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"The car Aunt Frances bought was a 1953, fire-engine red Ford. A straight-stick with a great radio. It was in tip-top shape. She bought it from an uncle in the used car business for eight hundred bucks. As soon as it was delivered she brought it to another relation in the auto body business who repainted it a less glaring, glossy dark blue enamel.Now I had money from three jobs. I was sixteen with a driver's permit. I had more time on my hands, unfettered by bus rides and scurrying all over town for a car to borrow for work or restaurant errands or social life. Or, on far too few occasions, theater. And I'd be able to date without a chauffeur.By the end of May I'd had no mail from Martha for nearly two months, except for a very short 'Hello' note on her small, white stationery. It included a photograph of Martha and Ronnie in Central Park, lounging on towels on a sunny day in their swimsuits. I knew Martha was working overtime and had time for little else, as usual; and I was swamped. “I just came to give you back your property.” Cray took a good look through a veil of pain at the knife and the realization blossomed on his face. Derision mixed with the pain. A circle of blood was forming around his hand. Whatever had been written on the paper under his palm was blotted out by now. “I fucking killed you,” Cray spat. “Now yes, sir, that’s very true, after a fashion,” Townes nodded, as if they were talking over baseball scores. “But I to try look on the bright side, and if you think of it another way, you’re the one who brought me alive.” “Maybe you ain’t hit the floor yet, but you’re as dead as you shoulda `been two years ago, motherfucker.” Townes reached across the table and grabbed Cray by the neck, pressing his thumb against the other man’s wind pipe with gentle insistence. “I was planning to bury that knife right here where my thumb is,” he said. “But since you did me such a solid, I guess I owe you.” Cray’s face was going pale as he winced against the.
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