Chapter Twenty
“There were no bounds to his generosity. Friends, strangers, and even his enemies, were welcome to his money, his horse, his clothes, or anything else of which he happened at the time to be possessed. The aged, the poor, the sick, the unfortunate and helpless never appealed to Billy in vain for succor.”
- Sheriff Patrick F. Garrett
the man who shot him in the back153
Armed with my list, I’m outside again. I was up all night going over the plan. I had one close call, passing out for a minute and waking up gasping for air, but I have no need for sleep. I’m buzzing. On the outside, the dawn is so strange. It lifts the eyelids just as the dusk lowers them. How long has it been, since the sun’s morning kiss graced my cheek? The solstice sun shines with shocking brightness whispering the false promise of an early spring as if the Gods themselves smile down upon my noble quest. Zephyr blesses me, blowing clean my matted hair. Although the Igbo may not agree, if you don’t sleep, strangers can’t subvert you, because your luck is leftover from the previous day. An aura of good fortune, like a force field, surrounds me. I feel it vibrating.
I check the list.
A man on foot is no man at all.154
I enter the lot. A sea of used cars flashes diamonds in the bright sun. I’m a little woozy from lack of sleep, yet paradoxically, I feel extra sharp, as if in tune with both the metaphysical and natural world simultaneously. My senses reach beyond normal parameters of perception. The musty smell of leaked oil and radiator fluid is sucked up by trees straining to purify the exhaust-saturated air. I can hear the hum of their little systems working overtime. The sound from the highway thrush of speeding cars is filtered through their rotting leaves as my soles crackle loose pebbles freeing themselves from the chipped asphalt tarmac upon which hundreds of cars float uneasily flayed by the wind. Each car grabs my attention as I walk past. They reach out and speak to me. An aged Impala, “Buy me!” A rusted Subaru with four-wheel drive, “No, me!” A late model Toyota Celica Hatchback, “Not that pile of junk, his former owner was a lush and cracked him up. Just look under the hood. Look at the paint smudges on the engine. It’s a chronicle of the countless paint jobs it took to hide each accident. Now if you look under my hood …”
I commune with the cars. I must know them before the salesman spins his web upon me and I’m no longer unable to tell Adam from Eve.
Then I see her.
She’s a redhead. Blood red. A convertible, with the top down to greet the rising sun. An open invitation. Her interior is jet black, off-setting the ruby redness of her hard body. In awe of her undeniable superiority over the lowly subjects surrounding her, I approach, softening my step in deference to her nobility. Her face is fierce: determined eye-like headlamps softened by a chrome-bumper Mona Lisa smile. Emblazoned across the bridge of her nose are four letters, F-O-R-D. They hover above a modest rectangular grill centered with the profile of a silver horse in mid-gallop with its head streaming forward and tail flowing behind in the wind.
mustang \mes-tanj\ n [mestengo, fr Spanish, stray]: small hardy horses of the American west descended from north African steeds brought over by the Spanish Conquistadors. Thousands roamed the western plains wild until 19th century expansion from the east depleted the herds. Known for its fiery temperament, cowboys often rounded up mustangs for use as work horses. Bronco Riding, a popular sport today, derived from old-time bronco busters who would ride or “break” wild mustangs into submission. See also bronco 1, pony 2, wild horses 1.155
“I see you really know your cars.”
The voice startles me. I turn and face a man wearing a polyester navy blue blazer, an olive green tie, and one of those cheap shirts with an indistinguishable ribbed pattern crawling over it.
“You realize what you’re looking at, pal?”
“I …”
“A 68 Ford Mustang Convertible: a real power-house on wheels for the man that can handle it.”
Black hair, pale pasty skin, he reminds me of a 1950s T.V. game-show host.
“This baby’s fitted with a 390 horsepower high-performance V-8 that would blow the rear off most cars. But don’t take my word for it. Check the engine out yourself.”
He leans over the driver’s door with exaggerated ease emphasizing the convenience of a convertible with the top down. He pulls a hidden lever and the hood pops up slightly. Removing his jacket with a flourish, he turns it inside out, folds it, and drapes it over the car door. Walking toward me he says, “Now let’s get down to business.” He rolls his sleeves up, “See, nothing hidden,” and lifts the hood.
The engine looks like a confusing jumble of wires, hoses, pipes, fans, steel boxes, and circular configurations.
“See that,” he waves toward a frying pan, “still got the original chrome valve covers and air cleaner lid with HI-Po graphics. And check that out,” pointing at a steel heart with copper wire arteries, “that’s a four-barrel carb for improved emissions. But don’t worry, it won’t hamper horsepower readings on the dyno.
“This baby is a deep breather, if you know what I mean pal,” he winks. “Long on torque and generous in power potential—does its best work in the 5000 rpm range.” He shakes his head and surveys the engine. “Yeah, this baby’s a real screamer. You like screamers, don’t ya?”
I look up and he’s looking right at me.
“Screamers? Yes, why of course.”
“Then this baby’s for you.” He winks. “Hey pal, want to make her scream?”
“Scream, me, how?”
“Take her for a test drive, unless you got a better idea.”
“No, I trust you.”
Often needing ten horses for each working cowboy, domesticated mustangs filled up the remuda made up of the extra mounts required to herd cattle. Possessing the right mixture of fearlessness needed to stand up to an ornery longhorn, durability to withstand the rough terrain, and stamina required for hours of heavy riding in desert heat or mountain snow, mustangs were also capable of the quick sprints necessary for cutting off stampeding cattle. Cowboys were said to both respect and identify with the wildness just beneath the surface of even the most domesticated mustang. “A mustang is like a good woman,” an old saying goes. “Always ready to leave you if you don’t treat ’em right.”156
The bright florescent office light nearly blinds me as I wait for the salesman. My gloves stick uncomfortably to black leather, but the chair embraces me warmly. I rarely fit in armed chairs, but this one opens wide enough for snug support. It’s almost like being hugged. It would make a fine replacement for my old wooden roundabout in the living room. I could put that one in the kitchen, maybe eat there from now on.
But that’s all in the past now.
I quickly check the clock and my heart jump-starts. I should leap from the chair’s grasp and find the salesman. Visiting time will be over in a couple of hours. I’ve got to get this wrapped up. But I must calm down first. I search the office for things to take my mind off such worries.
My attention finally focuses on a picture of the salesman with his lovely wife, two kids and the family dog (held by a little boy). It graces a desk littered with papers and thick ring notebooks. Everyone looks bright and attractive in the photo, except the boy who doesn’t smile and clutches the dog, a miniature collie, which appears ready to leap off his lap and out of the picture. The girl must be a few years older, maybe seven years old, maybe eleven; it’s so hard to tell sometimes. Pictures make girls seem older.
The salesman walks into the office with a computer printout flowing to the floor.
“Nice family.”
“The girl ain’t mine, that came from her,” he waves his hand toward his wife’s smiling face. “But the boy, that’s mine.” He sits sweeping the printout on the desk.
“Nice looking kid.”
He looks at me with distrust. It’s the most sincere expression, verbal or otherwise, that I’ve received from him all morning.
“The kid’s a pain in the ass. The school specialist says he’s learning disabled, whatever that means. Yeah, he’s got a learning disability all right—he’s lazy, that’s what it is! Laziness, that’ll disable any boy. Now me, I’m self-made: no father got me a job; no school specialist made up excuses for my failures. You sink or swim in this world. I’m a swimmer …” I fidget in the leather chair and accidentally bump my knee on the desk. He turns his attention toward me.” … and I can tell that you are too, a real survivor. Am I wrong, huh, am I wrong?”
“I guess so,” rubbing my leg.
“You bet I’m right. Now I’ve got something special for you, pal,” he smiles again and rustles the printout towards me. “This is a complete printout of the Projected Cost Breakdown, Option List, Vehicle Service Contract, Customer’s Checklist for Delivery, Certificate of Title, Certificate of Origin, Retail Certificate of Sale, 30 Day/1000 Miles Implied Warranty, BMYADACY-KOPEK State Used Vehicle Limited Warranty, Smart Lease Option, Extended Protection Coverage, Vehicle Cash Purchase Agreement or Credit Purchase Agreement with Proposed Payment Scheduling Alternatives, Buyer’s Guide, Projected Invoice, Transaction Summary, and the results of the Projected Buyer DMV Search Inquiry. This is just a computer printout so, in itself, it’s not binding, but everything here is 100% accurate and truthful in fact and coverage, unconditionally guaranteed!”
I try to fold the printout like an unruly newspaper. I look up to catch him gazing over my shoulder to the showroom floor. His eyes take on the look of a cat’s when something rustles in the woods. He stands and puts on his jacket.
“Look it over and take your time. We don’t push our customers here. An informed customer always makes the best decision for everyone involved, so,” he adjusts his tie, “you look that over and any questions you have, feel free to ask.” I look over and see a man wandering among the shiny new cars. As the salesman makes for the door, he says, “I’ll leave you alone to read that over and be right back, so don’t go anywhere.”
Before he makes it out the door, I spin the chair around and ask, “Could you wait one moment, please?”
He pauses, caught off guard by my sudden forwardness.
“I’m very sorry to bother you, I know you’re very busy, but I’m ready to buy the car right now. I have the money.”
He looks mournfully toward the showroom. The customer on the other side of the glass, now standing still, checks his watch.
“We can wrap this up in a minute, pal, if you just let me direct this man towards a new car.”
“I can’t wait. I must drive out of here this afternoon. I have a money order made out directly to this franchise. Can you or can’t you sell me a car right this minute.”
“Yes I can.”
“Then let’s start signing things.”
Reluctantly he sits back down. I get a sense of power that I usually can only feel at home. The customer on the floor checks his watch again and leaves.
To this day, there are still wild mustangs. To witness a herd roaming the plains is a sight to behold. Dashing full speed and trailing their unruly manes, they seem to encompass the soul of the cowboy as well as the spirit of the west in striving to remain free from the reigns of civilization.157
“O.K.” he says, “Where do you work?”
“Work?”
“Yes, work, job, title, yearly salary.”
“I have a monthly allowance.”
His face takes on that sincere look again. “Allowance, what do you mean allowance? Like what I give my kids?”
“Only if they’re good, I hope.”
“Is that supposed to be funny? I’m asking you a simple fucking question.”
“Such language!” I feel my power slipping.
“Work—do you or don’t you?”
“I work every day.”
“On what?”
“Oh, on lots of things. I have a list I can show you.”
“But your job, your official title, what is it?”
“I’m the lone recipient of a trust fund managed by a lawyer and a stock broker.”
“How much do you get a month?”
“My mortgage, maintenance, electricity, heat, and phone bills are paid for automatically”
“How much do you get?!”
“$350.”
“What?”
“But I don’t spend it all on food, rarely buy clothes and never go out.”
He looks to the ceiling. “He doesn’t work.”
I don’t feel any power at all. “I’ve been able to save a lot of money. I have a money order …”
“How do you expect to get credit, if you don’t have a job.”
“My lawyer can vouch for my voracity. He’s an old family friend.”
“Your lawyer can’t do shit. He doesn’t even trust you with anything more than pocket change.” He puts his head in his hands and pauses. He must be thinking of a way to help me. “Wait. How much is that money order made out for?”
“$3,691.84.”
“Lemme see that.” He snatches it from my hand and looks it over front and back. His face relaxes and he smiles. “Have I got a car for you.”
pinto \pin-to\ n [pintar fr. Spanish, to paint]: spotted horse so named for its painted appearance. Pintos were once war ponies of the Nez Perce Indians before the defeat of Chief Joseph in 1877 after which their horses were scattered along the northwestern plains.158
White with dull stains splashed over its body like spots on a sick dalmatian, the car is wedged in the corner of the lot and looks as if it hasn’t been moved in weeks. If I had spent hours rather than seconds surveying the lot before choosing the mustang, this would have been the one car I would have forgotten immediately. Then it hits me, a little moment of truth: inconspicuousness is one of the most important qualities my car must possess if I am to succeed in my mission.
“This baby suits you better, after all, you’re no speed demon, are you?”
“No,” I acknowledge, “I’m not built for speed.”
“It’s smaller too, easier to park and think of the gas mileage, three times better than that old Mustang.”
“What kind of car did you say this is?”
“A Pinto, a Ford Pinto. A real classic. You must have heard of them.”
“I believe I may have, but I think it was in some crash dummy test.”
“Oh that. Those tests were all fixed by left-wing radicals who wanted easy money for drugs. They claimed the gas tank was designed wrong, but the gas tank is fine.”
“I think I recall reading in the newspaper years ago that Ford was sued and lost.”
“They didn’t lose; they settled out of court. Ford had to. They were getting reams of bad press. It was a smear campaign for the press to sell papers. This is a great car, a 1980 model, regrettably the last production year. Just give it a knock.” He knocks on the hood. “Here that gong? That’s American steel, no clang like a Jap car. Yes, they don’t make cars like this anymore.”
“I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
“Ah, you just don’t notice them. They blend in so well to the American landscape that you don’t realize how many of them are still on the road until you start looking for them.”
“Can I get in and try to turn the motor over?”
“Sure thing, pal, I got the keys right here. First let me pull that seat back for you if you don’t mind.” He loudly cranks it back. “There. See, enough room in the front seat to fit an elephant.”
I squeeze myself through the door by going in head first then turning sideways and nudging my thighs under the wheel which fits snugly against my stomach.
“Does this chair go back any further?”
“Why would you want to do that? A snug fit is a safe fit.”
I put the key in, turn, give it a little gas. Nothing.
“Don’t flood the engine now. Try again.”
On the third try, it finally turns over. I give it gas and feel the power of the motor in my hands as it revs up.
“Look at that speedometer, just 44,000 miles. A spinster owned it and only drove it to church on Sundays. It’s the best deal on the lot, but you got to take it today. I doubt it’ll last the morning. The next guy in could be the one to buy it. It’s practically a virgin car, pal. You’re the first I’ve shown it to since it came in yesterday and you know how guys jump on virgin meat. Well this baby’s hot to trot and her prom dress won’t stay on for long.”
I feel right at home behind the wheel of this lost classic, this misunderstood orphan of the auto industry. I can feel it in my bones. This will be my mount. My Pinto and I will hit the dusty trail together come what may.
You can judge a man by the horse he rides.”159
I’ll call her … Allamanda! Yes, Allamanda—a perfect name for a pinto pony. Together we’ll ride into the sunset, me and my pinto, Allamanda, on a mission of mercy.
“I’ve ridden weary miles with him; I’ve starved and faced the bears with him; and I’ve played the fiddle when he danced while a sergeant and a deputy sat in the room with orders to arrest him, dead or alive.”
- Frank B. Coe160