His plan was to pack a little picnic and drive Clarise over to Grant’s Tomb, where they could park under the elm trees and gaze out on the Hudson. But as luck would have it, the only car the twins had available that night was a Buick Skylark convertible with chrome finishes. The car looked so good, it would have been a crime to get a girl like Clarise in the front seat and spend the evening watching barges being pushed up the river. Instead, Townhouse lowered the top, turned up the radio, and drove his date up and down 125th Street.
—You should have seen us, Townhouse had said one night at Salina as they lay on their bunks in the dark. I was wearing my Easter Sunday suit, which was almost as blue as the car, and she was in a bright yellow dress that was cut so low in the back you could see half her spine. That Skylark could have gone from zero to sixty in four seconds, but I was driving at twenty miles an hour so we could wave at everyone we recognized, and half the people we didn’t. Down 125th we’d go, cruising past all the finely dressed folk out in front of the Hotel Theresa and the Apollo and Showman’s Jazz Club; and when we got to Broadway, I’d turn her around and drive all the way back. Every time we made the circuit, Clarise would slide a little closer, until there was no more closer to slide.
In the end it was Clarise who suggested they go to Grant’s Tomb to park under the elms, and that’s where they were, making the most of the shadows, when the flashlights of two patrolmen shone into the car.
It turned out that the owner of the Skylark was one of those finely dressed folk in front of the Apollo Theater. Given all the waving that Townhouse and Clarise had been doing, it didn’t take long for the cops to find them in the park. After untangling the young couple, one of the cops drove Clarise home in the Skylark while the other drove Townhouse to the station in the back of the black-and-white.
As a minor who had never been in trouble, Townhouse might have gotten off with a stern talking-to had he given up the twins. But Townhouse was no squealer. When the officers asked him how he happened to be behind the wheel of a car he didn’t own, Townhouse said that he’d snuck into Mr. Gonzalez’s office, slipped the key off the hook, and driven the car off the lot when no one was looking. So instead of the stern talking-to, Townhouse got twelve months in Salina.
—Come on, he said.
Crossing the street, the two passed the office where Mr. Gonzalez was talking on the phone and entered the repair area. In the first bay was a Chevy with its rear caved in, while in the second was a Roadmaster with a buckled hood, as if the two cars had been on opposite ends of the same collision. Somewhere out of sight, a radio was playing a dance number that to Emmett’s ear could have been the same one he’d heard when they had passed the domino players, though he knew it probably wasn’t.
—Paco! Pico! Townhouse called above the music.
The brothers emerged from behind the Chevy, dressed in dirty jumpsuits, cleaning their hands on rags.
If Paco and Pico were twins, you wouldn’t have guessed so from a glance—the former being tall, thin, and shaggy, the latter stocky and close-cropped. It was only when they broke out into big white-toothed smiles that you could see the family resemblance.
—This is the friend I was telling you about, said Townhouse.
Turning to Emmett, the brothers offered him the same toothy grin. Then Paco gestured with his head toward the far end of the garage.
—It’s over here.
Emmett and Townhouse followed the brothers past the Roadmaster to the last bay, where a car was under a tarp. Together, the brothers pulled back the cover to reveal a powder-blue Studebaker.
—That’s my car, said Emmett in surprise.
—No kidding, said Townhouse.
—How’d it end up here?
—Duchess left it.
—Is it running all right?
—More or less, said Paco.
Emmett shook his head. There was just no making sense of what, when, or where Duchess chose to do what he did. But as long as the car was back in Emmett’s possession and in good working order, he didn’t need to make sense of Duchess’s choices.
Doing a quick circuit, Emmett was pleased to find that there were no more dents in the car than when he had bought it. But when he opened the trunk, the kit bag wasn’t there. More importantly, when he pulled back the piece of felt that covered the spare, he discovered that the envelope wasn’t there either.
—Everything all right? asked Townhouse.
—Yeah, said Emmett, closing the trunk with a quiet click.
Walking toward the front of the car, Emmett glanced through the driver’s window, then turned to Paco.