Cray sprints through our hotel room at the Westin like a happy cartoon dog whose own er has returned after a long weekend away. He’s taking my bag, pouring me a bowl of brown rice chips he bought at a health food store, cleaning the skyline of Amstel Light bottles from the bedside table—all pretty much simultaneously.
“You okay, nephew?”
“Yeah, yeah, never better.” Cray’s head bobs up and down.
“Kind of late to be drinking coffee.” My flight was delayed for a couple of hours because of fog. By the time I got a cab over the river to Cincinnati, it was after midnight.
“Didn’t have any all day. Been too busy, way too busy.”
“Doing what?”
Cray smiles, walks to the window, and puts one trembling hand on the plastic-tipped string that opens the blinds. “Remember how you told me to do something to help other people?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
Cray’s panting. “Ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“Close your eyes.”
“Okay. They’re closed.”
“No they’re not,” Cray says. “You’re peeking.”
“Now they’re really closed, I promise.” I open my eyes when I hear the click of the blinds. Several floors below us, I see the hotel parking lot, exactly the same as the hundreds of others I’ve looked out at over the years.
“Very funny.” I’m starting to grasp Cray’s elaborate sense of irony.
He grabs my arm. “Uncle Ross, look a little closer.”
I squint down at the parking lot, lit by tall vapor lights that glow in the foggy night.
“And then . . .” I roll my hand in front of me, waiting for the secret.
Cray squares my shoulders and points my gaze down at the parking lot. “A clue. Ultimate. Driving. Machine.”
I look again and notice that almost every car in the rows beneath our windows is a BMW—sports coupes, 5-Series sedans, a few Z4s, an M3 convertible, even an old Bavaria. “Tell me this is a coincidence.”
Cray smiles, shakes his head, holds up the Dealer Master Key, which I’d left hidden in the back of the nightstand drawer.
I push Cray against the wall and speak directly into his face. “Do you know what you’ve done? What this means?”
“You’ll have lots of money to give away to people who need it?”
“It means we’re in trouble, Cray. That’s what it means. You steal that many BMWs and the cops definitely notice. This is not a particularly big city. That’s why I always steal one BMW at a time. I’m not greedy, Cray. I don’t try to clear the entire downtown of BMWs like . . . like some kind of crazed used-car salesman. This isn’t a game. It isn’t BMW Slayer!” I turn away and pace the room.
A pause. “I thought you’d be happy, Uncle Ross.”
“No, Cray. I’m not happy. I’m worried. Very worried. Worried that all those burritos and Amstel Lights and energy drinks have created some sort of imbalance in your brain. That maybe you’re incapable of rational thought.”
Cray shrugs, walks to the minibar. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Harsh! Harsh? Harsh is the ten-year sentence for grand theft auto. By the time you get out, your girlfriend back in Vermont will be married and pregnant with her third child. By the time you get out, there won’t be hard currency anymore and your father will be out of a job. By the time you get out, I’ll be playing Moondance in a Motel 6 bar.”
Cray’s brow wrinkles. “I don’t think they have a bar in a Motel 6. Just a coffeemaker and a TV, maybe some free doughnuts if you’re lucky.”
I kneel on the floor and press my forehead into the carpet. “Help me, somebody. Help me.”
“I’ll help you,” Cray says softly.
I look up. “You’ll help me? You? You stole my Dealer Master Key and went on a car-theft bender.”
“I think the word stole is kind of relative in this case, Uncle Ross. I mean, you can’t steal something that’s already stolen. And that you use to steal other things.”
“Yes you can.”
“No you can’t.”
“Yes you can.”
“No you can’t.”
“Shut up!”
Cray gives me his hurt puppy look. He pops the top off an Amstel Light and drains it in a couple of pulls.
“Great, now you’re going to be stupid and drunk.”
“I don’t think you’re being very cool, Uncle Ross. It’s not really my fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?”
“I tried to hang at the bar with your girl Marianne, but she was with some very rich gentlemen. You might want to ask her about that. One gave me a twenty and told me to get lost. Kind of a stupid expression. I mean, with GPS, you can’t get lost anymore.”
“So what’d you do?”
“I put it with my stack of twenties. He was impressed.”
“Sorry I missed that.”
“After that, I got tired of eating chili and walking around the skyways or whatever they’re called, these sidewalks that go between department stores. So I decided to surprise you and take your mind off Grandpa being sick and all. Not to mention that your girlfriend is hanging out with some very rich-looking dudes.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Apparently it is her business. Men, that is.”
Though I know they are just admirers, a wave of jealousy cycles through me. “She’s not my girlfriend, in case you didn’t notice. I just met her.”
“She’s got some pretty major diamonds. Maybe you should steal them.”
“Thanks for that advice. Here’s some from me. Don’t steal a dozen BMWs, dumbass.”
“Actually, I stole eighteen,” he says.
I stand and pluck the DMK from Cray’s hand. “Grab your jacket.”
“Where we going?”
“To return some cars.”
“What kind of thief steals stuff and then returns it?”
“One that doesn’t want to get caught.”
“That doesn’t sound like any fun at all.” Cray pouts.
“More fun than prison? Where they probably never have burritos, and definitely no beer?”
Cray pauses for a moment. “Yes, more fun than prison where there are probably never burritos and definitely no beer, Uncle Ross,” he recites back at me in a monotone.
We take the elevator down to the lobby in icy silence.
Out in the parking lot, I stare at the BMWs. I know where the processor has his shop, but he won’t take more than a couple of cars.
“Do you remember where you found them?”
“You mean exactly where I found every car, Uncle Ross?”
“Yes.”
Cray shakes his head. “No way.”
He shrugs. “Kind of. All the streets are in a grid downtown. They’re either numbered or named after trees.”
“Okay, let’s start with this one.” I point the DMK at a 7-Series sedan, silver, a year or two old. The doors click open and we get in. The car smells of cigarettes and aftershave. I pull on a pair of leather driving gloves. No fingerprints tonight. I toss another pair to Cray.
“I found it a couple of streets over, I think,” Cray says. “Just take a left out of the lot and I’ll get you there.”
We drive through the empty downtown streets, a low fog smearing the streetlights and making our whole operation seem even more shady.
“Here!” Cray points. “Close enough.” I park the car next to a meter.
We get out and I lock the doors behind us, leaving the car for its puzzled own er to find in the morning.
“This is going to take forever,” I say as we run back toward the parking lot. Ahead, I see a patch of the thick, dark Ohio River and the lights of northern Kentucky burning hazily in the distance. “And downtown is deserted. What are we going to say if we get stopped?”
“That we’re musicians out for a walk?”
“Try again, they always think musicians have drugs.”
“We’re car thieves who were seized by a sudden bout of guilt?” Cray says.
“Too honest.”
“We’re insomniacs, and driving other people’s cars is the only thing that helps?”
We stop near the post office. “Sure, Cray. I’m sure the Cincinnati police would be very sensitive to our sleep disorders. Perhaps they’d even give us a ride in their squad car until we started to feel a little bit sleepy.”
“No need to be mean, Uncle Ross, geez.” Cray shakes his head.
We ferry a handful of the cars downtown, each one farther a field. Cray had days to round up his BMW collection. Now we’re trying to disperse it in a few hours. Returning cars is much harder and slower than stealing them. My anger at Cray multiplies as I stalk down the streets, shirt soaked in sweat, hair hanging in tangled strands.
We deliver Car Six, a red M3 with a vanity plate that says topgun, which makes me want to push the tacky convertible into the river. Instead, we leave it up on Vine Street, then begin the long walk back to our hotel.
We rest for a moment in the parking lot. I look at my watch. “We’ve been doing this for about two hours and we still have twelve more cars to go. It’s going to be morning by the time we’re done.”
Cray says nothing, puts his silver headphones on.
I look at an old Bavaria, white and battered, held together with duct tape, worthless to the Chinese, who only want the latest models. “How’d you steal this one? It doesn’t even have power doors.”
Cray shrugs, pulls off his headphones. “It was unlocked and I found the keys over the visor.”
“Someone was mighty trusting.”
“Never again.”
I grab Cray by the shoulders. “Do you have the keys?”
Cray reaches into his jacket pocket, holds them up.
“Okay, here’s the plan. I can follow you in the Bavaria and drive you back to the lot.”
“Like a carpool,” Cray says brightly. “We’ll be reducing our carbon footprint, too.”
I stare at him. “This really isn’t a game, Cray. We have to get these cars back before morning.”
Cray gets in Car Seven, a dark blue Z4. I follow him, staying a couple of blocks behind to avoid looking like a BMW parade. He drops the car on Walnut Street and I pick him up. He rocks back and forth as we drive back to the hotel, rubbing the thighs of his cargo pants with his palms.
“There’s Amstel Light at the end of the tunnel, Cray.”
Cray nods. “That was a good one, Uncle Ross. A bon mot.”
“Glad you appreciate it. It’s my job to keep you entertained.”
“I want to go back to Vermont,” he says suddenly.
“That’s fine, Cray,” I snap. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be on the bus.” Cray’s time with me hasn’t exactly helped him find his way. And now it’s over.
We’re both silent as our battered commuter car lurches through downtown, past bars and restaurants, stores and newsstands, all closed and dark.
Cray stares at something, then reaches toward the ashtray. He holds up a wrinkled plastic bag. “Now I know why this guy left his car unlocked. He was way high and forgot.” Cray tucks the bag into his pocket.
“Put that back.”
Cray cringes. “Get real, Uncle Ross. We steal this stoner’s car, use it to drive all over downtown all night, but you won’t let me take his sad little bag of weed?”
“No, put it back.”
Cray takes out a stack of twenties, peels off a few, and puts them where the bag used to be. “There, I’ll pay for it.”
“With money your dad printed.”
Cray shakes his head. “What’s the difference, Uncle Ross? What’s the big diff?”
I know that there is a difference, and that it’s important. But it’s late and my thoughts are as hazy as the steaming night air.
Cray returns the last car, a black 5-Series sedan that looks new. I lurk back a few blocks in the battered Bavaria with squeaking suspension and tape holding the passenger door and trunk closed. I pass Fountain Square, where a peaceful bronze figure of a woman at the top of the fountain sprays water from her hands in an aquatic stigmata.
A police car swoops out of an underground parking garage, lights flashing, and pulls directly behind Cray.
“Shit.” I slam my hand on the steering wheel and pull into the shadows near a bank.
A policeman climbs out of the squad car, walks over to Cray, and shines a flashlight in his eyes. I roll down my window but I can’t hear what they’re saying. In a moment, the policeman takes a step back and Cray climbs out of the car, hands in the air.
“Shit!”
The cop signals him to lower his hands, then throws him face-first against the patrol car. I see the flash of handcuffs behind Cray’s back. Before the cop can fasten them, Cray turns and his lips move, a bad sign.
“Shut up, Cray,” I whisper.
The policeman pulls out his nightclub and shoves one end into Cray’s stomach. He crumples.
The cop kicks Cray over and over. I knock the Bavaria in gear and press the gas pedal down, driving toward the policeman as fast as I can. He takes a step back and struggles to get his pistol out of its holster. Cray is curled up on the ground, his screams cutting through the roar of the Bavaria’s untuned engine.
The policeman is in my headlights. He turns slightly toward me and I see his pale, fleshy face, eyes reflecting like a deer’s.
I press the brake pedal down as hard as I can. The tires screech. The car skids then jerks to a stop and the tape on the passenger’s door gives way. The door swings open and slams into the cop, sends him flying through the air.
The street is quiet. All I hear is my heart pounding.
I get out carefully and walk toward the cop, lying motionless on the asphalt. I reach down and put my hand on his neck. He’s unconscious but alive.
“Uncle Ross, I’m bleeding.” Cray’s voice is quavering, his hair matted with blood, eyes wild. But he’s still standing.
I put my arm around him. “You’re going to be okay,” I say, not sure that it’s true. Blood is gushing from his forehead and his front teeth are broken and terrible to see.
In the distance, flashing blue lights race toward us.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“Where?”
“Down there.” I point at an alley next to a bar and we run as fast as we can, Cray limping. “Come on, we’ve really got to move,” I shout.
“I think I’m about to pass out, Uncle Ross.”
Sweat drips down my face. I keep one hand on Cray’s shoulder to pull him ahead.
“It’s hard to run,” he says. “My ribs really hurt.”
We come out of the alley and I look both ways, see no flashing lights. By the time we cross the street, sirens wail behind us.
“We’re sunk,” I whisper.
Cray shakes his head and points his chin at a stairway leading up. “Take my way, that’s the skyway, that’s the best,” he sings, then spits out a mouthful of blood.
We climb the stairs and find ourselves on a cement walkway with scarred Plexiglas windows. The ground is littered with trash and it smells of piss and cigarette smoke.
“Keep going straight, then take a left,” Cray says. “Drops us off right near the hotel.”
We run down the skywalk, crossing the city along what must have been an attempt to encourage downtown shopping. We try to look normal, as though we’re just blood-splattered shoppers running flat out across the city before dawn.
We cut through a corporate atrium and tiptoe past a guard sleeping facedown at his desk. We race across an empty arcade and our footsteps echo like gunshots. The walkway stretches over a street that I recognize. We’re almost at the hotel. A squad car races along the street beneath us. We drop to the gritty floor and freeze as dozens of squad cars, sirens roaring, barrel toward the site of our unfortunate encounter with the local police.
“Can they see us up here?” Cray whispers.
I struggle to catch my breath. “Hope not.”
“There’s a lot of them.”
“Policemen don’t like it when you hurt one of their own.”
“You think that cop is okay?”
“The one with the nightstick and gun and bad attitude?”
“That one.”
“I think so,” I say. “I just clipped him with the door.”
“Nice move, by the way.”
“It was the car, not me.” I rise into a crouch, peer down on the streets.
“Must be a special BMW feature,” he says, words whistling through his broken teeth. “Uncle Ross, I think I left the Master Key in that last car.”
I pause for a moment, absorb the news. “That’s okay.”
“Maybe you can get another one?”
“Sure.” Malcolm told me that DMKs only come up every couple of years, BMW versions even less often. My career as a BMW converter is over for a while, maybe forever. Finally, the parade of police cars comes to an end.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
When we hear the knock, Cray and I walk together toward the door, me pressing the blood-soaked washcloth to his forehead, Cray struggling not to pass out.
I open the door and Marianne walks in, auburn hair dish eveled. She’s straightening her dress. “Whoa, this doesn’t look good, boys.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I say, “but I thought you might be handier with a needle and thread than I am.”
Cray groans.
“Hit his head on the door frame, did he?” Marianne looks at me, waits to hear more. She’s been awakened at dawn by a frantic phone call from a man she has known for a little over a week. She must think I’m crazy, or worse.
“We were stealing a car and got caught,” I say, opting for honesty. “A cop beat Cray up.”
“And what happened to the cop?”
“Uncle Ross ran him over with a BMW Bavaria,” Cray mumbles.
“Not exactly,” I say.
“And Malcolm told me you were such a mild-mannered pianist,” Marianne says.
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Cray slurs. “Ask him about his diamond collection.”
I nudge Cray. Marianne says nothing.
Marianne and I work as a team, carefully layering the floor with towels, then helping Cray down. While I upend a tiny bourbon from the minibar into Cray’s smashed mouth, Marianne comes back with the sewing kit from the bathroom. She threads the needle while I hold ice on the cut along his hairline. I pull away and Marianne leans over Cray for about a minute, singing to him quietly as she sews, Walking After Midnight. Before she even gets to the second chorus, she bends forward as if to kiss Cray’s forehead, then bites off the thread.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Mom’s bar back in Florida was a gun-and-knife kind of place. That’s where I learned how to sing, stitch up drunk college kids, and other useful life skills.” Marianne tapes a small white bandage over the stitching, cleans away the remaining blood, then steps back to admire her work.
“Like new, kind of,” she says.
Cray rises slowly, walks over to the mirror. “That hurt a lot,” he says, holding back his hair to see the results. “But not as much as my mouth.” He smiles, revealing broken teeth, bleeding gums.
“Not much we can do for the teeth. I don’t expect you brought the pieces with you.”
“They’re somewhere down on Fourth Street,” I say.
“Just keep ice in your mouth for a couple of hours,” Marianne says. “And probably some whiskey too. Eventually, you’ll need to go to a dentist, but not around here. They’re probably looking for someone to turn up in the ER.”
“So what do I do, just hide in the hotel room?”
Marianne shakes her head. “You need to get out of town, sooner the better.”
“Any particular plan in mind?” I ask. Marianne is proving to be unflappable in the face of this bloody debacle, a rare quality in upper-tier hotel singers.
“I may have just the thing,” she says. “Wait here.”
While Cray lies on the bed, I clean up our suite so it no longer looks like an operating room. I fold up the bloody towels and shove them in a plastic laundry bag.
“Sounds like I’m leaving, Uncle Ross.”
I nod my head. “You said you wanted to go home. Careful what you wish for.”
“I’m real sorry,” he says softly.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “Well, actually—it is.”
“I know.”
“Listen, you have to slow down, Cray. Almost everything works better if you pull the tempo down a notch.”
“I’ll remember that if I start playing piano.”
“I’m not talking about playing the piano.”
There’s a soft knock on the door and I open it cautiously, let Marianne in. Over her arm she carries a full Army dress uniform, brass buttons gleaming. “Here you go, soldier boy,” she says. She hands Cray the uniform, then unfolds a regulation black beret that she slides gently over his hair, neatly covering his bandage.
“Go put this on and we’ll get you out of here.”
Cray walks into the bedroom.
“There’ll be a lot of very angry cops downtown,” she says. “But I should be able to get him over to the bus station. He can get on a bus back to Vermont. No one will question a soldier.”
“Where’d you get that uniform?”
“There’s a recruiting office a couple doors down the street.”
“Isn’t it closed this early in the morning?”
“Let’s just say that one of my biggest admirers in Cincinnati is part of the military-industrial complex.” She holds her hand up, palm out. “No more questions. Time to hit the road.”
Cray walks back in looking surprisingly ready for duty.
“I love a man in uniform,” Marianne says.
“Apparently,” I whisper.
“Heard that.”
“Better pack up your things,” I say to Cray.
Marianne shakes her head. “No, leave it. Travel light. Don’t bring anything that might look suspicious.”
“Like a duffel bag full of counterfeit twenty-dollar bills?” Cray asks.
“Yes, like that.”
Cray nods. We walk toward the door.
“Not so fast, handsome,” Marianne says to me. “You better stay here. They may have gotten a good look at you. No one will be looking for a woman and her young, enlisted boyfriend.”
Marianne puts her arms around me and gives me a gentle kiss. “We’ll talk later.”
Cray stumbles down the hallway.
“Call when you get home, Cray,” I say, then realize how annoyingly maternal it sounds. I close the door and lean against it for a moment, my face against the cool metal. I see the fire diagram, a red arrow marking the safe way out. If only escape could be that easy.