My heart starting to beat faster, I considered even bringing the conversation back to cars. But Howie came to my rescue.
“Because ‘Toothbrush’ was only shown once. It’s not included in the syndication package. Because, you know, of the line about the Europeans.”
“Ohh,” I said, nodding. “Of course.”
“Leave it to you to choose the lost episode!”
I had passed with flying colors. Howie put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. He rubbed my hair affectionately, as if I were his son. I assumed he’d never done this to his own little boy.
“How’d you like it,” he said, and even called me, “kid?”
“How’d I like what?” I was all bunched up in his arms now.
“ ‘Toothbrush.’ The episode. I’ll get you a dub.”
“Great,” I said, and tried to sound thrilled. While there were people who would have swooned at the idea, sitcom trivia was way down on my list.
The idea fired Howie up, however. “Truth be told, Roy, I’ve come to the end with my car thing. I’m writing a whole new chapter. I’m going to start with the famous lost episode of Romaine World, then I’ll buy The Day the Clown Cried, then everything else. All the lost entertainments. Price will be no object.” The garage seemed to shrink and decay right before his eyes. “I’m going to pull out the garages and build a theater, that’s what I’m going to do!”
His breath was coming fast; I was almost concerned for his health, given his recent dissipation. Then he calmed down, as if he sensed it was unseemly. “My little cutie will love it,” he added, carefully. “We’ll watch all the Disney stuff.”
The Day the Clown Cried would keep Howie with his family, down on the farm, as it were. I felt vaguely nauseated by his motive for wanting it. And impatient to learn what he knew.
But there was no time to ask him. Howie was opening a door to one of his cars.
“Take the Jag,” he said, “out for a spin.”
I just stared. I didn’t know if this was another test or a mad gesture of generosity. Either way, my left shoulder started to twitch, and I thought that Richard Crenna had replaced Kirk Douglas in First Blood opposite Sylvester Stallone.
“I don’t drive,” I said.
“Of course you do.” Howie couldn’t conceive of such a thing. “It’s a seventy-two, same year as Jerry’s film. Here’s the registration.” He was pulling out cards. “And if the cops stop you”—he scribbled on the back of one—“just show them this.”
Howie’s note read: “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” After a second for alarm, I realized it was a catchphrase from his show.
There was no way to resist. Howie pushed me—not so gently—inside the giant brown Jag. I landed on its burnished leather front seat. Slowly, I buckled an old-fashioned, across-the-gut belt. The key was already in the ignition. When I turned it, the car hummed, deafeningly.
“Doesn’t it sound great?” Howie asked.
“It’s a beaut!” I cried.
I had driven occasionally—reparked my aunt Ruby’s car just the other week—but never for an extended “spin.” As I backed out, the screech of my brake and gas stamping couldn’t have made Howie happy.
He didn’t seem to care, though. He was too busy fumbling in his pocket and bringing out a cigarette.
“Don’t tell Luna,” he said, pointing to the smoke. The warning was no joke; he valued his remaining pleasures; I could tell from the look in his eye.
I started out of his driveway, which was the length of a private lane.
Howie and his house were soon specks in my rearview, which I didn’t know how to adjust.
I came out onto a silent road, where other massive homes hid behind their hedges. I intended to drive one block, park, wait twenty minutes, then return.
Right away, though, I abandoned my plan.
I was being followed.
IT WAS THE ONLY OTHER CAR ON THE ROAD. IT SEEMED TO HAVE COME OUT of nowhere. Had it been waiting for me?
I could barely make it out in my obstructed rearview. It wasn’t a collectible, that was for sure. It was a grubby white Honda with a dent in its side.
It kept a discreet distance. To lose it, I took a right turn. I saw no one else as I drove, never even glimpsed a house behind the walls of foliage. I could be killed, I realized, in this most exclusive of neighborhoods, and have no witness.
My companion dogged me, always far enough away to avoid being seen. I thought I made out a man at the wheel, but even that, in the half-sight the mirror afforded me, was unclear.
I began to smell water. I suspected that, blindly driving in this expensive maze, I was heading toward the ocean. I knew that beach property was the most desirable and the most secluded: a dead end.
Trying to avoid being cornered, I took a sudden left. I was alone on a road for a minute. I dared to go faster, watching my speed hit twenty, then thirty. Had I lost him? Then I heard a shocking sound: the squeal of wheels as the other car hung the same sharp louie and came after me.
It wasn’t kidding anymore. My early awkward speed may have been charming; my new attempt at escape was not. The car went faster and faster, came closer and closer; I could hear the sputter of its cheap or aging engine. I remembered that James Cagney had replaced a guy named Edward Woods in Public Enemy; the two switched roles, making Cagney a star.
I remembered something else: This wasn’t my car. The thought occurred to me because the Honda was just about to ram my ass.
Then it slammed on its brakes, suddenly. A car was coming from the other direction.
A brand-new, gleaming Mercedes was—I can only call it—“tootling” toward us. A middle-aged lady in a mink was gabbing on a cell phone, obliviously. She didn’t see my frantic waving. Never even looking my way, she turned the corner and disappeared.
But someone else saw my motioning for help: the man in the Honda. Once the road was clear, he took his chance again. Spinning his wheels, gunning his motor, he flew full force into the back of Howie Romaine’s expensive ride.
