Staying in one place for more than a few nights at a time feels strange. The last time I woke up looking at a consistent ceiling over my head, I was still at home, although I can't quite be sure that the word ever applied to that place after what happened there. Home is just a foreign concept to some people. Maybe that's bad. Maybe it isn't.
Give me a steering wheel in one hand and a gun in the other. That's it. That's home.
Or at least that's the closest thing to it I'm ever likely to get.
Instead of home, I get waking up in Connie and Sasha's living room, staring at the cracked ceiling and listening to them bicker in the kitchen. Some long-gone part of me remembers mornings under a handmade quilt with a rooster screeching outside the window, remembers my brothers jumping on the bed and telling me to get up, remembers what the very last smile my mother ever gave me looked like.
More of me remembers the roof sagging and the bank coming by twice a week, remembers my little sister's skirt swishing around an alley corner and how it was too late by the time I got home, remembers screaming and pain and Ma's face looking like she'd never smile again and our son is dead and…
Stop. Breathe. Memories and nightmares of what you can never change are things for people with no future. Then is gone. Now is Connie and Sasha's living room, the floorboards creaking, the steadily rising voices in the kitchen.
"I mean it, Connie Springer, you are goin' back!"
"Baby, you don't know what it's like in there!"
"I am calling the sheriff as soon as I get this laundry done and you are turning yourself in. A fresh start, you said. Going straight, you said. What do you call this?!"
Breathe. Live for now. Then is remembering how the raw snap of Sasha's voice sounds a little bit too much like my mother's. Now is getting up and deciding to go save Connie's ass the way I've been doing since we were kids. Stretching my arms up over my head and yawning, I shuffle into the kitchen, still in the stolen clothes from the farmhouse and looking much worse for wear than I'd like to admit. "Technically, this could be your fresh start. Y'all could pack up your things, take off over the state line. I hear Colorado's real nice."
Sasha Springer is pin-up pretty, long chestnut hair and big doe eyes, but she's absolutely terrifying when she's angry. Before I even have time to come up with something witty, she's across the kitchen and swatting my arm with the wooden spoon in one hand while reaching up with the other to grab me by the ear like some sort of misbehaving child. "And you. I don't want to hear a lick of input from you, Marco Bodt. You're a bad influence. You put him up to this!"
"All due respect, ma'am, but I just busted out of the cell. Connie following me was a choice of his own accord."
She hits me with the spoon again.
"Connie, you wanna control your woman long enough for me to get breakfast?" I deadpan.
"Control his woman. Control his woman, I oughta-" Sasha raises the spoon again so threateningly that I actually flinch, but Connie wraps an arm around her waist and guides her off to the other side of the kitchen murmuring platitudes about he don't mean nothing by it, baby and we're all a little edgy, it's the damn heat under his breath. It hasn't struck me until now just how off-balance I am on someone else's home turf. Hell, I came in here to save Connie's ass, and he ended up saving mine.
Getting myself some of the leftover oatmeal off the stove is an uncomfortable affair with Sasha glaring at me the whole time, but I've gotten used to feeling like there's a drill going through the back of my head every time we're in the same room together after three long, agonizing days. Sasha's lived in West Dallas all her life, managed to rope Connie in three years ago when he came through looking for work, and while the me of my childhood would have insisted that nothing could domesticate Connie Springer, it only takes watching the stupid, dopey looks he gives her all the time to prove me wrong. Dumbass.
He doesn't detach from her side until I've already finished breakfast and gone to wash up, squinting into the gritty shaving mirror bolted to the bathroom wall when he sticks his head through the doorway. "You all right, brother? The missus has a mean spoon hand."
"Y'know," I hum thoughtfully, swiping my razor up and down the leather strap next to the mirror a few times to sharpen it before going back to business. "Women are beautiful creatures. They're pretty, and they have sweet smiles, and they smell nice. Sometimes I wonder why I don't want anything to do with 'em. And then your wife opens her mouth, and I remember."
"Hey!" Connie snaps, taking a swipe at me that I manage to dodge while still shaving. "That's my girl you're talking about. Watch it."
"Wouldn't be nobody hitting anybody with no goddamned spoon in a house full of men," I grumble, rinsing the razor off one last time and reaching for a towel to wipe the leftover stripes of foam off my jawline.
"And if this was a house full of men you'd be way too happy," he snorts, throwing a bundle of fabric at me. Fresh clothes. "Sasha said to tell you to change. You look like a hobo."
"Yeah, 'cause I'll fit in your clothes. You caught yourself a real smart one, Con."
"Don't be a jerk." This time he actually does land a hit on me, a sharp jab to the side that sends a flash of pain across my torso. "They're leftovers from her laundry business, clothes people never came to pick up."
Nothing fancy - brown pants, an off-white shirt, new pair of suspenders - but they're in far better condition and of a more suitable size than what I've got on. Defeated by my own vanity, I sigh and shove Connie back out into the hallway. "Fine. Tell her I said thank you."
I keep the stolen newsboy cap, though. I like the looks of it, and it's a souvenir of one hell of an adventure.
Sasha is outside putting the wares of her laundry business on the line when I get out of the bathroom, and by the time she walks back in I'm sitting at the kitchen table rolling my cigarettes for the day and trying to look like I'm staying out of trouble for fear that she still has that spoon with her.
"You look better," she says tersely, clutching a pile of folded sheets to her chest with detergent-cracked hands. "Not so much like a lawless delinquent."
"I assure you, Mrs. Springer, I'm still a lawless delinquent," I tell her in a flat voice, tapping my last cigarette on the table and slipping it into my breast pocket. "Just a better-dressed one, for which I'm thankful to you."
"You're welcome," she snaps like she'd rather be saying go take a long walk off a short pier, flouncing off into the living room with her laundry and a haughty little sniff.
"Where's Connie?" I ask, following her out of the kitchen and jamming my hands in my pockets. God knows I've got nothing better to do than sit around and play innumerable hands of poker with him until sundown.
"He's out in the back helping hang things up." The implication that I should be doing the same sits so heavy on her voice that I'm almost shocked at the lack of subtlety.
"Nice of him," I nod, tipping my hat in her direction and heading for the front door. "If y'all need me, I'll be out running a few errands."
"Are you - well, it's pointless to ask if you're crazy, but really?" Sasha slams her armful of laundry down with pursed lips, glowering at me. "You're on the run from the law and you're just gonna waltz around West Dallas like you own the place."
"That's the plan," I shrug, opening the door and turning around to shoot her a little smirk before I hop off the porch. "Besides, I got nothing to worry about. I ain't famous enough for my own wanted posters. Yet."
It's hot for morning, the late July sunshine beating down combining with the dust hanging in the air to make everything feel heated and prickly, an uncomfortable tickle in the back of my throat from inhaling the grit and the dirt. But despite that, I breathe a little easier.
After three days, that house had become another prison. I feel like I just busted out all over again.
West Dallas is busy, loud and dusty and undeniably poverty-stricken, people crossing the with slumped shoulders and worn clothes. The same principles I was raised on apply even in the city, apparently. Sun up. Time to go to work. Work until you physically can't, and then keep going. Sweat and bleed and be grateful for what little you get out of it.
Pa never did understand the concept of working smarter instead of harder.
For every open door I pass, there are three boarded up storefronts signaling who knows how many families without a source of income. I could count the places that are actually doing business on one hand. A dilapidated five-and-dime with the porch sinking dangerously. A diner with dust so thick on the windows that the people inside just look like vague blurs. A grocery store with nothing on the shelves but a meager selection of canned food. The only place that seems to actually be thriving is a pawnshop on the corner, a long line of hollow faces and desperate eyes winding out the door. Fathers coming with heirloom pocket watches in hand to cover a little of last month's rent. Mothers bearing wedding rings so their children can go to bed without crying from hunger pains. All those tender little sentiments in life have a way of not meaning as much when your belly's gnawing on your backbone.
Anyone else might be disgusted that someone's making a profit off the misfortunes of others, but I have a little too much in common with the jolly-looking pawnbroker behind the counter to cast the first stone. I've done my share of shady profiting, and I'd sooner be a thief than a hypocrite.
The garage where Jean Kirschtein and I parted ways three days ago is a little farther up the road, the front desk abandoned and not a single person in sight. I almost keep walking, not noticing until I'm around the corner that the back door is open and staticky strains of swing music are floating out into the dusty air. I'd told Sasha that I was running errands. The least I could do is go check on the car.
There's a beat-up old radio sitting on a workbench next to the door, the crackly, distorted music covering up the sound of the grit under my shoes when I edge inside. Three cars in a building that could probably hold ten, two trucks and the stolen model T pulled in the far corner. The only movement in the place comes from a pair of feet sticking out from underneath one of the trucks, tapping against the floor in time to the music. I've seen the shoes before, and the voice humming along with the melody line is familiar. Before I realize it, a little snort of a laugh rattles in my throat.
Jean's toes stop tapping, a metallic clunk rising through the air as he goes to slide himself out from under the vehicle. "Eren? You back already?"
I plant my foot against the edge of the rickety old glider he's lying on before the top half of his body can roll out, smirking and drumming my fingertips on the top of the truck's rusted-out tailgate. "Nope. You got two more guesses."
"Marco," he responds almost immediately, and there's a measure of satisfaction at how quickly he said it that I don't even try to deny. Biting back a victorious grin, I plant my foot on the glider and roll him the rest of the way out. Same messy hair and tawny eyes I remember from three days ago, same blue work shirt with his name on a patch, sleeves rolled up haphazardly. The only difference between then and now is that Jean's obviously been up to his elbows in motor oil for hours, smears of black all over his hands and up his arms and one stray little smudge along his cheekbone.
I blink a few times, swallow hard. Jesus. Don't know how much you've missed the game until you've been on the sidelines for three months.
"Good guess," I grin slyly down at him, leaning against the truck and waiting for him to get to his feet. "Been expecting me?"
"Well, I… you kinda… yeah, actually," Jean shrugs, wiping his hands on a grease-spotted towel hanging from his belt before raking fingers through his already mussed hair. "Since, y'know. I was supposed to see you about the car."
"You were supposed to see me about the car," I nod, popping the tailgate on the truck and hopping up unceremoniously to sit on it. "I was downright dejected, sittin' there at the Springers waiting for you. Nothing to do but win sixty-three hands of poker and listen to Sasha yell at me about how I need to find Jesus and stop leading her husband down the slippery slope to damnation."
He barks out a laugh, jumps up on the tailgate beside me and leans against the other side. "Sounds like you got your hands full enough without me interfering, anyway."
"Hell, I'd pay you to interfere."
"Sounds like a better job than fixin' half-dead cars for ten hours a day. I'll take it."
"Too late now. I'm already here," I point out, nodding over at the Model T. "So what's the diagnosis?"
Jean grimaces, jumps back down to the floor and walks over to the car, from which he's very wisely removed the license plate. "Unfortunately, expensive. I don't know how hard you rode this thing, but the transmission is all kinds of screwed up. Gonna have to completely replace that, put in a new spark plug, and fix the exhaust valve before it's even somewhat fit to drive. The fact that I can fix it at all's the good news."
"And the bad news?"
"Well, I, uh…" Sucking in a breath through his teeth, he leans back against the side of the car and looks over at me with a nervous tension pulling tight at his shoulders. "It'll be a while before I can even touch it. I need parts for the repair, and we gotta wait for those to come in from Galveston."
"Galveston?!" I'm sitting up ramrod-straight in a second flat, jaw dropping.
"Yeah. So at least two weeks on that."
"The hell kind of auto shop has to ship in Model T parts from Galveston?!"
"We mostly work on trucks," Jean counters almost defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. "Production's down 'cause of the economy, not as many parts to be had. Other shops in town ain't gonna give us anything they got. Nearest supplier's in Galveston. Don't like it, go steal another car."
I grumble something about where the economy can shove its effect on the auto industry, standing up and reaching into my pocket for a smoke.
"Why don't you, though?" Jean asks, tilting his head to the side. "Steal another car, I mean."
Even despite my newfound foul mood, I have to laugh. "You're a piece of work, y'know that? Most people'd call the police, and you're here tellin' me to just go steal another car."
He just looks at me for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line, contemplative. "I don't even really know you. I can't judge you. I don't even know what all you did to wind up in prison in the first place."
I sidle over to him with the unlit cigarette dangling from my lips, a grin curling around the little cylinder and spreading ear to ear. "Oh, you know. A little armed robbery, a little auto theft, some breaking and entering. I'm a busy man."
Jean nods. "So why'd you do it?"
I open my mouth to answer him, but stop just short of formulating the words when I realize that no one's ever asked me that question before. Most people aren't all that interested in why I make a habit of robbing folks beyond whatever it takes to get me behind bars. All those months ago, the botched robbery and the handcuffs and the long drive to the courthouse, the long days staring at the wall of a cell, and no one ever bothered to ask me why. But Jean, he wants to know. He's standing there watching me like I'm some sort of puzzle with mismatched pieces, the gears in his head turning as he tries to figure me out, and I would have never thought that the word why could feel so liberating.
"You know who Billy the Kid was?" I ask him, lighting the cigarette and stomping the match out under my shoe.
"'Course I know who Billy the Kid was, I didn't grow up under a rock," he snorts, tilting his head to the side. "He was an outlaw. Fastest gun in the Old West."
Smirking, I nod and exhale a thin stream of smoke. "Uh-huh. And you know who Pat Garrett was?"
"Can't say I do," Jean frowns, looking confused.
"He was the man who shot Billy the Kid," I tell him, taking a step closer, feeling out the new territory. If anything, he leans into it, hanging on every word. "Killed the greatest outlaw who ever lived, and no one knows his name. That's why I did it, nothing more, nothing less. Heroes never make the history books, Jean Kirschtein, and I certainly aim to."
He nods slowly after a minute, seeming to finally realize how close we are and taking a step back, turning around to frown at the defeated Model T. "And all of this is stopping you from stealing another car why?"
"Because I'm a fugitive, kid," I laugh, leaning on the front bumper. He's maintaining distance now, but that one moment where we drifted a little too close is all the indication I need. "Can't just steal another car because I don't wanna leave the law a trail to follow. They don't know if I'm in Dallas or Galveston or Timbuk-goddamn-tu, and keeping it that way makes it a hell of a lot easier to get out of here."
Jean walks over to the radio and starts fiddling with it, turning knobs until the music sounds a little less scratchy. With a melancholy little quirk of his lips, he looks down at the table and says, "I don't know anyone who ever got out of West Dallas."
"Well, you know me. I got plans."
"Everybody's got plans," he laughs, a bitter tinge to his voice that wasn't there before.
"No, everybody's got dreams." Pushing myself off the car, I cross over in front of him and sit on top of the workbench, skirting the edge of his personal space again as I smirk and flick the ash off the end of the cigarette. "I got plans."
Jean rolls his eyes and tries to reach around me to get to the radio again. "Yeah? And what're your plans?"
"Nobody'll be lookin' for me up around Ohio, Chicago, New York," I hum, counting off the places on my fingers. "And the real big players are up there. Capone, Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson. I run with them, I can make a name for myself. Just you wait. In ten years, you can tell all your friends that you met Marco Bodt back when he was small time and robbing gas stations for page-two write-ups."
I half-expect him to laugh at me. God knows Connie's done it enough for that to be considered the default reaction. But instead he just mutters, "I always wanted to see New York."
"That one of your dreams?" I grin, sliding off the edge of the workbench and nodding at our surroundings. "You know, the things you won't do 'cause you're too busy sittin' around here fixing up people's trucks and listening to godawful music?"
"It ain't godawful, it's swing," Jean huffs, grabbing a wrench off the workbench and stalking back over to the truck he'd been working on when I came in. "And it don't matter. This is my life; this is what I get."
"Aw, come on, don't be like that." Laughing, I follow him across the garage, leaning over the other side of the truck's hood. "If you could do anything, money ain't an issue, obligations ain't an issue, what would you do?"
"Why does it matter-"
"Spit it out."
"It's stupid."
"Jean."
He flushes bright red, popping the hood up and jamming his arm down next to the engine. "Fine. Y'know how I told you I wasn't always poor, right? My family used to own this big department store downtown. We lost everything in the stock market crash, and then Dad died, and… well. Anyway, when I was younger I went to this private school in Dallas. Real nice, tuition was more than most people make in a year. We had a school band, and I started playing the trumpet when I was about eight. I was good at it. And I…" If it's even possible, his face goes even darker. Like he's compensating for his lack of composure, he grunts and rattles something around in the engine. "When I was a kid I always used to think that one day I was gonna go to New York and play in a big band. Y'know, with Benny Goodman or someone. Like I said, it's stupid."
Grumbling under his breath, he goes back to working on the car, not seeming to care that I'm still standing there watching him. The funny thing is that I can see him in some fancy school uniform with a big, dopey smile, toting a shiny new trumpet everywhere he went. Jean's fatalistic and grumpy, sure, but I saw a glimpse of that other person when he was with his mother and his little sister. He was happy once.
I wonder what that's like.
"You could do it, you know," I finally say.
"No I can't." He shakes his head sharply, yanking a burnt out spark plug out of the engine and scratching at his nose, leaving a little smudge of motor oil there. "I got Mom and Ninette. I'm the only source of income they have, Marco, okay? My mother's never worked a day in her life. If I wasn't here, they'd end up in one of those awful camps out by the railroad tracks; my sister'd be begging for scraps. I can't let that happen, and even if I could…"
"Ah, the 'and even if I could,' which translates to 'I secretly want to,'" I shoot back, still not willing to back down.
"And even if I could, I pawned my trumpet three months ago to pay the rent, okay?! Christ, just drop it!"
And he sounds so raw, so hurt, that I actually do. I think back to the line of people outside the pawn shop down the street, people trading all of life's tender little sentiments for the chance to put food on the table. Jean slapped a pawn ticket on his dream, and something about that is so goddamn sad that for a moment, I almost want to say I'm sorry for bringing it up. But then I remember that I never did know how to apologize, and I just nod slowly instead, dropping the smoldering remnants of my cigarette to the ground and sighing.
"You ever think of holding a up a few gas stations for rent money?" I ask after a long pause.
Jean throws his head back and howls with laughter, holding onto the front of the truck for support. "Me? Me. Robbing people. Can you honestly see me trying to hold up a store?"
"I think if you set your mind to it, you could do it," I tell him, shrugging and trying very steadfastly to push the image of Jean with a .45 in his hand smirking at some poor shmuck of a bank teller out of my head.
"Think I'll stick to fixin' cars, thanks," he shakes his head, still chuckling as he leans back down into the engine and rifles around a little more. "Speaking of which, I can't even touch that Model T until your services are paid in full. My boss has a rule about that."
"Well then it might be longer than two weeks on those repairs, because I'm flat broke," I huff, already cursing my luck under my breath. Maybe stealing another car would be easier. Not like I haven't done it before.
"Or you could just pay off the repairs by helping around the shop for a few weeks until the parts get here."
I raise an eyebrow at him, frowning a bit. "You got the kind of authority around here to make that kind of deal?"
"My boss has been my best friend since we were six, so if he complains I can always sock him in the jaw," he shrugs, looking up and smirking at me. He's got a dimple right above the corner of his mouth that cuts a little line through the smear of motor oil on his cheek when he smiles, and I'll be damned if it's not the most endearing thing I've ever seen. "You know anything about cars?"
"Enough," I grin, looking over at the useless hull of the Model T and seeing more possibility in it than I ever would have thought possible.
"Good," Jean says, slamming the hood of the truck shut and patting my shoulder as he walks past me, leaving a blackened handprint on my shirt. Sasha's going to be livid. I can't even describe how little I care. "You can start right now. Go get me that socket wrench. I gotta have both of these old rust buckets ready to roll by four."