It had been a few nights past when Doyle arrived in the big easy, his first brush with any locals a memorable one to say the least. He’d picked up a map of the area, learned the lay of the land as it were and, much as he enjoyed the comfort of sleeping in his Deuce, figured it was time to set about aquiring a more suitable place. Doyle was always one to let the road talk, so on this sunny afternoon he fired up the coupe and let her wheels do the walking.
Drives always soothed him, they did ever since he could recall, when his daddy would set him high on the seat in the old Plymouth and just cruise til sundown. The memory brought a smile to his features, ice blues hidden behind coal black shades, when the wedge sputtered, coughed and stopped. “what the fuck?” he said, as a few turns of the key produced nothing but a whine from the blower belt. The fuel gauge read three quarters of a tank. He’d just done an entire go ‘round with her before he left for New Orleans, so mechanical failure was out of the question.
“Hmmph” he grumbled, easing his lanky frame out of the car. The day was setting up to be a warm one, but that didn’t bother the ‘Bama native in the least. “Whats your boggle, missy?” he asked, half expecting the vehicle to answer him. His mind began to work out the possibilities, dismissing each one as it formed. “Well darlin’” he said after a few minutes contemplation, “Looks like I’ll have to pull a tooth,”
“A good mechanic never goes anywhere without a decent set of tools, even if it’s just to the corner store.” he remembered his daddy saying once when they broke down about a mile away from home. Off came the brim which he tossed onto the drivers seat, he cracked his neck and took a breath. “Ok, the Doctor is in!” The custom deck he’d built when he was putting her together, had been formed to just fit his toolbox, so up came the lid, careful so as not to scratch the imron that he and Bobby had worked two weeks on getting just right.
Plug socket.
Extension.
Compressed air.
He walks back to the business end of the coupe, takes a look at the right bank of wires, pops off number 6 and glances inside the boot. No dirt, no dust, no corrosion. Just like it should be. He fits the plug socket on the extension, places it over the plug and eases the fire giver out of its home. Moisture.....that’s never good and he brings the plug to his nose, fully expecting the sweet smell of fuel to assault his senses.
“Sweet jesus” he says with a wrinkled nose. “That ‘aint no gas like I ever smelled.” Whatever it was, Doyle was damn sure he’d be going nowhere for a while.
It was only then that he took a look around, trying to get a bead on where he was, and saw......not a goddamn thing, save what looked to be an old filling station maybe a mile down the deserted road. He let out a sigh, reached in through the drivers window, grabbed his brim and set it on his blonde head. “What a man won’t do for his woman.” he mused, then set out in the direction of the building.
His heart sank as he neared the dilapidated old station. It was obvious from the sight of it, that no one had gotten gas, or anything else for that matter, from here in probably twenty five years or so. He might have just given up and turned around if it weren’t for that odd feeling he got in his gut...one of those that says “you have to see this. It’s important.”
As he got closer, he made out the solitary figure sitting stone like on the wooden bench in front of the place, just to the left of what used to be the front door. He breaks into a trot, really hoping maybe the gent can at least offer him a cold drink. “Hey there!” he hollers as he nears the man. “Y’all are a sight for sore eyes, yessiree!” The man remained motionless, his hands flat on his thighs, not seeming to have heard Doyle.
He was dark skinned, far deeper than most of the locals Doyle had chanced to run into, and he appeared to be in his early thirties, though his manner of dress belied that of a man well into his fifties. His shirt, long sleeved and collar buttoned, matched the navy blue of his pants which were a bit short and exposed the white socks which vanished into shined leather shoes. His close cropped afro was ungrayed and if Doyle didn’t know better, he thought he might be looking at a wax figure.
“Scuse me, sir.” Doyle repeated and poked the man in the shoulder. His head slowly turned in Doyle’s direction, a pair of coal black eyes seeming to look right through him. An awkward silence fell between them as the man seemed to be processing Doyle.
“Got’s you a name, boy?” the man said, finally breaking the quiet lull.
Doyle found it odd that someone close to his own age would call him ‘boy’, but maybe that’s just the way people were in this part of New Orleans. He extended his hand and managed a smile. “Doyle Quinn” he said, leaving out his middle name. Truth was he never cared for it, but kept it in honor of his father. “And you?”
The man’s brow furrowed as he looked to the outstretched hand. He didn’t take it, instead offering somewhat of a snort.
“What’chu want?” the man asked, clearly annoyed by Doyles presence.
By now, the heat of the day, and this guys manners were grating on Doyle’s nerves. “My baby quit on me ‘bout a mile back. I was hoping y’all might have a tow truck.” he shot back, just as annoyed. There was almost a smile on the mans face, but it quickly gave way to that same stone cold expression Doyle had seen when he first came upon him.
“Roger D’Entremont.” the man said after another lull. His voice was deep Cajun, but there was something about it that struck Doyle as odd, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. “Got’s an old puller out back.” he continued, “but ‘aint been livened up, here on thirty years. Doubtin she be much use.” Doyle smiled and shrugged a bit. “Well you mind if I give it a try?” he asked.
“Suit yerself boy.” Roger replied, then turned his stare back to the empty road. “Keys be in it.” Doyle’s spirits lifted a bit as he headed out behind the old building and came upon the tow truck. He stopped dead in his tracks, jaw practically hitting the dirt at his feet as he blinked. “Oh my lord” he said, then let out a low whistle.
Before him sat a pristine tow truck that looked like it had just come off the showroom floor. Had to have been at least thirty years old, but it wasn’t even dusty. Reverently Doyle rounded the drivers side, lightly touching the gloss black paint, then blinked at the name expertly hand painted on the door. “D’Entremont Garage and Towing 24 Hr. Service 555-4987.”
The key was in it, just as Roger had said, attached to a small chain and rabbits foot. Roger hadn’t seemed to Doyle to be the superstitious type, but hell, who was he to judge. Most folks conceal some sort of belief in luck, in one way or another. Even Doyle held onto the first dollar he’d ever made fixing something. It felt good, and he’d have done it for free, re-wiring old lady Tibbits floor lamp. He eased himself up into the drivers seat, set his hands upon the wheel and smiled. It felt like an old comfortable pair of shoes as he depressed the clutch and eased the shifter through it’s gears.
“Well lets see if yer a dandy” Doyle said as he reached for the key and turned it slowly. The tow trucks heart started as if it had just been asleep these past thirty years, and woke up ready to take on all comers. “Damn” he whispered as he let the motor warm up. One quick check of the gas gauge told Doyle he’d be able to make it to the deuce and back, with change to spare, so he eased off the clutch and sent the truck wheeling around the side of the building. He stopped once he got back out front, to thank Roger for the use of his truck, but the man was nowhere to be found. “Now don’t that beat all” Doyle thought as he sent the truck in the direction of his beloved coupe. He figured he’d leave Roger a fifty for his trouble, once he got the thirty-two back to the garage and running again, then put the afternoons adventure out of his mind.
The deuce rolled slowly down the street as Doyle peered over the rim of his shades, looking for the real estate company listed on the small “FOR SALE” sign laying on the passenger seat. He’d almost given up when he saw a small neon light in the lower corner of a window. Fontenot Realty it blinked a few times before growing dark. “Must be the place” Doyle thought as he pulled the coupe into an empty space, set the brake and shut her down. The engine protested a bit, as if to tell it’s owner “I don’t think this is a good idea”, but then it quieted. He frowned and shook his head. “You jes’ aint right yet, are ya darlin?” he said, then patted the chopped top a few times, grabbed the sign, stepped out and shut the door. He was about to turn the old doorknob on the realty’s door when he caught sight of a reflection in the front window, and chuckled.
Reid Dupree had been the sheriff in this little parish for twenty odd years, and it was no secret among the locals that he had little use for strangers, especially ones who thumbed their noses at his authority. His ticket book, once pristine and orderly, was now scratched and torn thanks to the stranger he stared down through mirrored glasses. Doyle turned a bit, smiled and tipped his brim, much as he had a few nights ago when Dupree had a punk in a yellow ricer pulled over. As Doyle stepped into the office of Reid’s long time friend, the sheriff’s jaw tightened. Maybe he’d just have to go take a closer look at the mans ride....yessir.
Now Fontenot Realty had been around since the late thirties when Simon Fontenot first opened the doors, and to Doyles eyes it looked like the place hadn’t been cleaned since the old man kicked the bucket back in ‘78. He’d left it to his son and grandson, not so much by choice, but by lack of options. Doyle looked around a minute, coughed and waited, half hoping nobody was here. “No such luck” he thought as the poster boy for Popeye’s came out of the back room.
Cantor Fontenot had to be all of four hundred pounds and it wasn’t because he was tall. On the contrary, the man looked as if he was the progeny to all the ommpa-loompas. And he reeked...of what, Doyle couldn’t tell but it was all he could do not to run outside and take a deep breath.
“Hep you?” the rotund one wheezed. Doyle could almost hear the mans arteries strain to open enough for blood to get where it had to be. “Why yessir” Doyle replied, hoping he could contain his composure long enough to conduct his business. He related to the man his tale from yesterday, how his car had broken down, how he found what seemed to be an old abandoned garage. He told of his meeting with the odd Roger D’Entremont, and when the mans name was mentioned, the sweat began to pour from Cantor Fontenot as if someone had turned on the whole Niagara inside of him.
'‘Wh...whut you say his name were??” Cantor stammered.
“Roger D’Entremont.” Doyle repeated, then continued with his story. He told Cantor how Roger had allowed him to use the tow truck, and how he planned to pay him for his trouble, but when he came back with his car in tow, Roger seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Pale.
Wobbly.
Shit himself.
Doyle ignored the reactions as best he could, and continued his story. “Anyways, I got my baby purrin’ again, ‘n I went to leave Mr. D’Entremont a fifty, when I found this here for sale sign with your company’s name on it. If the place is still up for the takin’ I’d like to make an offer.”
“Off....offer?” the man managed to get out before slumping into a chair...or maybe it was a loveseat, damn the man was huge of ass. Just as Doyle was considering dialing 911, another man, considerably older, but in far better shape, joined them from the back room. “Y’all need to forgive my boy here” he said, patting the shaken man on the shoulder. “Ain’t been well for....for quite some time.” He came around the front desk, extended his hand and smiled. “Justin Fontenot” he said. “The business is mine....well mine AND my boy’s here” He snapped his head slightly in the direction of his son. “This is Cantor, my only son” he offered. Doyle caught a hint of regret in the older mans voice.
“I couldn’t help but overhear. You interested in the D’Entremont place?”
Doyle nodded. “Yessir, I am. It needs some pretty serious work, but ain’t nothin I can’t handle myself.. I’ll make a fair offer, if it’s still open.” He took the mans hand and gave it a firm but brief shake. “Names Doyle...Doyle Quinn.” he replied. “Pleasure to meet ya Mr. Fontenot.” The old man nodded. “Likewise” he said. Justin Fontenot was said to possess nerves of steel and the heart of a corpse, and if there were any indication that something was wrong, Doyle couldn’t see it in the silver haired mans face.
Cantor...that was a different story. The man couldn’t bluff a table of blind men playing stud poker. When Doyle gave his name, hamburglar’s eyes about fell out of his head, but there was no time for him to wonder why, as Justin was standing in front of him with some papers.
“Why I do believe we can work out a deal, Mr. Quinn.” Justin said, glancing through the yellowed sheets. “Askin’ price was thirty five thousand, but that’s when it was first listed.” He peered up at Doyle for a second, seeming to size him up, and Doyle figured the price was about to take a huge leap, given the recent economical boom. “Tell you what, son..” Justin said after a moment. “I’ll let you have it for say.......twenty-eight nine, how’s that?”
Doyle shook his head. He could have paid that, hell three times that, but he was a dealer and besides, the place needed some major work. “The lifts are shot” he said, and proceeded to run down the list. “It’s gonna take a good thirty to get ‘er back in shape” he said. “Now I saw it had a little efficiency apartment in the back...small kitchen, john, room for a bed. I’ll set myself up there, as live in owner. I was thinkin’ maybe twenty three.”
Justin pursed his lips. Yep, this one was no gimme. After a few minutes hmmming and hawing, Justin shook his head. “I can’t let ya rob me like that, son. Twenty five solid.
Doyle thought about that, and in his mind, knew he could get that and more, for the pristine tow truck. “Deal” he said. “You need all my particulars?”
Justin waved a leathered hand at Doyle. “Son, I do business the old fashioned way.” he said, and again extended his hand. Doyle smiled, took, this time giving the man more than just a cursory shake. “Done and done, then.” he said. “How d’ya want payment?” Justin laughed and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, to an old weatherbeaten sign that read...
“In God we trust. All others pay CASH!”
Doyle laughed. “I think I’m gonna like doin’ business with you Justin!” he said. “Give me two days?”
“Take what time ya need, son” the old man replied. “Place’ll be there, when you’re ready.”
Just as Doyle was about to take his leave, the door creaked open and Sheriff Dupree walked in, blocking Doyle’s exit. Now Dupree was no couch potato, like Cantor. It was obvious that he took pride in his appearance, from the razor crease of his brim, to the mirror shine on his jack boots. Doyle never backed down from a challenge, spoken or otherwise, and he stood his ground now, although he had a feeling if push came to shove, he’d be on the short end of this little battle.
“Hello Reid!” Cantor practically squealed. The sheriff glanced over and Doyle thought he saw a smile on Dupree’s stone face. “Hello Cantor” the big man said, in almost a whisper. “Mr. Fontenot.” he then said, his voice respectful, but holding more than a tinge of resentment.
“Sherrif” Justin replied, his own voice betraying the distrust he held for the man...or was it something else, something Doyle could not quite put a finger on. “This is Mr. Quinn”
Reid turned his mirrored gaze to Doyle, and the hint of humanity was gone. “I b’lieve we’ve met.” Dupree practically spit out, holding up his injured ticket book. “And I b’lieve I owe you a little something for that stunt.”
“Rut-roh” Doyle thought as his muscles tightened, his body readying itself for the fight.
“Not in MY house!” Justin said. It was clear from the sheriffs reaction that Justin was not one to cross, no matter who you were or how bad you thought you might be. “Mr. Quinn is here on business.” he continued. “And while he’s here, you WILL treat him with whatever respect you can muster. Is that clean?” Dupree looked over at the old man and gave him a nod, which Doyle figured was about all the old man would get...but it was enough for now.
“Mr. Quinn is going to buy the old D’Entremont place, fix it up and we’ll have us a place to take our mobiles to. It’s a grand thing, don’t you think Sheriff?”
From the eyebrow that peaked over Dupree’s lens, Doyle assumed the sheriff did not share the realtor’s enthusiasm. “You really think that’s wise?” he asked, leaving Doyle to ponder the implication of the statement AND it’s tone.
Justin laughed. “I think it’s a grand idea!” he responded. “Probably the best one anybody’s had in this town in oh....thirty years or so.” Cantor, having remained silent, finally managed to pipe up. “Daddy” he said in an almost boyish voice. Before he could say another word, Justin snapped his head and glared at his son. “ ‘S done!” he said, effectively ending what little debate there was. “Now Sheriff, if you’ll let Mr. Quinn by...I’m sure he has a lot to do.” Again he extended his hand in Doyles direction and smiled. “Mr. Quinn, it’s been a pleasure and I look forward to seein’ you right fast next few days?”
Doyle shook Justins hand, returned the smile and nodded. “Be about right” he replied, then turned to take his leave. Dupree was still blocking the door, and for a moment Doyle thought he might still have to fight his way to daylight. Slowly the sheriff slid to one side, allowing Doyle just enough room to get by. “Thank you sheriff” Doyle said as he tipped his brim and reached for the door.
“ ‘nother time, boy.” Dupree said, venom dripping of his words. “I got my eye on you.”
Doyle smiled, opened the door and left, glad to be away from that little scene. Back inside, Dupree removed his shades, set them in his pocket and glared at Justin, his one good eye focused on the old man.
“You gone too far, Justin.” he spat.
The sting of the old mans hand across Dupree’s face sent him back a step. “You WILL respect me in my home, boy!” he replied “I decide what’s too far......and what ‘aint far enough. If you and lard ass here woulda done what I told ya to do thirty years ago, we’d not be havin’ this conversation...” he said. “ ‘N you might still be seein’ in stereo!! Now you go do your job....’n I’ll do mine.”
Dupree clenched his fist, then relaxed it as he caught sight of Cantor shaking his head, eyes wide. “You wakin’ up sleepin dogs” old man, he said as he rested his shades back upon his nose. “Y’ought ta know better.” With that, he adjusted hit brim and headed out, leaving the door to crash behind him.
Justin shook his head, turned to his son and sneered, seeing Cantor chewing nervously on a pencil. “P’tend it’s a greasy chicken leg” he said....”Maybe I’ll get lucky,’n lose ya to lead poison’n”
The old man peeked outside, reached around the front window curtain and set the “CLOSED” sign up, then headed into the back room. Anger filled every fiber of Cantors body as he rolled the pencil between his palms. “BOY!” came the tone of voice that Cantor knew all too well. “Get that lard ass of yours back here...it’s time for my massage!”
“Yes, daddy” Cantor replied, as he snapped the pencil in half. He knew damn well what time it was, and that old sick feeling in his gut started up again. He opened the drawer of the desk he was seated at, and for a moment contemplated the .9mm sitting beside the massage oils. “Fucking coward!” he thought to himself, as his hand brought back a bottle of astro lube instead of the gun. “GOD DAMMIT BOY.....NOW!!!” his father screamed.
“I’m coming,I'm coming!!” Cantor called back as he struggled to get his girth out of the chair. He knew that, soon enough, his father would be uttering those same words, leaving Cantor a heaving mass of screwed up human being.
-- Edited by DOYLE on Friday 25th of March 2011 10:33:35 PM