Damascus Road (10 page)

“Dante… Dante’s Inferno?” I asked, putting it together.

“See?” Dante said to Blake. “I told you that someone would
get it.”

They laughed together as if I had just helped them settle a
bet.

“Here for dinner, Blake?” Dante asked.

Blake leaned close and Dante inclined his head to listen.

“Chef’s table it is!” Dante said. “Follow me.”

Dante led us through the choreographed chaos of his kitchen.
I had never worked in a kitchen in my life, but I felt closer to these people
somehow. The ability to ply a trade, a skill, to do what you loved to put a
part of yourself out there. I understood that. I got it.

We stopped in front of a booth in the corner of the kitchen.
I had never seen such a thing. It was as if the kitchen were some monstrous
beast and swallowed the nearest seating assignment while I dined in its belly.

Blake took a seat as if this was the most normal thing in
the world. I sat across from him and watched Walters take a position nearby,
hand to his ear.

“So,” I said. “Tell me why.”

Blake knew this was coming and seemed to have an answer
ready.

“Do you know the story of the Good Samaritan,” he asked.

I did. I’d read it before and told him as much.

“Yes, the man is beaten by bandits and left for dead and no
one wants to help him,” I said. “Except this person who wasn’t from his
country. That guy takes pity on him and helps him.”

“That’s right,” Blake confirmed.

Appetizers arrived, and we savored French Onion soup.

“What you may not know,” Blake went on, “is that the
Samaritans and the Jews…well, they hated each other. It was a dispute over the
interpretation of the law and the building of the temple…”

Blake gestured, indicating a big blow up.

“The point is this,” he said. “You need help. Regardless of
whether we are friends, enemies or the best of strangers. You need help.”

“So, I’m your charity case?” I asked, taking a spoonful of
soup.

“If you were only charity to me, I would have cameras here
while I bailed you out and gave you a meal,” Blake said. “Do you see cameras?”

I shook my head.

“Then why?”

“Because no son should miss their father’s funeral because
they’re in jail,” he said.

I let that rattle around for a bit.

“Thank you,” I said, finally.

“I can help you with making arrangements,” Blake said.
“Don’t worry about money. These things will be sorted out in time.”

“Has there been any word from…” I didn’t know how to say what
I was thinking. “Any word from family?”

Blake shook his head. We let our dishes be taken away and
then almost immediately be replaced with a rack of ribs and brisket sandwich.
We spared no time in getting back to our meal.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “If you have no objection, we
could have a wake for your father the day after tomorrow.”

He said this looking up from under his eyebrows, then
averting his gaze when I looked at him.

“That would be very nice,” I said. Blake smiled at me.

Somehow, he had gotten to me, and I let him in a little bit.
In the sea of madness, he was a safe harbor. It wasn’t that I had not thought
about the need for a funeral so much as it was the unwillingness to deal with
it in the moment.

“Do you have someplace to stay?” Blake asked.

It was a softball question; one which he already had an
answer for, so I responded honestly, without pride or posturing.

“I don’t,” I said. “I don’t know a soul in this city.”

“You do now.”

WE RODE TOGETHER IN THE TOWN CAR,
the mood between us relaxed and easy. My belly was full, and my body ached a
bit less. I was dying for a shower, a scrub brush, a garden hose, anything. The
car pulled to a stop, and I leaned forward to see where we were.

It was in a suburb of the city, with small shops lining the
streets and antiquated street lights illuminating the roadway. It looked so
small town to me that I didn’t know what to make of it.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“At a friend’s,” Blake said simply.

We got out of the car together, and Blake led the way to the
door. He knocked loudly three times then stepped back. The building was the
size of a firehouse, I thought. Then after a moment’s consideration, I realized
that it was an old firehouse. The door opened, and a powerfully built man stood
there. His hands were stained the color of dirty motor oil, but that didn’t
stop Blake from giving him a hearty handshake.

“Wallace, this is James Marlowe, the man I told you about,”
Blake said.

Wallace stood up straight, but that only made him five and a
half feet tall. He was a fireplug of a man who stretched his T-shirt to the
full extent of its limits.

“Pleased to meet you,” Wallace said. His voice was a deep
grumble that seemed to rattle around in his chest like a kettle drum.

“Likewise,” I said. I felt like I was already firmly in the
backseat with Blake running the show, so I let him take the lead, rather than
begging after answers.

“You want to show him?” Wallace said. He kept his eyes on
me, but was talking to Blake.

“Can’t see why not,” Blake replied easily.

Wallace jerked his head to beckon me inside. I followed,
more than a little curious.

We stepped in and Wallace threw the switch to the overhead
light. The space was massive; easily four car lengths across and nearly that
many deep. A full mechanic’s work bench lined the walls with enough tools to
keep a team of technicians well-supplied. Fluorescent lights flooded the area
with harsh white light illuminating the only thing in the space.

A tarp was draped over a shape in the middle of the room,
and for a moment, I envisioned the trauma room where my father lay under a
sheet. My breathing became short and ragged. My fingernails bit into the palms
of my clenched hands.

“What is this?” I demanded. There was steel in my voice. My
shoulders tense, and a fire smoldered in my gut. “What…is…this?”

“I’m sorry,” Blake apologized. “I thought…”

I stepped forward and grabbed the edge of the tarp. I lifted
it slowly, afraid of what I would find underneath.

“You didn’t… you didn’t… you didn’t….” I repeated again and
again. I peeled back the tarp and confirmed what I feared.

“I’m sorry, James,” Blake tried to explain. “I thought it
would be what you wanted.”

I tore back the tarp in a swirl and revealed the shattered
hulk of the Hemicuda beneath. The car that Christopher Beck had given me.
Entrusted to me by his father. The car that had been crashed earlier trying to
save my dad.

Tears streamed from my eyes, and I fell to my knees. I
sobbed and could not catch my breath. I reached out  to steady myself, and
found the body of the car, creased and crumpled, paint peeling back from the
damage. My stomach turned over, and I felt like I’d been stabbed.

“James…” Blake said.

He was at my side, trying to help me to my feet. He reached
under my arm and tried to help me up. I jerked away from him, scrambling to my
feet, pushing myself back.

“Get away from me!” I screamed at him. “What is this? What
IS this??”

“James, I…”

“You, what?” I shot back. “You thought you’d deliver some
memento of how I failed? Is that what you thought?”

Blake pulled away, backpedaling, I stalked after him.

“I was given that car because I fucked up,” I said. “I was
given that car to help me to make things right with my father. And I failed.
I’m a screw-up, Blake. Don’t you get it, man? Please stop trying to help me.
Please! Nothing good is going to come from this. Can’t you fucking see that?”

“James, I’m sorry, we’ll take it away,” Blake said. “I thought
you would want it. I thought it would help you. Help you take your mind off
of…of everything. But if you don’t want it here, I understand that. We’ll take
it away in the morning.”

I was pacing, hearing him, but not listening.

“James,” Wallace spoke now and I turned on him, ready for a
fight if that’s what he wanted. “There’s a room upstairs if you want. A bed. A
shower. It’s all taken care of. But if you want to leave, then leave. Don’t let
the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Mr. Harrison is trying to help you
here. More than I would have done for an asshole who attacked me in the john.”

There it was.

“I’m a fool,” I said.

“You’re not.”

“I am. I’m sorry, Blake. It’s been a long day.”

“That it has,” Wallace said.

“Everything had been taken care of,” Blake said. “The tools,
the parts, the room, whatever you need. I’m glad to help.”

I stepped closer to him and extended my hand. He shook it.
And then I hugged him. I never hug people. Not a hugger. Never seemed right.
But what Blake Harrison did in that garage separated him from the rest of
humanity for me. I saw something in him that I had never seen before.

“I’ll make the arrangements for the wake,” he said. “Is
there anything else you require?”

I had no right to ask for anything more and I don’t think
that even Blake would have imagined that I would ask for what I did.

“Blake, I need to ask you for something.”

“What is it?”

“When I was in the crash with Chris Beck… there was a
semi-truck involved. I need to know who was driving the rig.”

TO SAY THAT I SLEPT DEEPLY IS TO INSULT DEEP SLEEP. I was in
a near coma. I was unconscious for twelve hours, without moving and,
mercifully, without dreaming. When I finally did rouse, it was like swimming
through a sea of cotton. Colors and sounds were muted. My ears felt a pressure
from the intense quiet of the place. Sunlight streamed in around a pulled shade
and the light was a soft golden color. And the smell…was that…bacon?

I sat up and looked around. The room was a small studio, the
furnishings simple and dated, but functional and clean. I’d fallen asleep in my
clothes, so there was no need to get dressed. I used the rest room, washed up
and followed the smell of breakfast meat down to the first floor.

In the back of the garage was a kitchen where I found
Wallace cooking bacon, eggs and pancakes.  Coffee was brewing. God bless him.

“Good morning,” I croaked.

“I’m sure it is somewhere,” Wallace said with a grin over
his shoulder. “You slept to noon, but it still does a soul good to have a
hearty breakfast.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “I’m sorry…about the way I
acted last night.”

Wallace plated the food and poured me a cup of coffee
without offering me cream or sugar. It was fine that way, but it told me
something about the man. His generosity was done on his terms; this was no
hotel.

“No worries,” he said. “You acted like a fool. You were
right about that. But you manned up and admitted to it, and that’s what
counts.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Blake asked me to feed you, otherwise you would have been
on your own,” Wallace said, but he had a smile that seemed to indicate that he
found a little humor in this.

I tasted the eggs, then the pancakes, the bacon, the coffee
and had to force myself to slow down. I was ravenous. I looked around the
kitchen while I chewed, and Wallace watched me surveying his place.

“Something on your mind?”

“What is this place?” I asked. “It looks like a firehouse.”

“It was,” he admitted. “They built a new building down the
block when they outgrew the space, and I bought this one when I retired from
the fire department.”

I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“I restore classic cars, some of the modern ones as well;
and occasionally, I take on a special project,” Wallace said, stabbing his fork
in my direction and gave me a lop-sided grin.

I nodded, hanging my head in defeat.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” I asked.

“That’s up to you,” Wallace said. “But I would wager that
you’re going to need parts for that fine automobile out there.”

“Yes, sir. Safe bet.”

“Do you have clothes other than what’s on your back?” he
asked. He wrinkled his nose slightly and chuckled. I had no defense. The shower
had still eluded me.

“I don’t,” I admitted. “Can we go shopping?”

“That we can. Finish up and I’ll meet you in the truck, and
we’ll go for a ride.”

I cleaned my plate and swallowed my coffee which was so
strong that it gave me a jolt of caffeine and a few coffee grounds at the
bottom of my cup. I rinsed them in the sink and grabbed my jacket, walking out
to look at the car.

The ‘Cuda in the light of day was in sad shape. Not
irreparable by any stretch of the imagination, but she needed bodywork and a
paint job. Paint. It was time to make a change. I pulled a dog-eared notepad
from my pocket and made a list with a pencil stub.

Wallace tapped the horn twice, and I hurried along. I
finished my list and jogged out to his truck. It was a pristine Ford F-350 in
royal red. I jumped up into the cab and without a word, we took off.

We shopped that day, only talking when we needed to. The
first stop was the junkyard, and I found the replacement quarter panel and door
that I needed. The next stop was an auto supply store.

“Do you have a paint booth in your place?” I asked.

Wallace looked at me like I was from Neptune.

“Does a duck quack?”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

I bought Black Velvet paint, as well as masks and paint
suits. The ‘Cuda was about to go dark.

The next stop was to accommodate my less than pristine
wardrobe selection. I grabbed shirts and pants and necessities, as well as
workout clothes and shaving equipment. I dropped everything into a duffle bag.
Wallace paid in cash as he did at every stop from a bank envelope separate from
his own pocket.

Our last stop before returning to the garage was to buy me a
suit. I didn’t have time for custom tailoring, but they did it anyway. The suit
was simple and dark. Ellis would have been proud.