Chapter 19
"The Dynasty - First Clue"
EARLY MONDAY MORNING I WALKED DOWN THE STREET TO MY CAR. THERE HAD BEEN SOME SORT OF TO-DO AT ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CHURCHES YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, AND WHEN I GOT HOME FROM DINNER, I HAD TO PARK FURTHER AWAY FROM MY APARTMENT THAN I USUALLY DO. SOMETIME BETWEEN THEN AND THIS MORNING, THE VOLVO HAD BEEN 'KEYED'. ON THE DRIVER'S SIDE A LONG, DEEP SCRATCH GOUGED A CREASE AND SCORED THE PAINT ALL THE WAY FROM THE BACK DOOR TO THE FRONT OF THE FRONT ONE. IT HAD OBVIOUSLY BEEN DONE ON PURPOSE.
I WAS BEYOND ANGRY. A HOT WAVE OF RAGE RACED DOWN MY SPINE AND I FOUND IT HARD TO BREATHE. I INSERTED MY FINGER INTO THE GOUGE AND CALCULATED THAT EVEN IF THE DOORS DIDN'T HAVE TO BE REPLACED, THE COST OF SMOOTHING OUT THE CREASE WOULD PROBABLY ADD UP TO A COUPLE THOUSAND DOLLARS OR MORE.
THINKING …
DAMN! I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN RID OF THE CAR WHEN I FIRST BEGAN TO CONTEMPLATE WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN TO IT ON THESE STREETS. OR SOLD IT OUTRIGHT AND BOUGHT A LOW-PRICED OLDER MODEL TO LAST ME UNTIL I MADE UP MY MIND WHAT I WAS GOING TO DO AND WHERE I WAS GOING TO LIVE. WITHIN TWO MINUTES I FELT A MIGRAINE COMING ON, AND I KNEW THE STRESS WOULD RENDER ME USELESS IF I CONTINUED ON TO WORK. I GOT IN THE CAR AND SAT STILL WITH MY HEAD PROPPED ONTO THE STEERING WHEEL. RIGHT THUMB AND FOREFINGER PRESSING ON EITHER SIDE OF MY NOSE DID NOTHING TO EASE THE TENSION.
THINKING …
WISHING BODILY HARM TO THE IDIOT WHO HAD DONE THIS, I DUG OUT MY CELL PHONE AND CALLED ERIC FOREMAN AT THE HOSPITAL. I BEGGED OFF WORK FOR THE DAY, CITING A HEADACHE OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. WHAT COULD HE SAY? HE GRANTED MY REQUEST AND WE RANG OFF.
ONE OTHER CALL TO MAKE: THIS WAS A PERFECT EXAMPLE OF LOCKING THE BARN DOOR AFTER THE HORSE HAS BEEN STOLEN. THE SUN WAS COMING UP AND MY HEAD POUNDED WITH EVERY GRADATION OF ITS BRILLIANT RAYS. THE PHONE RANG FIVE TIMES BEFORE SOMEONE PICKED UP. "CRANE DODGE-CHRYSLER … THIS IS MARGIE … MAY I HELP YOU?"
"THIS IS JAMES WILSON. MAY I SPEAK TO VINCE PLEASE?"
"ONE MOMENT …" THE LINE CLICKED OVER LOUDLY AND I HELD THE PHONE AWAY FROM MY EAR.
"HELLO, MR. WILSON? MR. CRANE HASN'T COME IN YET, BUT IF YOU WISH, I CAN HAVE HIM CALL YOU AS SOON AS HE ARRIVES."
Anger spiked for a moment, but I held it tightly in check. It wasn't her fault I had called so damned early. After a moment I left her with my number and asked that she relay the message.
That taken care of, I rang off and continued to sit behind the wheel letting my random angry thoughts roam at will. My head was killing me.
It was full daylight when the phone shrilled, startling me out of a half-doze.
"Jimmy!" It was the eager, scratchy voice I remembered from years ago when he and House and Billy Travis and I ran around together, raising hell and living our lives with a vengeance. Then the infarction took over House's entire existence, and things fell apart.
"How the hell are you, man? I haven't seen you guys in forever. Have you heard anything from Greg?"
"It's a long story, Vince. Have you got time for me to tell you? It appears that House has crawled into a rabbit hole and pulled it over himself."
There was a pause while my headache ramped up a notch.
"Damn, Jimmy … come on over to my office, why don'cha? There's something over here that I think you might be interested in …"
"Okay, Vince. Give me an hour. I have to call my insurance agent. Somebody gouged my car doors yesterday, and creased the hell out of the entire driver's side."
"Damn! That's too bad, Jimmy. When you finish up, bring it on over. I'll be here and we'll take a look. Just come on in … you know where everything is … it's still pretty much the same …."
When I walked into the showroom of Vince's place, I found that it certainly hadn't changed much over the years. A little brighter, a little more state-of-the-art. The cars were, of course, newer. Glitzier. Some of them even spectacular.
Vince Crane stood in the doorway of his office, smoking one of his smelly cigars. He hadn't changed much either. The red hair had a few more strands of white in it, and his middle-age paunch poked out a little further. The steel-rimmed glasses and the cockeyed grin were still the same. His familiar friendly face seemed to stoke back my headache a bit, and I walked across the floor with hand stretched out. We clasped hands and hung on a little longer than propriety dictated.
Vince, always free with the compliments (comes with being a car dealer, I guess,) looked me over and said: "Damn! Are you taking 'Little Orphan Annie' pills, or what? You don't look any older than the last time I saw you."
I smiled, closed my eyes and shook my head.
We walked into his office and I saw his assistant, the voice I'd heard on the phone, probably. She was a big-boned attractive brunette in her late forties, early fifties. She smiled and nodded and I did the same. Vince introduced us: "Margie, this is Dr. James Wilson, a very old friend. Jimmy, this is my right-hand-man, Margie Franklin. I couldn't run this place without her." He doused his cigar in a big ashtray on his desk.
Margie looked at me appraisingly. "You're the one Vince talks about in connection with Dr. House and Billy Travis." It was a statement, not a question, but her eyes were alight with curiosity.
I allowed her one of my best smiles and said: "Guilty. I'm pleased to meet you, Margie." Nothing more.
"Likewise, Dr. Wilson," she replied and turned back to her desk.
Vince walked into the showroom and I followed. He stopped and leaned an elbow against the fender of a beautiful new Ram 1500 and turned to face me. "What'd you find out about the damage to your car?"
"It's covered under comprehensive. My choice who does the work. Can your guys repair it?"
"Yeah, sure … anytime you want to bring it in."
"It's parked out front, Vince. You seem a bit jumpy. What's up?"
"You'll see in a minute. Gimmie your keys and I'll have Joe bring it around back."
I handed him the keys and stood there puzzled as he talked to his shop man. I knew he was stalling, but did not ask why. Two minutes later I saw the Volvo appear at the shop's overhead door as it rumbled upward. Joe pulled the car slowly inside and shut off the engine. He told us: "I can take the doors off and retool 'em, or we can replace 'em and repaint. Up to you, Doc."
"Whatever you decide, Joe. It's your decision, since you're doing the work. Works for me either way."
"Okay. Me'n' the boys'll check it out. Call back in about a week."
I turned back to Vince. "That was easy. I'll just endorse the check to you when it comes …"
Vince nodded. "That'll work."
"One more order of business," I said, delaying whatever was in his craw. "I didn't take a loner car. I'm going to sell the Volvo … trade it in … whatever. I moved into a postage-stamp-sized apartment near the river. Over there every decent car is fair game. That's what happened, I think. I need something that nobody wants to bother with. Do you have anything that's small, poison to street cowboys and in fairly decent shape?"
"Sure, Jimmy … anything you need … but why the hell would you move down there?"
"I needed someplace to be alone to get back in touch with myself.
"My girlfriend was killed in an accident, and House and I had one hell of a falling-out. He drove his car into the side of Cuddy's place out of spite because she broke up with him. They had this 'fling' that went to hell, and she ordered him out of her life. You know how House is. The crash was his revenge. Then he did a 'now-you-see-me-now-you-don't' disappearing act. I have no idea where he is. Haven't seen him for almost a year.
"Cuddy resigned and left the area too, so I don't know where she is either. The rest of us are looking for new jobs, and the mouse-trap apartment I downsized to is just a stepping stone to my next job when the right opportunity comes along." I shrugged. "That's it in a nutshell."
"I had no idea. That's incredible!" Vince paused, looking a little guilty. "But I may have part of the answer for you. I'd have told you long ago if I'd known. The car-crashing-the-house thing was in the news for a day or so and then disappeared. I never connected it to Greg. Never thought about it at all. Never connected his smashed car with the incident either. Now it makes sense, even to me. Come back here. I want to show you something …"
He led me into the body shop again where two men already had the driver's door off the Volvo. We walked to the back end where a mid-size car of dubious pedigree stood beneath a dusty plastic tarp.
Carefully he gathered the tarp and lifted it off the car. The vehicle that emerged was as familiar to me as though it had been my own. It was the old Dodge that Gregory House drove through the side of his boss's home. Except that this one looked brand new, right off the showroom floor.
Speechless, I stared. Instinctively I looked at the edge of the driver's backrest. There was the barely detectable patch in the middle that had been laminated over the spot where a loose screw on one of House's crutches had torn the fabric shortly after his infarction. "Migod, Vince! This is …"
Vince laughed; a sound that was filled with irony. "It sure is. He called me … a year ago or longer … I forget the date. He told me I'd find his car in the Princeton Police impound lot. He asked me to send my boys with a rollback to pick it up, bring it back to the shop and repair it; he'd already called the cops and told them I'd be there for it. Then he said he was getting the hell out of Dodge for awhile … until his leg healed … his exact words. After I saw the car, I thought he'd been hurt again in an accident."
"A couple days later I got a certified check for five grand. So we went over there. I had to sign for the damned thing so we could drag it out of there. We brought it back on a dolly and repaired it … to the tune of over six thousand bucks. It took every penny of his check and then some to make the thing right. We had to straighten the frame. It took a new differential, both universals. Oil pan, radiator, bumper and grille, hoses and clamps, front axle, wheels, tires, windshield and dashboard, plus all the electrical … and I could go on.
"The whole damn car isn't worth half the price of the repairs we did. That Shitpot still owes me more than a grand, including the time we spent tracking down the parts. The cosmetic work and new paint job are extras I didn't even count, including the body chrome, mostly because he's my friend. Now, here it sits … one gigantic damn lawn ornament … taking up space in my shop."
Beside him, I was still staring, trying to contain a combination of belly laughter at his half-disgusted litany, and my own tears of relief that House was probably okay … wherever-the-hell he ran away to after the mess he made of his life … and ours.
I walked across and laid my hand on the drivers' door, hiding my physical reactions and looking at the old car's new interior. The blue seats had been cleaned and shampooed … far cleaner than the last time I had ridden in it … the day House ordered me out and damn near killed me when he careened up her driveway.
Then I saw the newly installed hand controls. I gulped. House had to have ordered them. I wondered if they might be the same ones he'd used after the tragedy first befell his leg. Not only could he not walk then, but neither could he drive. Vince had found hand controls in a catalogue for automotive aids for the disabled. He had installed them in the Dynasty so House would have them when he was discharged from the hospital. None of us ever talked about them, but we were all aware of the impact they made when House first saw them and grudgingly used them.
Vince was watching me when he lifted the tarp and replaced it over the car's shining body. As if reading my mind, he said: "Yeah … they're the same ones. After Greg decided he could drive again without the hand controls, I took 'em off and had the boys rig the gas pedal so he could use it with either foot. I stored the controls in the parts room … just in case he might need them again. I hate like hell that I turned out to be right."
I covered quickly. "This car didn't even look this good when it was new."
Vince half-smiled. "Yeah … I know. I hope he comes back to get it someday. The bastard owes me money …"
Finally the conversation wore itself out.
"Wanna go out back and look at the collection of junkers?"
I nodded, and we walked out the front door and around the side of the building.
A line of older and not-so-old used cars stood in a lineup against the fence by the property line.
"The Chrysler in front is only a couple of years old, but the damn thing uses oil. Ford Taurus … torn interior. Headliner's coming down. The '06 Impala has transmission problems. The kid that owned it thought it was a race car. Not sure it's worth fixing. The '87 Sundance is in great condition, but it's only a four-banger and has over 250G's on it. Not sure how you'd feel about that."
We proceeded down the line until the end, Vince pointing out the flaws of each one. And there sat an ancient Volkswagen Beetle that looked like brand new. It stood a little apart from the others, almost as though embarrassed to be seen with them.
Vince laughed. "This one will fool you. She was a graduation gift to a young lady from her parents. The kid graduated suma-cum laude from law school, passed the bar, and the first job she landed, she traded the VW for a Chrysler 200. Grateful child, huh?
"This one's got a new motor … changed the tranny from stick to automatic, and had her painted and all spiffied up. Tip-top shape, but nobody wants to take a chance because of the transmission change. What the hell can I say?"
He began to walk away, but I stopped him. The little car had caught my eye; never mind the custom job that made it a recluse. I felt the same way sometimes. The baby-poop green color was offputting, but she had no rust, and the tires looked new. "Tell me more about this one, Vince. What year?" (Why were we referring to the car as 'she'?)
Vince made a face. "Are you serious? She's a '67 in appearance, but about forty years newer in everything that makes her go. You interested? If you want her, she's yours for $1500."
I did not hesitate. "Sold." (Was I nuts?)
We grinned in mutual appreciation, and turned to go back inside. The paperwork was finished in fifteen minutes and Margie giggled with understanding. "I wondered what sort of person would end up with that car." She winked, and I blushed.
We said a few more words about the whereabouts and physical status of Gregory House … but neither of us was willing to commit to further speculation.
I told Vince that when the Volvo was ready, to go ahead and put it on the lot for sale. I would split the price he got for it, excluding the insurance check. Should cover the amount House still owed on the Dynasty. What the hell …?
Vince attached the plates to my new car, and in a moment of whimsy, I immediately dubbed her: "Vanna: VW … Vanna White".
When I started the motor, the Beetle eagerly jumped to life.
I waved to Vince as I pulled out of the lot and chug-chugged away …
MY APOLOGIES FOR NOT ANSWERING SOME OF YOUR REVIEWS. My computer has been trashing them. Trying to correct the problem … Bets;)
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