The Undertaker

Out of totally lame desperation, I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “You didn't do anything wrong, Sandy. I'm just damaged goods and you're going to have to give me some time and space to work it out, okay?”

“Damaged goods? You?” she looked up at me in disbelief “I had a husband go gay on me. He gets shot to death by his boyfriend. I'm a not-so-recovering alcoholic who goes to AA meetings three or four times a week, and I haven't had a guy even want to leave my toilet seat up for two years. And you think you're damaged goods?”

“Sandy, look…”

“No, no, I swear I'll behave, just don't be mad at me, Peter. I don't think I could take that.” She leaned her head against my chest and we sat like that without talking for a long time, longer than I could imagine her staying quiet. “You know,” she finally said. “In Michigan City, I remember there's a big commuter parking lot near the station, one of those self-park things.”

“And?”

“And we can get off there, well short of South Bend, boost a car, and head east. In a commuter lot like that, it could be a long time before a car would ever be missed.”

“Is “boosting” cars something else from your wayward youth?”

“Seventh Grade at Infant Jesus of Prague,” she said, then looked up at me. “It's a Catholic girls school on the North side… Really.

“Really?” I looked at her, convinced she had to be making this up as she went along.

“I'm serious. Bobby McNally taught me a lot of things and boosting cars was one of them. By junior year of high school, he was running a car-parts-to-order business from the back of the cafeteria. If you needed a transmission for a '95 Olds. A carburetor for a new BMW. Maybe custom chrome hubcaps, bucket seats, the whole engine. Bobby's little band of elves would have it for you the next morning. Half the body shops on the south side were calling him.”

“And you were one of his elves, I suppose?”

“Let me put it this way. You keep doing all the deep thinking and I'll handle the little details like getting us there.”

I leaned back in the seat and the rocking of the car and the rhythmic rattle of the steel wheels on the rails proved too much. With her head on my chest and a drowsy afternoon sun washing in through the window, sweet girl smells slowly wrapped themselves around me and I fell asleep. The next thing I felt was Sandy's soft fingers on my cheek. “Wake up. We're getting near Michigan City and I don't want you to be a zombie when we get there.” I sat up and looked out the window, as we passed the first sign for Michigan City and the train began to slow. As the train pulled into the station, I saw the large, fenced commuter lot she mentioned, sitting across the street from the train station.

“It's got a guard,” I pointed down at the booth and the gate across the exit.

“A parking lot attendant?” she scoffed. “Piece of cake.”

We walked down the long flight of concrete stairs, across the street, and past the guard as if we belonged there. She was right. He was at least sixty, fat and gray, studying the centerfold in Hunter's Digest with a stub of a cigar clenched between his teeth.

“A retired postal worker,” Sandy walked me to the rear of the lot and held out her arms like a used car salesman surveying her empire. “What's your preference today, Mister Talbott? Feel a little racy?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “No? That Volvo's got your name on it. Or, maybe that lovely Toyota Corolla.” She pulled me farther away from the gate. “I've got it. That dusty, dark-green Chevrolet two rows back that looks like it hasn't moved for a couple of days That's the one for us.”

As we walked over, I saw she was right about the dust.

“It's less obvious than the imports, ” she went on. “And I won't need a computer to get into the ignition. Besides, the button on the passenger door is up, which means it isn't even locked. Here, hold out your hand.” She opened her bag, dug to the bottom, pulled out a quarter, and dropped it in my palm. “Pretend it's a screw driver. While I play with the ignition, you switch the rear plate with the one on that Firebird in the next row. It'll give us a little edge.”

“More Bobby McNally?”

“Him, or an Elmore Leonard novel, or maybe it was an old MacGyver, I can't remember which. Anyway, get moving.”

“Yes, ma'am, but what about the front plate?”

“I'll do it after I get the engine started.”

“You think I can't do them both by myself?”

She looked at me again as if I was a third-grader. Sure enough, before I had the rear plate even halfway off the Chevrolet, she had the engine running, the front plate changed, and was standing over me with another dose of humiliation. Looking down at my limited progress, she pulled a large key ring from her purse. “Men,” I heard her mutter. The key ring had enough gadgets dangling from it to overhaul a tank and she quickly had the rear license plate off the Firebird. She came over, knelt next to me, and used her tool on the last screw on the Chevrolet.