Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

The next morning — while a service station repaired the Ford’s rear window — Michael’s father gathered some items at the motel, and they had a nice breakfast at another diner, where, between bites of toast and nibbles of crisp bacon, Papa gave Michael the first part of the driving lesson. He told the boy about the gears and the clutch and brake, and the boy — so excited he could barely eat — grinned and nodded and took it all in... or anyway thought he had.

Before long they were on the road again, Papa behind the wheel in his dark topcoat and fedora, looking serene, even comfortable as he turned off the main highway onto a farm road, where right now they seemed to be the only traffic. Soon he pulled over, and got out, telling the boy to do the same.

From the compartment under the backseat Papa collected the items he’d rounded up at the motel — a stack of newspapers he piled on the seat behind the wheel, and pieces of block-like wood that he tied with twine to the various pedals. His father didn’t explain, but Michael realized this was to enable him to sit higher, and reach those pedals easier.

This took quite a while, and by the time Papa had finished, Michael’s heart was a triphammer — he wasn’t scared, not really... more exhilarated, and even astonished. How many fathers would entrust their car to a boy his age? Who needed a bicycle, anyway? Kid’s stuff.

“Get in,” his father said, gesturing to the driver’s door.

Delighted, the boy climbed behind the wheel, and his father came around and got in on the passenger side. Doors closed, they were ready. And Papa still seemed calm, relaxed — apparently confident in Michael’s abilities.

“Do you remember everything I told you?” his father asked.

“Sure.”

“Would you like me to go over it again? I’ll point things out to you.”

“... Sure.”

And his father gave him a refresher, the abstract instructions from breakfast becoming real, gaining context...

Then Papa asked, “Ready?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then... ignition.”

“... Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Michael turned the key in the ignition and it seemed wondrous, the way the engine burst to thrumming life. How many times had he sat in this car with his father (and his mother) and taken that magic for granted.

Michael turned to his father, who remained casual, composed, the car throbbing. “Now what?”

“You remember what the clutch is?”

“Of course I remember what the clutch is!”

“What’s the clutch?”

“It’s the clutch. It’s the thing that... clutches. You know — grabs.”

“Right. And which pedal does the clutching?”

Michael put his foot on one of the blocks-tied-to-

pedals and pressed. The engine roared, and he reared back from the wheel.

“That’s the gas,” his father said. “The accelerator.”

The boy blinked. “Sure. Yeah — it... accelerates.”

“Right. That’s right. Let me show you which one is the clutch... ”

Then the car was moving forward, a few feet, and Michael tried to put it in gear; but the car shuddered to a stop.

“Don’t worry,” Papa said. “It just stalled. The engine died.”

Alarmed, Michael asked, “Died?”

Papa smiled just a little. “It’s not hard to bring it back to life, son... Let’s try again.”

His father reached over, started the car again, and Michael looked at him, asking, “Release gas, clutch, shift gear, hit gas?”

“That’s right. That’s right.”

Michael tried that sequence — and the car lurched forward!

“And shift!” Papa said.

And the car stopped — died again.

They sat in silence for a moment, then his father asked, gently, “Might I make a suggestion?”

“No! Pop, I have to do this myself.”

His father’s eyebrows were raised, and the boy didn’t sense the man’s amusement.

Before long, however, Michael was driving, the car crawling along the country road... but moving.

“Is this better, Papa?”

“Very good, son. Very good... but I’m going to need you to go a little faster.”

“When?”

“I would say... any time now.”

“Right now?”

“Son, when I come out of a bank with the bank’s money, I don’t want the police to be able to catch us by running alongside the car.”

“Police?”

“It’s a good idea to practice. Faster.”

And before long Michael wasn’t just driving, he was really driving — zooming! But the boy was steering the wheel like in the moving pictures, like a cartoon bug driving a cartoon car, and his father settled him down, and then the car moved straight and steady... and fast.

Farmland seemed to whiz by on either side of them.

“Okay, son, easy now.”

But the boy was having a great time, unaware how barely in control of the vehicle he was.

“Easy, Michael! Forty-five miles an hour is too fast.”

Suddenly, as if it materialized, a tractor was up ahead of them, moving very slow; had this been a field, the tractor would have been doing fine, clipping right along — but on a road, the machine beast was crawling, and the boy was stunned by how fast they had come up on it...

“Watch out for the tractor, son... the tractor... watch out for the — son of a bitch! ”

Instinctively, the boy whipped around the tractor, shrieking past, and when he glanced over, his father was white, his eyes wide... afraid, really really afraid...

“We made it!” Michael said, excited, relieved, elated.

“Yes we did,” his father said dryly, settling into his seat, color climbing back into his face.

They had a few more close calls, and when a haywagon crossed the road ahead of them, the boy hit what he hoped was the right pedal and the Ford squealed to a stop, thrusting son and father forward.

“Papa, these brakes are swell!... Are you all right? Are you sick?”

“No... no, son. I’m fine. You’re doing fine... Looks hilly a few miles up ahead. Let’s practice taking curves.”

Other than the scrape with the tractor, Papa never raised his voice, once. He stayed at it, working with his son, guiding him, giving him confidence; and by midafternoon, they were in St. Louis, Missouri, where the boy — sitting high enough in his seat to pass for a teenaged driver — got his first taste of sharing the road with other drivers, not all of them considerate. This came easier than his father had expected — but ex-paperboy Michael had, after all, maneuvered his bike through all kinds of traffic back home.

And by the end of the day, Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., was ready for his new job.

The next morning, O’Sullivan — his fedora and topcoat brushed, his dark suit, too — approached the entrance of the St. Louis Bank and Trust Company. With his no-nonsense manner, a black leather bag in his right hand, he looked better than just presentable — he might have been a doctor, or perhaps a businessman, lugging a valise filled with important papers.

The boy waited down the street, in a legal parking place, motor running. O’Sullivan nodded at his son who, behind the wheel, swallowed, and nodded back.

The high-ceilinged marble lobby was less than crowded, but a share of farmers, housewives, and businessmen stood at the teller windows in lines that weren’t moving fast. He paused inside the door, nodding to a bank guard, who nodded back — an older man, retired cop probably, but armed.

Heading across the lobby at a leisurely pace, O’Sullivan gave the place a slow scan, mentally recording the layout, the positions of people and things. He approached the teller windows, heading toward one that was closed, where a small brow-beaten man in glasses and bow tie and shirtsleeves was getting chewed out by an older, heavier man, also in glasses, but wearing a crisply knotted striped tie and a tailored suit amidst these off-the-racks.