Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 94

“Three thousand,” I remind him.

Arthur points his toothpick at me. “A smart bidnessman. I like that. Three thousand dollars it is.” Arthur M. Limbaud’s dry, cracked face spreads into a grin that makes the short black hairs of his mustache stand at attention. “Son, you have got yourself a deal.”

This means for sure we are buying a piece of shit that no one else would touch. I don’t care if it’s held together by spit and rubber bands. I just need something that costs less than three thousand dollars and can get us to Florida in one piece.

“Sounds great,” I say. “Uh, can we see it?”

“Getting there, buckaroo. It’s a process.” Arthur puts his arm around me. “See, son, when I sell somebody a car, I feel like I’m sellin’ ’em a little piece of me. I’m like their daddy. So, seein’ as that’s how I feel, I’m gonna take the liberty of givin’ you some father-son advice. You ready for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur lets his tongue twirl the toothpick in his mouth for a full ten seconds. With tobacco-stained fingers, he pulls it out and pokes it at me. “A car is a lot like a woman. If you treat her right, give her what she needs when she needs it, she’ll get you where you’re going and not give you a peep of trouble. But if you treat her bad, she’ll cut out on ya. You unnerstand me?”

That’s it? That’s his father-son advice? Christ.

“Yes, sir. Got it.”

“Fine, fine.” He claps, then rubs his hands together. “All-rightythen. Let’s go see your beauty.”

He leads us out through rows of gleaming cars with their orange advertising balloons tied to the windshield wipers. Gonzo looks hopefully at each car, expecting the next one to be it. I’ve got Balder in my arms.

“What’s that there, yer mascot?” Arthur asks, pointing to Balder.

“Sort of,” I say.

“Cute little feller.”

Arthur turns a corner and we’re on a second lot tucked away behind a service garage. The cars here are like the kids who never get adopted on those TV news programs, the ones who’ve been shut away in Romanian orphanages their whole lives. Arthur takes us to the very end of the lot, where a big boat of a car sits. It’s a sort of gold color sprayed over a light blue, with dents in the passenger side door. On the front hood where an ornament should be sits a pair of large cattle horns. They’ve been rigged to the front with wire. It makes it seem like the car has a mustache.

“Gen’lemen—the Caddy Rocinante!” Arthur pries open the passenger door with a loud creak. “Slide on in. Feel ’er out, boys.”

We crawl in and settle back against the cracked vinyl seats. The foam padding’s coming out in spots. This car has the vehicular equivalent of mange. And an oversized boom box has been affixed to the dashboard by the previous owners. But the giant steering wheel’s solid in my hands, and I love looking out past the cattle horns at the sun sparkling in bursts off the hoods of other cars.

Arthur hands me the keys. “Start ’er up.”

The Rocinante grumbles, wheezes, shakes, and finally purrs into service. I’ve never had my own car.

“How’s she feel?” Arthur shouts over the engine.

“Awesome,” I say, enjoying the vibrations under my fingers.

“Dandy,” Arthur says. “We’re all set for the paperwork.”

Reluctantly, I cut the engine and slide out. Arthur takes the keys again. “I just need your license and a parent to cosign.”

“Y-you do?” I stammer. “My parents are dead.”

Arthur’s mustache twitches. The toothpick rolls from one side of his mouth to the other. “We-eee-lll, son, we got ourselves a sitchooashun. You ain’t a legal adult, and I can only sell to legal parties.”

Without the Caddy, we’re stuck hitching or trying to get on a bus or train, where we are sitting ducks for every cop with a scanner. We need this car.

Balder waves his arm over Mr. Limbaud. “These Star Fighters are not worth the trouble,” he says in a weird, artsy-fartsy voice. “You will help them escape.”

Arthur’s toothpick falls out of his mouth. “Did that thing just talk?”

“I … he … um,” I sputter.

Balder closes his eyes and lifts a hand. “Let them go.”

“Holy moley! How’dyoo get him to do that?”

“He’s a … toy,” I improvise. “A prototype.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Arthur says. “What else does he say?”