The Outfit Read Online Free PDF Page A

Parker?"
    Kent didn't answer at first. Parker half-turned and looked back at him. "Am I, Kent?"
    "Yuh," said Kent. He said it reluctantly, and glared at the woman, as though daring her to laugh again. But she was silent, her face carefully blank as she watched them, her fingers scratching the top of the dog's head between its ears.
    To his brother, Chemy said, "Get us a drink. Come on in, Parker." He led the way back into the garage, and set the shotgun against the wall beside the door.
    The garage was big enough to hold four cars. At the moment, there was a fifteen-year-old, red Ford pickup truck parked down by the far wall, and an orange Volkswagen next to it. The Volkswagen's rear lid was open and the engine had been removed and was lying on two-by-fours behind the car. The back seat had been taken out, too, and was leaning against the side of the pickup truck. All along the back wall was a workbench, littered with tools, small parts, lengths of wire, and pieces of metal. Automobile body parts were stacked here and there in the remaining space, and two engines hung by chain and pulley from the roof beams. A small plastic radio on the work-bench was blaring country and western music; a girl singer with a twang as bad as a harelip was singing about unrequited love.
    "Well, now," said Chemy. "You sure changed your face around. But you're still just as mean as ever."
    "That brother of yours needs a talking to."
    Chemy shrugged, and grinned faintly. "If you were Parker, you'd do what you done. If you weren't, you'd let him chase you off the place."
    Parker shrugged. It didn't matter one way or the other. He was just hot from the walk.
    Chemy said, "Take a look down here at this VW. What do you think of this? A '57 Ford straight-six engine in there in back, and re-did Chevy brakes. Think she'll move?"
    Parker frowned at the Volkswagen. "No," he said.
    "No? Why in hell not?"
    "Where's your cooling system?"
    "Right where the back seat used to be, with scoops down through the floor. '51 Plymouth radiator assembly that fits real nice."
    Parker knew he was supposed to think of every objection he could, so Chemy could show him how smart he was. He said, "Not enough weight for the power. She'll go like a motorboat with her nose up in the air. You'd have to take corners at ten miles an hour."
    "No, sir. I've weighted down that front end, so your centre of gravity is right here ." He touched a spot low on the side just behind the door.
    "That's pretty far back."
    "Oh, she'll jounce, I know she will. But the weight is just far enough up so you can take corners just about any damn speed you like."
    Parker shook his head. "She'll jounce apart," he said. "She won't last a year."
    "I know damn well she won't. But she'll last a month, and that's all she's wanted for. A car that looks slow but does like a bat out of hell. That's what this girl is. A special order."
    "So everything's worked out then."
    "No, it ain't." Chemy frowned at the car. "One damn thing – you know what that is?"
    "What?"
    "I can't make her sound like a VW. I've tried all sorts of mufflers; I've run pipe back and forth underneath there till she looked like a plate of spaghetti; but she never does sound like a VW. You know that little 'cough-cough' sounds the VW's got? Your VW fires slow, is what it is, and I be damned if I can get the effect." He glared at the car again, shaking his head. "I'll get it," he said.
    "Sure." Parker knew he would. Chemy made cars do whatever he wanted them to do.
    "Sure," agreed Chemy. He turned away from the Volkswagen. "So what do you want? A car? Anything special?"
    "Just a car. With clean papers."
    "How clean? To sell?"
    "No. To show if I'm stopped for speeding."
    "Takin' her out of the state?"
    "Up north."
    "All right then."
    The garage door opened and Kent came in, carrying three glasses and a bottle of corn liquor as colourless as water. He glanced sullenly at his brother and Parker, then went over to the workbench, set the glasses down,