To his great relief the man scarcely looked at him as he took his Records Division receipt. Perhaps he didn’t hold it against him the way he had interrupted him as he was coming on to the girl from Pleasanton … Without a word he opened up the binder and riffled through and came up with a carbon copy of a summons. Then he went through the door into the adjoining port-a-room, said something to the old woman, leaned down and made some entries on a sheet of paper, and returned, studying the piece of paper as he walked.

  Now he looked at Conrad and said, “Okay, that’ll be a hundred and fifty-four dollars.”

  “A hundred and fifty-four dollars!” exclaimed Conrad. “What for! I was here by seven! I don’t owe any storage!”

  “Who’s saying you owe storage?” said the man in a matter-of-fact voice. “You owe a hundred and fifty-four dollars towing.”

  “A hundred and fifty-four dollars towing? How can that be?”

  “Took an hour and ten minutes to tow it. Read the sign.”

  “An hour and ten minutes? How could it? This is—not right! I’ve got—I have seventy-seven dollars! I’ve got it right here!” By now he had his money in his left hand, which had closed into a fist. Slowly he opened his fingers, revealing a clump of crumpled bills that looked as if they had been gassed.

  The man studied his copy of the summons for a moment, as if he was willing to review the case and listen to reason. Then he looked up. “You come on back with a hundred and fifty-four dollars before 11 a.m. tomorrow, you can have your car. After eleven it’s $204.”

  “But this isn’t fair! This is—not right!”

  The man gave Conrad a look of glorious indifference and motioned his head toward the sign. “There’s a line in here,” he said. “There’s people waiting.”

  Conrad looked around. Two white men with suits and neckties were watching him with pinched stares. They were not his allies. They were interested in only one thing: seeing him vanish or disintegrate so that they could retrieve their own cars. He turned back toward the man behind the counter and got nothing but the same contemptuously patient and implacable stare. Aflame with anger and humiliation, he wheeled about and hurried out of the port-a-room.

  Outside, in the fenced-in enclosure, he became aware of how heavily he was sweating. His mouth and throat were terribly dry. He was breathing too fast. A feeling of panic swept over him. What was to be done? Call Jill again and have her get more money to him? But call her how? There wasn’t even any telephone here!—and he would rather die than go back inside that port-a-room and plead to be allowed to use one of theirs. Head back into downtown Oakland and try to catch a BART train and a bus back to Pittsburg? But how? He had only 90 cents in change! They wouldn’t even let him on the bus! What was happening was impossible—and yet it was happening. He was stranded out on Keeler Avenue in East Oakland, in the worst slum in the East Bay, and the sun was going down!

  The sun was now so low in the sky, it created a terrific glare as it bounced off the metal sea of the Three C Towing lot. It made you close your eyelids down to slits. The sound of truck, automobile, and forklift motors rose from all over. Right in front of him was a tall woman who had been in the line. Her pink scalp showed through her hair. The chain-link gate to the lot began to open. A gaunt, bony roustabout with a baseball cap pulled way down over his eyes was pushing the gate outward. His ears stuck out so far, they took on a translucent orangey glow from the way the sun shone through them from behind. An Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera came through and stopped. Another roustabout was at the wheel. He got out and turned the car over to the tall woman, then headed back through the open gate, which the roustabout with the glowing ears proceeded to close. The two men began walking back into the lot and, as Conrad watched, soon became two silhouettes against the low, dazzling light of the sun.

  Just then, a third silhouette—

  Even squinting into the ferocious glare he couldn’t mistake that figure. Barely thirty feet away, on the other side of the gate, inside the lot, there was the giant, the tow truck driver, his cowboy hat still on his head.

  Conrad ran over to the gate and peered between the chain links. Now he could see him more clearly. The man was climbing down from a heavy-duty forklift, bigger than the ones they had used at Croker Global. No two ways about it, it was him … the vest, the huge bare flaccid arms, the enormous ruff of keys protruding from his belt, the novelty key fobs …

  The forklift was in a big irregular cinder path that was maintained amid the mass of vehicles so they could be moved in and out. The giant began walking between two rows of cars. Every two or three cars he had to turn sideways to squeeze through, and his enormous ring of keys would scrape against the side of a car. The metallic bite of the keys cut through the general ruckus of the lot. Such utterly insouciant destructiveness! Nine or ten cars deep into the metal sea the giant stopped, leaned into a sedan, withdrew something, and put it into his pocket. Over and over, car after car, he removed things. Why? But of course! He was foraging, looting the cars for whatever their owners had been so unfortunate as to have left inside.

  Finally he made his way back to the dirt clearing and the forklift, and it was at that moment that Conrad spotted—even with the hellish glare in his eyes—it!—his own car!—the Hyundai! It was parked at an odd angle on the outer edge of the mass of vehicles. Now the giant was back up on the forklift. With a great whine it lumbered back to life. The giant shoved the gear stick and pressed the throttle levers. The machine rumbled forward. It was headed straight for the side of the Hyundai. The forks of the forklift slid straight in under the chassis, and the nose of the machine stopped just short of the door. The giant thrust the control levers this way and that, and the forks rose up under the Hyundai, and there was a sickening metal crunch, and the unmistakable groan of metal joints bending, and the nose of the forklift went down, and the Hyundai rose up, up, up, completely off the ground, until Conrad could see a flare of sunlight between the bottom of his car and the hoods of the cars behind it. As the little car rose up, the driver’s-side door fell open helplessly, with a sad torquing sound, and hung at a stricken angle.

  Conrad yelled out, “Hey!—hey!—hey!—heyyyy! You can’t do that!”

  The roustabout who had just closed the gate was no more than ten feet away. He looked back at Conrad for a moment, then, without a word, turned his head and continued on in toward the recesses of the lot.

  Conrad tried to pull the gate open, but it was locked in some fashion. He dug the tips of his shoes into the gate’s metal fencing in order to gain some height and managed to get his arm up over the top and down the other side. But he couldn’t reach the locking mechanism. His little Hyundai was now being borne aloft, way up on the forklift’s metal elevator, a silhouette against the waning sun, its door flapping, the very picture of defeat and humiliation.

  Only one thing to do! Nothing else left! He swung his leg over the top of the gate and got a toehold with his shoe in the gate’s chain-link mesh. Then he swung the other leg over and dropped to the ground. He was staring straight into an exploding sun. The roar of the truck and car engines and the whine of the forklifts engulfed him. For an instant the light was blinding, but then he could make out the car and the forklift and the immense back of the giant. The machine was thirty or forty yards away now. The giant was beginning to lower the little car down into the metal sea. Conrad ran toward it. The ground was so hard, he could feel the grit slipping beneath his shoes.

  The roustabout who had closed the gate still had his back turned. Conrad raced past him, and he yelled out, “Hey! Yo! Come here!” Conrad kept running. The man called out, “Yo! Morrie! Yo!”

  As he ran, Conrad’s field of vision was a blur of bouncing sunlight and crude silhouettes. The Hyundai was descending. With a crunching smash it dropped to the ground on all four wheels.

  “Stop it! STOP IT!”

  The giant turned in his seat on the forklift. His huge chest gave a great heave, and he stared at Conrad, who came skidding to a halt barely three feet away.

  “STOP IT! GIVE ME MY CAR! YOU’RE RUINING IT!” Conrad realized he was shrieking, but the words wouldn’t come out any other way. “THIS IS—NOT RIGHT!”

  Slowly, warily, staring into Conrad’s eyes the whole time, the giant slid his great bulk from the forklift seat and stepped down off the floorboard.

  Conrad pointed toward the Hyundai. “LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID! YOU BENT THE CHASSIS! THIS IS NOT RIGHT!”

  The giant’s chest was beginning to heave up and down. His deep voice rumbled to life. “I remember you.” He took a half step forward.

  With a guttural hiss Conrad said, “I’m taking my car.”

  He said it so fiercely, the giant stopped. Conrad started toward the Hyundai. The forklift’s blades were on the ground beneath the chassis.

  “Pal,” said the giant, “all you’re taking—all you’re taking—you’re taking shit.” He said it calmly, but he was breathing in gasps. His face was turning red.

  Conrad tried to walk around him to get to the car, and the giant grabbed him by the elbow. “All you’re taking”—wheezing—“is a walk back”—wheezing—“the way you came.”

  Conrad thrashed his arm backward and broke the man’s grip and headed once more toward the Hyundai. The giant grabbed for his arm again but succeeded only in getting a grip on his jacket sleeve, and once more Conrad broke free. He stood his ground and screamed straight into the giant’s face:

  “STOP IT! IT’S MY CAR! THIS IS NOT RIGHT!”

  To his astonishment the giant suddenly grabbed him by the necktie and jerked him toward him, until their faces were no more than six inches apart. “One way or the other, pal”—wheezing—“you’re getting the fuck”—gasping—“outta this lot”—gasping—“Which way’s”—gasping—“it gonna be?”

  Conrad tried to pull his head back, but the giant’s strength was too much for him. He was pulling him relentlessly downward. The necktie was cutting into his neck and pressing against his windpipe. Reflexively, he seized the giant’s wrist with both hands and twisted it backward with all his might to try to break his hold. The giant cried out—“Ahhhhhhh!”—and let go, and Conrad sprang back, crouching. The giant was staring at him, his mouth open, his face now a purplish red, cradling his wrist with his other hand, astonished at the power of this slender young man.

  “All I”—Conrad was breathing so hard, he could barely get the words out—“all I want—is my—own car.”

  The giant lunged. Conrad ducked to one side, and the giant’s immense bulk came crashing into his hip. The world turned upside down in a swirl of dirt and blinding sunlight. The next thing Conrad knew, he was picking himself up out of the cinders. The giant was three or four feet away, on his back, propped up on one elbow, staring at him out of a bloodred face, with his mouth open, sighing deeply and going, “Aw … awww … awwwww,” as if in profound disappointment.

  Conrad made a dash for the Hyundai, figuring that now he could get into it before the giant could climb to his feet. He jumped behind the wheel and closed the door, straightened his body out like a board, and pulled the keys out of his pants pocket. His hands were shaking terribly. Hanh … hanh … hanh … hanh … hanh ... It was the sound of his own breathing … He managed to get the key into the ignition—and it started.

  He looked through the windshield, terrified that the giant would already be up and lumbering toward him. But he was still on his back, still propped up on one elbow, still staring at him with that strange look on his florid face. Too fat! Out of breath! Exhausted!

  Mustn’t try to jackrabbit out of here … Clear the forklift blades first … Take it slow, take it slow, take it slow, take it slow … He could feel the wheels roll over the blades … one by one … and he was clear. Now gun it! The wheels spun on the cinders, and he took off toward the gate. Two figures were running toward him from the sides … roustabouts … but they weren’t close enough … Up ahead, another one, out in the middle, waving both arms over his head, back and forth, signaling him to stop … Conrad sped up … The roustabout jumped to the side …

  A clear run to the gate up ahead … He could see the backs of the two port-a-rooms … He glanced in the rearview mirror … couldn’t make out a thing … geysers of dust roiling up behind … The gate … He braked and came skidding to a stop four feet away … He jumped out … Open the gate! … a tremendous haze of dust in the late-afternoon sunlight … Out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure slip between two cars to the rear of the port-a-rooms and come charging toward him … It was the man from behind the counter, the one with the huge arms … He was brandishing a billy club … He stopped in a crouch, thrusting the club out in front of him like a sword …

  “Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!” He kept saying. “Hold it.”

  “This is my car!” yelled Conrad … He pointed in the general direction of the forklift and the giant … “He was destroying it! I have a right to get my car!”

  “Just hold it right there!”

  Conrad stared at him for an instant … The man’s chest and upper arms looked huge, but the billy club was shaking … Conrad moved toward the gate …

  “Get away from that fucking gate!” The man advanced on him.

  The gate was locked with a spring hasp, and it required both hands to open it … The man was right on top of him …

  “You heard what I said! Don’t be a jerk!” With that the man tried to herd him away from the gate by jabbing him in the ribs with the billy club …

  Conrad spun about and grabbed the head of the club … The man pulled it back, but Conrad tightened his grip … With a sudden twist he wrenched the club from him … The man recoiled … He eyed Conrad for a moment, then darted toward the Hyundai … The keys! … Conrad sprang toward the car to try to beat him to the door … They collided … The man spun backward … The edge of the open door caught him in the back … He fell to the ground … His face was contorted … His legs were twisted beneath him … He started screaming, “Cliff! Cliff! Cliff!” … Conrad was standing over him, fighting to get his breath, still holding the billy club …

  Such was the scene—Conrad Hensley, a club in his hand, standing over the crumpled, stricken, screaming form of the proprietor of these premises—when a third figure arrived. It was the policeman, an Oakland policeman in half a uniform, his pants and shoes, with nothing but a T-shirt on top. He held a revolver in both hands braced in front of him.

  “Freeze!” he yelled. “Drop it! Drop it! Now!”

  Conrad was dumbfounded. He had to look down at his own hand to realize that in fact he was standing there holding a club. He opened his hand, staring at his own fingers, and let the club roll off them. It hit the ground with a curiously musical little clink. The implications of what was now taking place swept over him in a sickening wave.

  “Now—lie down! Over here! Face down! Arms out to the side! Now!”

  Conrad stared at that furious face and at that incredible machine, the revolver, which he held out in front of him. Why? I can explain!

  “I—”

  “I SAID LIE DOWN! NOW!”

  Baffled, aghast, Conrad did as he was told. He dropped to his knees, then to his hands. Then he stretched flat out on his chest and abdomen and thighs.

  “HANDS OUT TO THE SIDES! NOW!” The policeman was somewhere behind him.

  When Conrad stretched his hands out to the sides, he had no choice but to lower his head to the ground. He lay on one side of his face. His body was drenched with sweat. He could feel the dirt caking to his face. His cheek was pressed against some sort of cinders or rubble. Through the dust and haze he could make out figures running toward him. If only he’ll let me explain!

  “Officer—”

  “SHUT UP! I TOLD YOU, FACE DOWN!”

  Somebody shoved a rod under his head and up against the rim of his ear where it lay pressed against the earth … the billy club … He turned his head until he was completely face down and his chin and nose dug into the dirt. A filthy congestion of dust filled his nostrils. He could hear the gritty sound of shoes coming toward him. He could hear someone panting.

  “Corky! You okay?”

  “Shit!” A deep groan from the little man with the big arms. “Uggghhhhhhhhhh.” Someone seemed to be helping him up. “My baaaaack … The cocksucker blindsided me.”

  Running footsteps … someone gasping, struggling to get enough air to get the words out: “Hey, Corky … Cliff … Jesus Christ … Somebody’s gotta go help Morrie … He’s lyin’ back’eh by the forklift … He don’t move! He don’t even breathe!”

  Prostrate, face down in the dirt of the Oakland slums, a sodden little speck of humanity, Conrad Hensley could feel the very flesh on his head grow hot. His nostrils were caked, choked with dust. His eyes were stinging. So he closed them. All at once, behind his eyelids, he could see two people looking down at him. One was Arda Otey … No more than she expected … The other was his little boy, Carl, Carl with his perfect blond bangs. He was looking at his father the way Conrad had looked at his own father so many times.

  chapter XII

  The Breeding Barn

  IT WAS FRIDAY EVENING, AND THE MASTER OF TURPMTINE, CHARLIE Croker, was presiding over dinner at the burled tupelo maple table Ronald Vine had devised for the Gun Room, which was the showpiece of the plantation’s new Gun House. Logs blazed in a vast hearth, fashioned by Ronald out of Georgia limestone, casting Charlie and his thirteen guests—fifteen, if you counted Serena and Wally—into a pattern of firelit glows and deep shadows. The flames sent highlights flickering up the long barrels and ornate chase-worked clasps of a parade of shotguns, many of them classics from the so-called Golden Age of Shotgunning, Dicksons, Bosses, Purdys, Berrettas, L. C. Smiths, the lot, priceless pieces that lined the entire room, all four walls, rank after rank, encased in burled tupelo gun racks.

  Up above the gun racks, between two rows of heavy tupelo cornice moldings, ran an array of stuffed boars’ heads with fantastic curving tusks and stuffed coiled diamondback rattlesnakes with their jaws agape, their fangs erect. A boar’s head, a coiled diamondback rattlesnake, a boar’s head, a coiled diamondback rattlesnake—they alternated, creating, in Ronald’s phrase, “The Frieze of the Unfriendly Beasts.” Each boar, each snake, was a masterpiece of taxidermy, and they were Charlie’s beasts. He had killed or captured them all with his own hands out in the fields and swamps of Turpmtine, a fact he fully intended to impart to his guests, given a halfway natural opening.