Geoff Nicholson - The City Under the Skin

The day slithered on, used itself up, and although Marilyn tried to sustain an air of energy and commitment as she pedaled, eventually she no longer knew for whose benefit she was keeping up appearances. The project had been a bust: there were still more garages to try, but they were long shots, they were miles away, and they might well be closing for the day by now. In any case, her legs and her butt ached: she’d had enough.

And then, as she was pedaling back into the city, she saw another garage, not one from her list, a cube of purple-painted cinder block, with two metal shutters in the front, the first wide open, the other rolled firmly shut. There was no name on the building, but on the side wall was a clumsy and garish mural, a broad black road narrowing through sand dunes into a high vanishing point. On that road was a line of classic, cartoon-style Cadillacs.

She slammed on her brakes, skidded the bike to a halt, and went to look more closely. She was aware of two men inside the garage, one older, one younger. The older man was elbow deep in the guts of a pickup truck; the younger was sweeping the floor with exaggerated care. She could hear a radio playing loudly inside, tuned to a religious station, a voice blustering something about grace and redemption.

She stood and stared, saw that the mural was signed Carlos , and before long the man with the broom, not much more than a boy, she saw now, came out to talk to her. He had a wide, goofy smile; she hadn’t seen many smiles in the course of the day.

“I did that,” he said, pointing at the mural with a little too much enthusiasm.

“You’re Carlos.”

He seemed both astonished and infinitely proud.

“Yes, I am. My dad’s called Carlos too, but I’m the one who did the painting. How did you know?”

“Your fame is spreading,” Marilyn said, hoping that didn’t sound like she was mocking him.

He considered this. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, my fame is spreading, yeah it is.”

The older man now stepped out of the garage.

“Hey, Carlos, how’s that sweeping coming along?”

“Really well,” said young Carlos, and he returned obediently to the job in hand.

Carlos senior was an unthreatening Latino, short, fleshy, with a thick head of glossy hair, a thin band of mustache across his upper lip, and a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his oil-streaked forearm. He looked at Marilyn, looked at her bike, and said, “Yeah?”

“Just admiring your son’s mural.”

“It keeps the kid out of trouble. Mostly.”

“Do you specialize in Cadillacs?”

“The kid likes Caddies. I specialize in whatever anybody brings in.”

She continued to gaze admiringly at the mural, and she hoped she sounded suitably casual as she said, “I used to have a boyfriend with an old Cadillac.”

“What kind?”

“Oh,” she said archly, “I never know about years and models and that stuff. But actually I do have a picture.”

She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out the photograph of the metallic-blue Cadillac and its owner. She showed it to the older Carlos, who looked at it, but looked away just a little too quickly, or so she thought.

“Nineteen eighty-one Seville,” he said. “Not one of their best years. The Eldorado is the one you want.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“You always carry your old boyfriend’s picture with you?”

“He’s pretty recent. I really need to see him actually. I thought if you specialized in Cadillacs he might bring his car here. A long shot, I know.”

“I’ll say.”

The guy still didn’t seem very interested, but she decided to take a chance. He was good to his son, and it seemed he had some religious leanings. She patted her stomach.

“It’ll be showing soon.”

That stoked the man’s curiosity just a little, and maybe his sympathy. She turned her face so he could get a good look at her black eye.

“He just left you?”

“He’s disappeared. I don’t even know where he is.”

Carlos junior found a reason to sweep very close to where the two of them were standing. He tilted his head to get a look at the picture Marilyn was holding.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s Billy Moore.”

The father’s face puckered, and showed the briefest flare of anger before settling into a more customary resignation.

“You’d better step inside for a moment,” he said to Marilyn.

They walked into the garage. It was hot in there and smelled as much of French fries as of gasoline. An industrial-sized swamp cooler stirred the air to no noticeable effect. The radio station was now playing choral music. Marilyn checked out a row of hubcaps on the wall, some with bullet holes, and next to them was a pinup calendar showing a girl draped over a hot rod, and beside that was a picture of the Pope.

“What’s the story?” Carlos senior asked.

“Billy’s disappeared,” she said, picking up on the name. “He won’t answer his phone. He always did move around a lot. I have no idea where he is now. I hoped maybe you did.”

“You’re not lying about being pregnant, are you?”

“No,” she said, sounding offended. “It would be terrible to lie about a thing like that.”

“Yes, it would.”

She hoped he wasn’t going to make her swear on the Bible.

“See,” he said, “I don’t know much about the guy. He brings his car here, that’s all. I know his car, not him. I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, but I think maybe you’re better off without this Billy Moore.”

“Can’t you give me his latest address? Maybe where he works?”

“I got nothing. All the work I did was off the books. No invoice, no sales tax. I got no address for him, nothing.”

At which point Carlos junior edged into the garage, not wanting to be left out. Besides, he had some important information to deliver.

“I’m not sure where he lives,” the kid said. “But I know where he parks his car.”

“You serious, Carlos?” the father said.

“Sure.”

“Really sure?”

“Cross my heart.”

“So where does he park?”

“In a brand-new lot on the corner of Hope Street and Tenth.”

Carlos senior shot Marilyn a look that said his son wasn’t always wrong about things, and he raised his splayed hands in her direction. It could have been a benediction, but it might also have indicated that he wanted to wash his hands of the whole business.

“You’ve brought me to a high place,” said Wrobleski. “Again.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Ray McKinley asked.

They were on a rooftop, twenty-one stories high, on the edge of Chinatown, at an underpopulated nighttime golf range. On three sides the parapet of the roof supported green netting that towered and billowed like perforated sails. Spotlights trained down from a great height, turning the darkness hazy and bordering it with white velvet flare.

“I fucking hate golf,” said Wrobleski. “I hate the people who play it, people who watch it, everything about it.”

He glanced at the nearest pair of golfers, a young Asian couple, three tees over, driving balls haphazardly into the netting. They were too far away to hear what he said. He thought that was a shame.

“Maybe it’ll grow on you,” said McKinley.

“If it grows on me, I’ll hack it off.”

McKinley feigned amusement. Wrobleski did not.

“You hit. I’ll watch,” said Wrobleski.

The tees were automatic: balls popped up from the ground at the golfer’s feet, and one appeared now in front of McKinley. He concentrated, addressed the ball, did an exaggerated wiggle with his ass, drew back the club, swung, hit the ball effortlessly, straight, clean, if perhaps with more height than length. Even so, he looked quietly satisfied.