Chapter 10

Dawn broke over the highway, crossed the asphalt flat and glanced Pepper's side mirror. He squinted in the sharp light and snapped his head, fighting exhaustion.

"Keep your floor to the, keep your foot on down there," he muttered, his voice dry and brittle.

In his weakness Pepper would let off the accelerator every few minutes before snapping his neck straight and plunging his foot again. Over the course of the night the odometer had turned 621 miles, the needle of his fuel gauge was pointing EMPTY. With his foot slipping again from the pedal Pepper's head drooped into the steering wheel. He corrected his posture at the sound of the car horn.

"All right," he said aloud. "All right."

He turned the car into the next exit ramp and followed a sign for the first motel. The familiar pattern of filling stations and diners led the way to the motel, Tasty Bites All Nite, gasoline and cigarettes.

Pepper caught a sign for The Rip Van Winkle Motor Inn ahead. Its marquee read WINKS: $6/night. A neon illustration of a sleeping Van Winkle appeared along the roof. He turned the car into the lot and stopped it at the office.

Through the window Pepper could see there was no one standing at the counter. A shrill drone poured from the small lobby as Pepper opened the door. There was a small man vacuuming the floor, old and bald, very thin in a navy work suit with short sleeves. Several feet of white extension cord bunched at his feet. He watched the base of machine as he pushed it back and forth. Pepper waved to the man, he was turned away from the door.

"Hey!" Pepper called. The man continued to push and pull the vacuum, holding the cord away from his body with one hand. Pepper walked up behind the man and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped in surprised, dropping the cord and the handle to the vacuum, turning to Pepper.

"You scared me! Dammit!" he shouted over the machine.

"What?" Pepper yelled back.

The man bent over and switched the vacuum off.

"I said you damn near killed me, with fright."

"I'm sorry. I called but you didn't hear me."

"I guess not. I'm sorry for that. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like a room."

"Single bed or double?"

"Single."

"One bed or two?"

"One."

"All right."

"Could I get one on the back side of the motel? Away from the road?"

"Sure." The man walked behind the counter and without looking plucked a key from a ring of dozens without looking. He unlocked a cabinet filled with keys, hooks for every room. He handed a set to Pepper. "How's room 35 sound?"

"Just great," Pepper said, taking the key ring. "What's I owe you?"

"Well it's $6 per night."

"Like it says outside."

"Yessir."

"Okay, thanks."

"Yessir."

The room was small, it smelled of disinfectant. The floor was covered in a thick purple carpet and pushed against the wall was the promised single bed, a lamp, clock and a small dresser, at the back of the room were a shower stall and toilet. Pepper locked the door behind him, drew the curtains and fell, face down, onto the bed.

Dee and Bridgestone sat quietly in the office. The girl sat in a chair with her arms folded, leaning forward. Bridgestone has inserted himself behind his desk, he held his face in his hands and sighed.

"So that was it?" he asked.

"Yeah, just dropped me at the first pay phone we saw."

"And you called a taxi?"

"Uh huh. He said he worked on the car, that he was in trouble with the police."

"He is now."

"Has he been in trouble before?"

"Sure he has. But for drinking in public, being drunk in public. He stole some beer. Minor business."

"This could be the real deal."

"Who knows what he did to that car."

"And he stole yours."

"I'm not worried about that. I hardly use the thing. I'm not going to charge him with that."

"But he's running."

"He sure is. And he can't have a goddamn dime to his name."

"Are the police going to be back?"

"I'm sure. And if not we should call them. We can't hurt Pepper so much by telling them what we know. It's not much, we'll be able to keep clean with them."

"I guess so."

Bridgestone's chair let out a sharp creak as he leaned back. "Where's he going, now?"

"He didn't say. He only told me he was going to keep on driving."

"West?"

"Maybe so. Maybe not."

Bridgestone rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and looked to the ceiling of the office. He put his elbows on his desk and sighed heavily. Looking at the wall of the office he grunted.

"What?" Dee asked, sitting up slightly. She followed his gaze to the poster hanging next to the board, her eyes traced the length of the orange arch.

In room 35 of the Rip Van Winkle Pepper snored loudly. He was sprawled over the bed, his feet hanging over the end. A maid and her squeaking cart rolled to his door, the maid knocked. Pepper opened slowly opened his eyes, the knocking came again. The maid was turning the key in the door as Pepper sat up.

"Hello?" he called.

A voice gasped on the other side of the door. "Room service" called a voice from the other side of the door.

"It's okay. My sheets are still clean."

There was no response. Pepper could hear the wheels of the cart squeaking away.

Pepper rubbed his face and let out a moan. By the clock beside the bed it was just after 2PM. Pepper opened the top drawer of the dresser, inside was a small bible and a local telephone directory. He took the phone book and began leafing through. Air conditioning, alterations, ammunition, astrologers, automobiles. He read through descriptions for dealerships giving particular attention to used lots. A few had sprung for large color advertisements with photographs of the lots, colored pennants, worn vehicles.

There was a photograph of a large car lot, superimposed was a portrait of the dealer himself. In large yellow text,

PETE GRIGSBY
MANY MAKES AND MODELS
AUTOMOBILES BOUGHT AND SOLD

There was an address and a phone number. Pepper tore the page from the phone book and shoved it into his pocket.

At the motel office a woman was seated at the desk.

"Hello," she said as Pepper walked in.

"Hi. I've got a room already, number 35."

"Okay."

"Well I'm hoping you can tell me how to get to Burgess St."

"Oh, sure. That's easy. You go out of the lot, here, and make a right. Go down three blocks, make a right onto Canal and Burgess is just a few blocks down. What's the address?"

"Um," Pepper said, reaching for the ad. He unfolded the page. "1406," he said. The woman frowned at the page from the defaced phone book.

"Make a left at the light."

"Thanks a lot," Pepper said leaving.

The lot was much bigger than the photograph in the phonebook let on. Pick up trucks, two-doors, four-doors, even a few semi trucks at the edge of the lot.

"Mr. Grigsby's got it all," Pepper said as he pulled his car in. He took a few passes through the lot, driving slowly as a browsed. "No particular place to go," he said to himself as he passed low rider.

Pepper entered the office, there were a few chairs along the windowed wall looking over the lot and an empty reception desk. He rang the bell. A familiar face appeared, he waved to Pepper as he approached, his mouth chewing.

"Hi there!" he said adjusting the waist of his pants.

"Hi, I'd like to sell you my car."

"Great!" he said, his mouth still partially full. He swallowed. "Which is it?"

"It's right outside, here. The white four-door."

"All right, all right, let's take a look."

The two went outside and walked around the perimeter of the car. "Looks good, how many miles does she have?"

"83,000," Pepper said.

"Okay, okay. And how's she run?"

"Great as far as I can tell."

"I see," he stood with both hands in his pockets, rocked back on the balls of his feet. "Well, how much you looking to get for it?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know," Pepper said. He scratched at his cow lick. "Three hundred?"

Grigsby nodded. "All right, all right. I'm going to take it into the garage, get our mechanic to take a look and we'll talk some more. How's that sound?"

"Fine. That's fine," Pepper said.

"Great."

In the office Pepper thumbed through a airline magazine. He started reading an article, Down Home In Denver, when Grigsby returned.

"We're all through. And everything looks fine."

"Oh, good news, then."

"Yes."

"What'd we say earlier?"

"I don't know."

"I think it was three hundred?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Well I'd like to make it four."

"Hundred?"

"Yes. Four hundred."

"Gee, that'd be great."

"Then there's just the matter of the title."

"Oh. About that. I don't have it with me."

"Well, I see. I see. It's very difficult for me to buy a car without a title."

"Oh, is it? There isn't anything you can do?"

"There is something, but I'm afraid it isn't a cheap adjustment."

"I just don't have a title for the car, that's all."

"Well I could buy it, but I'm afraid it'd have to be for a little less."

"How much less?"

"I can give you only the original three hundred."

"Well that sounds fair. For a vehicle like this. After all, it is three years old."

"That is it. That it is."

Pepper played with the keys in his pocket. Grigsby folded his arms and leaned back on his heels. "Can you take cash?"


* * *


"Back in business," he said to himself. He reached for his wallet and cracked the fold open. He remembered Mr. Gerald Ford's wallet, swollen with bills. Pepper took the stack of money from the fold of leather and fanned it with his thumb a few times. "Talk about a chunk of change," he said.

Slowly, being sure to count each bill, sure that each bill was not stuck to the next, Pepper counted out his money. What had been spent from the original four hundred, added to the three hundred he'd received from selling Bridgestone's car. There was $642 in all.

"Almost six hundred and fifty dollars," Pepper said with his hands on his hips. He admired the grid of money laid out over the bed. "All of it's mine. Minus what I'm paying for this room," he said, counting the walls. He stacked the money into a single pile and put it back into his wallet. Pepper returned to the phone book, this time scanning for automotive repair shops.

It was a few easy blocks back to Canal Street. Pepper remembered passing the Evergreen Service Station on his trip to Pete Grigsby's. It has the same single-garage design of Bennett's and judging by the few cars out front seemed to have a steady clientele. Pepper walked onto the floor, from under the giant rolling door, and greeted the first person he saw.

"Hi," he said.

A man rolled out from underneath a red pick up. He was young, wearing a greasy baseball cap turned backwards.

"Can I help you?" he said.

"I'm looking for the man in charge."

"That would be Roger," he said wiping his hands. "Roger!"

A moment later a man emerged from a rear office. Roger was short and round, he wore a mustache, cramming his round nose and black eyes between heavy eyebrows. He wore a white dress shirt with short sleeves and a red tie. The man's blue trousers rode halfway up his round torso. "What's it?" he said pulling at his belt.

"This man here wants to talk to you."

"Is that so?" he asked, looking at Pepper.

"Yessir."

"What can we do you for?"

"Well I'm not here to have work done. I'm looking to do work."

"Come again?" the man said.

"Well I'm hoping you could give me a job."

"A job?"

"Yessir."

"I don't think we need any help at the moment."

"You sure about that?"

"Well what kind of spectacular services do you think you can provide the Evergreen Team?"

"I can change oil in 4 minutes."

"Flat?"

"Yessir. Sometimes less."

The man at the dolly laughed from under the car. Pepper cleared his throat.

"I'm not fooling," Pepper said.

"Well let's see it, then. Curtis, get out from under there," the man instructed.

"But I aint' through yet!"

"I said get out, come on."

Curtis wheeled out, wiped his hands on a rag before throwing it down.

"Let's see what you got, son," the man said.

Pepper got straight to work. With precision he raised the car with a jack and placed the jack stands, loosened the drain plug with a socket wrench, removed the oil filter, removed the oil filter cap and began adding oil. Under the car he replaced the drain plug, removed the drip pan, removed the jack stand and lowered the car. He stood up and dusted his hands.

"I'll be damned," Curtis said.

Roger shook his head. "I can't deny it. I'm impressed. You keep changing oil like than and we'll keep you around for a good long while."

"Oh that's great, sir," Pepper said smiling. "Really great. I knew I wouldn't let you down."

"When can you start?" Roger asked.

"Right away, sir."

"Great. There's a pick up outside, the orange one. Why don't you change the oil on that one, there?" he said. "Curtis will get you the keys."

"Sounds fine, sir."

Roger turned back to his office.

"Sir?" Pepper called out. "I don't think we got a formal introduction."

"Oh, that's right. Roger Vagts," he said holding out his hand.

"Stanley Sherman," Pepper said shaking.

"And that there's Curtis," Roger said pointing.

"And I'm here Curtis," he said pointing to himself with his thumb.

"A pleasure to meet the both of you."

Curtis handed Pepper the keys to the pick up.

"You got it from here?" Curtis asked.

"I guess I do," Pepper said walking towards the truck.

The driver's door was unlocked, Pepper climbed into the cabin. He took a deep breath and gripped the wheel tightly. From the truck he could see Curtis inside the garage, his legs poking out from under the vehicle. Pepper found the keys in his pocket, slid the right one into the ignition. He gave it a firm twist and pumped the gas.

"Here goes," he said, throwing the car into reverse. With a shriek of the tires, a black stain on the concrete, Pepper peeled out of the parking lot, onto Canal Street and slammed the accelerator for the freeway.