American Salvage

KING COLE’S AMERICAN SALVAGE

On a windy evening in February, William Slocum Jr., eleven months out of prison, pulled into King Cole’s driveway in a Jeep he’d stolen from an apartment complex near his girlfriend’s house. He’d cut through the Jeep’s canvas top with a utility knife, popped the ignition with a screwdriver, and hot-wired the engine, a trick William Slocum Sr. had taught him not long before passing out drunk on the railroad tracks. Slocum’s car had broken down two days ago, and King Cole, of King Cole’s American Salvage, had given him seventy dollars for it, minimum scrap price.That old Mitsubishi Montero hadn’t been registered or insured, so if he’d left it broken down on the road, the city of Kalamazoo would have impounded it, but still Slocum felt Cole had ripped him off, had not given him what the car was worth.Slocum and his girlfriend Wanda were now without any car, since hers had been repossessed two months ago. She also hadn’t managed to pay her mortgage or get enough methamphetamine to keep herself going since she lost her job, and Slocum hadn’t been getting any work either, so things were tight. He’d tried to make love with Wanda last night, but without the meth, it wasn’t working, and he knew tonight he needed to hit a lick. If he didn’t, Wanda was bound to lose faith in him. Slocum got out of the Jeep, carrying with him a length of galvanized pipe he’d swiped from Parker’s Auto Repair, where he bought meth sometimes and where he’d met Johnny Cole, King Cole’s nephew. They’d known each other less than two weeks, but right off, Slocum knew Johnny was a solid guy. Although he was King Cole’s American Salvage  five years younger than Slocum and still pocked with acne, Johnny was generous with the homegrown and seemed like the kind of person you could trust—a rare quality. Slocum had liked the way the kid had asked his advice, had seemed to look up to him. Slocum knocked hard on King Cole’s ornate wood and wroughtiron front door, and in about a minute, King swung open an upstairs casement window and turned on the security light, which lit up the crusted snow. Slocum could see by the tire tracks that the tow truck was the only vehicle that had been there recently. According to Johnny,the man’s wife had died years ago,and according to the sticker on the window, Cole had an alarm system. “What do you want?” King said through the screen. The small man stood with one hand on his potbelly. His long beard and shoulder-length hair were black—Johnny had told him the old man dyed it because he thought it made him attractive to the ladies . “I need a jump start. Or maybe a tow,” Slocum said. “I don’t work at night.Call somebody else.”Cole started to close the window. “I’m a friend of Johnny’s,” Slocum said quickly and backed up so King could see him better. “Your nephew Johnny. You scrapped my old car the other day, the blue Mitsubishi.” Cole opened the window again. “That Jap crap isn’t worth a shit.” “That’s what you said.” Slocum had stayed up late smoking and drinking beer with Johnny a few nights ago, and when Johnny was stoned, he told Slocum what a cheap bastard King Cole was, how Johnny worked his ass off for his uncle, but the man wouldn’t lend Johnny enough money to buy some old diesel truck he wanted. King Cole didn’t like banks, Johnny had said, and he carried a shitload of money on him, thousands of dollars in hidden pockets in his jacket.“I should go out to his house late some night and negotiate my own loan,” Johnny had said, and they’d both laughed. king cole’s american salvage  “Your car went to the shredder,” King said. “What do you want?” “Johnny’s down at the gravel pit.He told me to see if you’d come help him.” “He’s got his Nova? Or that damned VW diesel piece of shit he’s been driving around this week?” “Yeah, it’s Johnny’s Nova needs a jump.” “I suppose if I don’t...