professor. Let’s celebrate.”
Kid and I weren’t exactly friends, but we’d shared a campfire under the High Bridge for a while, and we trusted each other. Trust is important. Even if all you own can fit into an old gym bag, it’s still all you own, and when you close your eyes at night, it’s good to know the man on the other side of the fire isn’t just waiting for you to fall asleep. Kid had his faults. For a bum, he thought a lot of himself. That came mostly from being young and believing that circumstance alone was to blame for his social station. I’d tried to wise him up, pointing out that lots of folks encounter adversity and don’t end up squatting on the bank of a river, eating out of other people’s garbage cans, wearing what other people throw away. He was good-looking, if a little empty in the attic, and had the kind of physique that would probably appeal to a bored rich woman. He was good companionship for me, always eager and smiling, kind of like a having a puppy around. I didn’t know his real name. I just called him Kid.