Norman
was
gripping
the
door
handle
as
though
he
were
about
to
jump
for
it.
His
knuckles
were
white
and
the
brown-‐white
of
his
one
bulging
eye
grew
red.
“Now
wait
a
minute,”
I
said,
“I’m
no
religious
nut”—
The
horn
of
a
candy-‐apple-‐red
Dart
interrupted
and
I
almost
swallowed
my
tongue
as
I
saw
the
snarling
face
of
its
driver
heading
right
for
us.
I
swerved
and
missed
the
Dart
in
the
nick
of
time.
I
turned
to
Norman
just
in
time
to
see
him
vomit
a
soupy,
lime-‐green
stream
across
the
wood-‐panel
dashboard
of
my
‘86
Coupe
de
Ville—my
baby.
I
said
nothing.
Norman
looked
at
me
as
if
to
say,
“You
let
me
in
your
car.
That’ll
teach
you.”
“Sorry,”
he
gurgled.
A
cord
of
green
spittle
dangled
from
his
bottom
lip.
“It’s
no
problem.”
I
held
my
breath
and
continued
down
the
road.
I
knew
Sal’s
was
right
up
the
road,
so
I
stepped
on
the
pedal.
I
pulled
the
Caddy
into
Sal’s.
Sal’s
was
a
carwash,
but
Sal
called
it
a
“boutique,”
and
if
you
didn’t
you
would
hear
about
it
from
Sal.
I
parked,
opened
the
door,
and
told
Norman
to
wait
on
the
bench
out
front.
“You
gotta
smoke?”
He
asked.
I
stopped
midstride.
This
motherfucker,
I
thought.
I
pulled
a
pack
of
Lucky’s
from
my
pocket
and
tossed
it
to
him.
He
caught
the
pack,
but
couldn’t
be
bothered
to
thank
me.
I
turned
back
toward
the
large,
glass
double-‐doors
and
almost
collided
with
Sal.
He
stood
with
his
arms
crossed,
a
suspicious
eye
trained
on
Norman.
Sal
was
the
greasiest
person
I
knew.
If
you
shook
his
hand,
you
immediately
wanted
to
wash
yours
with
a
heavy-‐duty
dishwashing
soap.
He
had
refused
to
button
the
top
35