The Journey

By George R. LeBeau

In 1964, when Rick Fountaine is fifteen, his mother dies of a heart attack. This event sets him on a dark path of retribution upon the bullies of the world, starting with the Levines, the family who humiliated his mother when she worked for them years ago. Through careful planning, he exacts his revenge—and the Levines pay with their lives.That business done, Rick moves to Chicago to start a new life, complete with a fake ID, but he soon learns there is no shortage of bullies in the world. His resolution to never back down from a fight lands him in one confrontation after another, and his ruthlessness and aggression ensures that he always comes out on top. Each encounter has its own challenges and consequences, forcing him further west to California. When he replaces his lost ID, he soon finds himself drafted at the age of sixteen. Military training reveals extraordinary skills and intelligence that he never knew he possessed—skills the young killer of bullies will need in order to survive in Vietnam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483415765

Book preview

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Foreword to The Journey

A s a Vietnam veteran, I take a great interest in this book. It makes a difference if you live or die—or just survive with extra holes God did not give you. The scars in your brain long after the fight never go away.

Reading The Journey made this combat veteran relive firefights I thought long buried in my mind. This is as real as it gets.

War brings out primal survival instincts you do not know you possess. Those instincts are applied over and over again until that day you are lifted out of a firefight, dropped back onto the streets of The World and told to take up where you left off years before.

Read this book; some may understand what happens to a young man—and some will not.

As a Vietnam brother, I would like to thank George for writing this story!

—Michael A. Gegere

UTT armed helicopters, 1963 to 1964

53 rd Aviation Detachment ACH47’s

Guns a Go-Go, 1965 to 1966, Sat Cong

PART 1

1964 TO 1965

Connecticut to California

CHAPTER 1

LUCILLE

I killed her last.

That hadn’t been my original intention, but my growing rage had finally reached critical mass, forcing me into action. I just wanted to go in there and kill her in as messy a way as possible.

Then, as in other times of my early life, I decided it would be better to have a plan. How thoughtful. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison because of a fleeting moment of rage.

It was during the planning that I saw it—it would be far more satisfying not only to make her watch me kill the rest of her family before she died herself but would also let her witness the acting out of my plan: her son would be blamed for the killings. Why not? He was a sadistic psychopath, and his life would have eventually come to this end anyway.

I knew the interior of the house well. I had spent many Saturdays there helping my mom with the cleaning, caretaking, trash removal, and other chores assigned to me. I was a lot younger then and hadn’t yet arrived at my present state. It wasn’t so much the work of revenge but rather of retribution that eventually made me the person I am today.

All I had to do now was determine time of day and decide the exact sequence of events. Over my many years of applying retribution to my chosen career, I have found that, almost always, the simplest way is the best.

Late autumn in Connecticut brings darkness early. By 5:00 p.m., it’s quite dark and cold and this suited my purposes rather well. I set up my surveillance post in a damp, brush-clogged drainage culvert about fifty yards across the street from the house. After several days of observing their comings and goings, I had the family’s routines set in my mind.

I had come up with what I decided would be the simplest, most effective plan. A corrugated metal pipe about six feet wide ran under the road. The drainage ditch then continued on through this development. It hadn’t rained or snowed recently, so it wasn’t difficult for me to imagine myself going through the pipe to the other side of the road. I would come up along the side of the house without being seen from the street.

Every evening Lucille drove her big maroon Cadillac from the prep school where her son was taking classes, up the long paved driveway to the garage door. This was 1964, and he was the only automatic garage door opener she had.

During my days and nights of watching, I had been surprised at how tall he had grown. He was at least six feet now, lean and athletic-looking with dark curly hair, but he always seemed to have his head hanging down, as if conscious of and embarrassed by his height.

Over the years, since that significant event with my mom, I had taken pleasure in keeping track of the number of schools from which he had been expelled because of one bad behavior or another. There had been several arrests, but he never was convicted of anything. Had it not been for their money and the expensive attorneys that money bought, he would certainly have served time for his misdemeanors. This troubled youth scenario served my purposes perfectly.

This area of Central Valley was wealthy enough that there was considerable separation between homes. After all, the wealthy require their privacy. Although the curving tree-lined streets were well lit, the house and driveway were dark. Outside lights were turned on from inside the garage, and the house was empty. Gregory—not Greg, never Greg—jumped out of the half-stopped car, ran to the lever hasp-lock on the lower right side of the garage door, flipped the lever, and lifted the door so his mother could drive the car inside. Lucille was always in such a hurry, hardly stopping for the door to be completely raised.

Then Gregory would do an almost perfect half-pirouette on the balls of his feet, pulling the door down from the inside. Only after the door was closed would she turn off the car ignition and open her door with a screeching yell, Gregory! at some perceived error he had made—again.

Clad in dark jeans and jacket, I was invisible behind the hedgerow on the right side of the garage. A pair of snug-fitting gloves I found in the gardener’s shed near the back of the house not only prevented me from leaving fingerprints but also served to keep my hands warm. I had gotten myself ready about a week before, using black shoe polish to color my Keds so my feet wouldn’t stand out like flashing white streaks.

Timing is everything. Fortunately, the son’s actions were well-rehearsed from this nightly routine. The glare from the passenger door light and the car headlights momentarily blinded him to my presence. The angle of the driveway made his passenger side door close itself. He got to the garage door and bent forward to release the hasp-lock. I spun behind him as he lifted the door and smashed down onto the back of his head with my homemade blackjack. No sound at all as he went down, completely limp.

By now the door was fully up, and the car was already moving in. I quickly pulled him into the garage and just as quickly pulled down the door. It seemed as if it had taken ten minutes to do all of this, but it really only took five seconds. My adrenaline was pumping, and even though he was a bit taller and much heavier than I was, I had pulled him in easily and closed the garage door with little effort.

Gregory! What are you doing back there? Lucille had her left foot on the garage floor and was pivoting to stand when her forehead received the blunt force impact of the blackjack. She went down with a satisfying crumple, spilling out of the car onto the floor of that garage as if she were liquid. There was plenty of time now to set up the rest of my plan.

Both were breathing, although Gregory was having some difficulty and rasping with each breath. The large bump on the back of his head made me smile. It reminded me of the many lumps I had sustained on the top and back of my own head. He would sneak up behind me, then grab and jerk large clumps of my hair very hard and very fast. Gregory would laugh as if it were the funniest thing he had ever seen. The pain was so sudden and intense that it brought tears to my eyes, but I would be damned if I’d let that bastard see me cry.

I’ve always had thick black hair, and although Gregory also had black curly hair, it was thin. You could tell in just a few years he would be as bald as his father. That’s probably why he hated me and my hair. His envy made him want to rip it all out—so he tried.

The trigger was always the saccharine-sweet voice of his mother saying politely, Gregory, dear, please do not abuse the helper’s son. She masked her rage; the son always acted his out. During these moments of torment, he always did get several handfuls of hair. The extremely painful lumps on my head were evidence of that.

One afternoon my mother ran her hand through my hair in a caressing thank you gesture. She suddenly stopped when her fingers felt the lumps and saw me jump with pain.

What happened to your head? she asked.

When I told my mother what had been happening, she immediately went to Mrs. Levine, Lucille, and complained. Lucille thought it was all a big joke until my mother asked her to feel my head. She was reluctant to touch the help, but when she did, that was the only time I actually saw a glimmer of concern in her eyes. It was there—and then it was gone. She turned cold and distant again. Compassion isn’t contagious; you have it or you don’t.

Though Gregory never touched me again, I could see his hatred and determination to get back at me for betraying him. The little prick eventually convinced his mother that I had been stealing his toys. At that point, Lucille had to make a choice: would she choose truth and call out her son for his lying or fire the help? Let me see if I can guess which it was. At the time, I was nine years old, and Gregory was twelve. My mother eventually found work elsewhere.

Now I was fifteen, and Gregory had just turned eighteen. If there had been no further disciplinary issues for Gregory, he would probably have graduated from high school the following summer. Lucille was excited about the prospect of her son getting into Yale. The family had been sending generous donations to the school for many years. Gregory’s dad had attended Yale, and the family was determined the son would follow in his father’s footsteps. Oops, perhaps not now, though.

After I had secured them to the high-back dining room chairs, I settled in to wait for Walter, the dad. It had taken much longer than I thought it would to drag them both into the house, lift their unconscious bodies into the chairs, tie them in place, and gag them. Lucille was in the dining room, but I had placed Gregory a bit farther away in the adjacent sitting room, separated by a wide oval-shaped entryway. After finally getting them into the positions I wanted, the first screw-up occurred.

I didn’t know good old Walt had taken his car in for servicing that morning and that Mrs. Levine was supposed to pick him up at the train station from the city. They had one of those new answering machine devices attached under their phone. It was huge, and at first I thought it was some kind of radio.

Then the phone rang several times; there was a loud click, and I heard Mrs. Levine’s voice talking from the machine. It shocked me at first because I had never seen nor heard of a device like this. I kept looking at her, wondering how she could be speaking if she was semiconscious with a gag over her mouth.

Hello, this is Lucille. I cannot answer the phone at this moment, so please leave a message, and I will call you right back. Beep.

Where are you?! I’m at the train station and you were supposed to pick me up thirty minutes ago! It was Walter, and this was the first I knew about her picking him up. This was definitely not part of the routine. I’m taking a taxi, and we will talk about this later! Click.

Now what? Walter always parked his car in the driveway at night. Last to arrive, first to leave. Although my plan included Walter, I was not certain now if shooting him with the shotgun would be heard by the taxi driver. Let me think about this. Pretty long driveway, walk up from the curb should be about thirty seconds; unlock the door and walk in, ten seconds. Was that enough time for the taxi driver to clear off? I heard a groan and saw that Lucille was beginning to come around. Greg was still rasping and completely out. A possible concussion was the least of his worries.

Hi, Lucille, remember me? Her eyes flickered open, and I could see she was struggling to take in her predicament. Yes, this is my home, but why am I tied up? Who is this crazy person? "Oh my God, it’s you!"

Ah, yes. Thank you for remembering, I said. That makes everything so much easier. I’m here to talk to you about what you did to my mom.

Oh, Ricky, I am sooo sorry about that. She was quick and had placed me almost immediately. Good, she was thinking clearly. The clarity one achieves when tied to a chair!

Please believe I have always regretted hurting her.

My mother was a very strong and serious worker. We needed the money she made keeping house for other people. She never got past sixth grade in school and had no career other than homemaking. The only job she was qualified for was this. My mother was barely five feet tall, not fat but stocky. I got my black hair from her, along with my French-Canadian and Iroquois heritage. I also inherited her temper. She died suddenly from heart disease the year before, at the age of fifty. After the funeral, I decided it was time to get started on the next chapter of my life. Resolving the slap was the first on my list.

It involved making beds of all things. Mrs. Levine had a particular way of doing things. When my mother made a suggestion for a better way, Lucille hauled off and slapped her across the face and said, How dare you question me that way!

The suddenness and shock were so intense that neither of us could believe what had just happened. My mother’s nose started bleeding; she held her hand to her face. Do not bleed on my new white sheets, yelled Lucille. She then turned her eyes to me with a condescending smirk as if to say, That is how you handle the unruly help! The triumphant Mrs. Levine turned on her heel and walked away. My mom’s face was bright red with rage. The imprint of a hand was visible on the left side of her face. Also visible was the struggle my mother was going through: whether to attack the bitch or keep silent because we needed the money. This wretched witch of a woman hit my mother and made her bleed. That was the moment: I resolved that someday I would kill this bitch. Am I crazy to plan the killing of an entire family for this insult? Probably, but I wasn’t disturbed by it.

My mom’s humiliation was made much worse because I had been there to witness this insult. It was not long after this incident that she was let go because of my theft. There were other jobs, of course, but I never accompanied her to any of these again.

I just want to make sure you know that Greg is going to shoot Walter first, and then after he shoots himself, he will calmly walk over here and smash your head to a pulp. Horror and confusion filled her eyes. Well, actually, it will be me doing that last part, but I have to make an effort to show it was good ol’ Greg who finally went nuts and killed you all. With that, I wrapped up her mouth again before she started screaming. I then went to the storage closet and opened the gun safe. Once, when I had been helping with cleaning and dusting, I came across the safe and opened it, not knowing what was inside. What a treasure. The safe held rifles and handguns as well as a very beautiful Baretta, over-under twelve gauge shotgun with a walnut stock and intricate engraving. I closed the cabinet door but never forgot where it was, and, people being creatures of habit, sure enough, it was unlocked again and easily available for my current needs.

In the drawer under the main shelf, also unlocked, was ammunition for all the weapons in the case. I opened the box of Winchester shotgun shells, broke open the breach—what a lovely mechanism—and loaded a shell into each barrel. Snap, hot, loaded, and ready to go.

Playing the sequence of events over and over in my mind until I was certain I had everything clear, I stepped back into the living room. Although I had never shot anyone before, I had done quite a bit of hunting so pretty much knew what to expect. This does not mean I had not killed anyone prior to this, but that, as they say, is another story.

As the taxi drove away, I saw the right side of the double french doors open inward, and Walt stepped through with a, Where are you? His six-feet-six post-Yale basketball frame still looked fit and healthy. I had left the kitchen light on so he would turn toward that direction as he stepped into the house after closing the door. As I came up behind him, I remember thinking, Should I wait until he takes his hat off? I shot him in the back of the head. Boom! What a blast! He stumbled forward one step, then just kept going forward and down with no head.

Damn, what a mess! Now I remembered something else I should have prepared for—shoes! I did not want my Keds prints showing up in the blood splatter. I climbed over furniture and along the wallboards by the wall until I had a clear space to get to Greg’s chair. I took his shoes off his feet and put them on mine. They were so big they fit right over the top of my sneakers. I made my way back to the front door, and then just walked through the bloody mess over to Lucille’s chair. She was shaking up and down, and her whole body was spasmming and quivering with no sound at all. Her face was a mess of expensive mascara and tears. I stepped back and forth a few times to leave as many footprints as I thought looked believable, and then went back over to Greg’s chair. I remembered seeing this on Dragnet and knew footprints were important to the cops. After putting his shoes back on his feet, I untied his hands, took the blackjack from my pocket and placed it in Greg’s hand. Did I forget to mention Greg is left-handed? I moved it around his palm, and then squeezed his hand and fingers around the base several times, leaving good fingerprints … Dragnet again.

I carefully placed the blackjack back into my pocket and then took the Baretta and did the same thing, using both his hands as someone would when holding a shotgun. Opening the breach, I took both shells out and repeated the fingerprint process on the shotgun shells, reloaded the gun, and placed the butt on the floor between his feet. I untied his back and legs, took the gag off, leaned him forward so the barrel would slide into his mouth, placed his left thumb onto the trigger, and pressed down. Boom! Another great blast.

Nothing left of the back of good ol’ Greg’s head (where I had clubbed him). His entire body and chair flew backward, and he landed with his legs over his head. They slowly melted down to the floor, and he was still. Now my ears were ringing and hot. Ear plugs, now I think of it!

Now I took a few seconds to check the windows just to see if anyone had heard the two booms. Late October in Connecticut … everything shut tight and storm windows all in place, so not much sound travels those several hundred yards between houses. Just making sure no one happened to be walking the dog this time of night.

Almost done now; I took the club from my pocket and walked over to Lucille’s chair—careful not to mess up the bloody footprints. I just want you to know I have no intention of killing your daughter. She is the only person in this worthless family who treated my mom with any dignity. She was always kind to her. Twenty-two-year-old Karen was away at one of the elite Eastern universities and was not expected back until holiday break.

With the club in my left hand, I struck Lucille’s forehead directly over where the first hit had already started bruising and swelling. I obliterated the area until there was nothing left of the original strike and, as I had promised her, of the original face.

Not quite done yet. When I untied her, she slumped to the floor, where I left her. I took the ropes and gags and put them in a paper bag I had found in the kitchen-and took them with me. I went back outside and used a gardener’s rake to smooth out the area by the garage door where I had been standing. I returned the rake and the gloves back to their proper place in the shed.

Now I was done. I stood very still for almost two minutes, thinking everything through, trying to remember if I had forgotten anything. I checked for traffic, walked down the culvert, through the pipe under the road, and followed that through the woods between the houses to my car parked in an old forest turnoff.

Before getting into the car, I dug a small hole into the hard earth behind the car and set fire to the paper bag with the ropes and gags. Once the flames were out, I buried the residue and placed leaves and sand over the top. I drove straight back to my small rented room and completed my packing. I slept very well and for the first time in a long time did not have the nightmare: It is completely dark and for some strange reason I am running full out on a wide flat road. Slowly and gradually the surface I am running on starts to tilt downward. Gravity pulls me faster, and the faster I run, the steeper the downward angle gets. Soon I am running completely out-of-control, and finally I am no longer connected with the ground at all but running straight downward flailing my arms and legs as if trying to fly. I cannot see the bottom rushing up toward me, but just before I am convinced I will slam into something very hard, sharp, and pointy, I wake up, usually covered in sweat and shaking like crazy. Not this night. I slept soundly and comfortably … no stress at all.

CHAPTER 2

CHICAGO

I t only took me a couple of hours to get out of Connecticut and drive into upstate New York. I avoided The City because ever since my first time there when I was eight or nine, visiting my mom’s relatives in Brooklyn, I just did not like it: the smells, the noise, and especially my relatives. The last time I had seen any of them was at Mom’s funeral, and as far as I was concerned, that last time was the last time.

My car was running hot, and I had to stop every two hours or so to put water in the radiator. The ’53 Chevy Bel-Air I bought from Skip for a hundred bucks required many rest breaks or would overheat. I found an old motel by one of the service stations, the Stop Inn, where I could spend the night for nine dollars, cash only! The room actually had an old ten-inch black and white TV. When I was six, my mom’s older brother gave us a seven-inch Philco black and white TV. At the time I thought it was the most incredible thing I had ever seen. On the evening news tonight was a headline about Murder-Suicide in Connecticut. I turned it off; didn’t concern me.

There was still money I had saved up from my after-school job in New Haven, washing dishes in a deli-restaurant. I could work afternoons and evenings and get paid cash after each shift. A friend of mine at continuation school said he heard this place was looking to hire a dishwasher. When I went for the interview the boss asked if I had any experience? I just looked at him like he was crazy. Dishwashing?

OK, never mind. When can you start?

How about right now? I said.

He nodded, said, I’m Mel. You get a buck an hour and meals. He brought me back to the dungeon and said, Have at it.

Mel and his partner, Solomon, who always went by Solly, owned the deli-restaurant. They never came in before noon because they stayed in the dining room until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. playing gin-rummy and complaining about how bad business was. I felt sorry for them until one night I found the brochures for the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach.

There was a long, flat, stainless steel drop-off shelf filled with dirty dishes, an industrial-sized stainless steel sink, and a long black hose hanging down from a hot water pipe in the ceiling. At the end of the hose was a powerful jet-spray nozzle with a hand trigger for blasting the most obvious crap from the dishes and pans before loading the whole mess into The Monster. Lift the huge stainless steel door, slide in the tray of dirty dishes, close the door, and press start. Woosh! It was like a mini-thunderstorm inside the cabinet with booms, splashes, and steam pouring out of every crevice. Great fun.

Finishing my first shift at 10:00 p.m., I collected eight bucks from Mel, then one of the waitresses came in and said, Looks like you tamed ‘The Monster.’ She smiled and handed me three bucks.

What’s this? I asked.

We always share part of our tips with the busboy and dishwasher; this is your half of 10 percent.

Wow, thanks! I was not used to people being nice to me. First day at work and already had eleven bucks!

A few months before the dishwashing job, I had rented a small place in a rooming house a couple of blocks from school. I moved there after I couldn’t continue the rental agreement on the apartment where I had lived with Mom. I always made money working after school and weekends but didn’t have a regular job and was too young to sign the rental agreement, so I was forced out.

The last time I spoke to my uncle I asked him to come and get the few items my mom owned. Except for some clothes, there was nothing I needed or wanted. He and my aunt came and packed up the things they thought they could use, then gave the rest to the Salvation Army.

This new place was a ten-minute walk to the deli, and I paid six dollars and fifty cents a week, in advance, for a bed, closet, dresser, and a shared bathroom. I ate all of my meals free at the restaurant, so it wasn’t too long before I visited Skip—he hated Skippy—at the junkyard to see about buying a car.

Skip was one of the coolest guys I knew. Only a couple of years older than me but had been working at his uncle’s junkyard since he was twelve, driving at thirteen and tow truck operator at fifteen. Now at seventeen he was like the local god of hot rods and wild midnight rides. Not quite six foot but built heavy and rugged from years of lifting motors and rebuilding and overhauling cars. Everything about Skip was filthy. Dirty old biker boots, dark jeans had probably been blue at one time but now were covered with so much grease they were permanently black. Dirty white T-shirt and, in winter, a dirty jean jacket. Most of the year he just wore the T-shirt with his pack of Luckys rolled up in his left sleeve and matches or lighter rolled up in the right sleeve. Long dark brown hair, probably blond but so dirty it looked dark brown. The only thing missing was pimples. Like I said, the coolest guy I ever met.

Skip always knew the best places for drag racing or crashing around on old back roads. His uncle would get an old junker into the yard, throw the keys to Skip, and say, Fix it! I had known Skip for a couple of years. The first time we met I was thirteen and trying to sell him a used car battery. He laughed when he saw me and said, You better get them pants off before you start to burn.

Why? I asked.

Because you got battery acid all over them, and if you don’t change soon, the acid will start eating your legs! Where you steal this from?

What makes you think I stole it?

He just laughed again, shook his head, and said, C’mere.

We walked to the office, and he threw a pair of old pants at me. I looked down and could see little holes opening up in my jeans where the battery acid had leaked onto them because of the way I had been carrying the damn thing.

Shit! My mom’s gonna to kill me; these were new.

Now they’re rags; gimmie. I started changing and saw that I was already getting small red marks on my legs where the acid leaked through.

Hold on, he said. I stopped and looked at him. He pulled out an orange box and told me to hold out my hands. I did. He poured some powder into my palms and said, Rub this on your legs.

What is it? I asked.

Baking soda. It will stop the acid burning your hands and legs. After that he turned the hose on and hosed down my legs, shaking his head and laughing. What’s your name? Rick, I said. OK, Rick, I’m gonna give you five bucks for the battery, but you gotta promise me you won’t steal any more of these things. They’re dangerous and not really worth the effort.

OK, I said. Can I hang around here?

Not today, but if you come back Saturday I’ll teach you how to drive in one of these junk heaps.

So at thirteen, I started driving cars, trucks, anything that came into the yard with any life in it at all. I even went out on tow truck calls with him at night and learned how to haul cars. His uncle didn’t mind; I was always helping out, and he never had to pay me. I don’t know why Skip trusted me, but he did, and we became, if not close friends, good friends.

On freezing winter nights three or four of us would meet at the junkyard, get one of the old clunkers running and drive out onto the lake. We would take turns driving the car very slowly until we had some traction on the ice, then go as fast as we could before hitting the brakes and spinning the wheel. Completely nuts. We never had to worry about getting stuck or broken down; Skip had the keys to the yard and the tow truck!

The day after my visit to see Lucille, before I left the state, I stopped by the yard to say good-bye to Skip. I probably won’t be seeing you for a while, I said.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded. Then he got up, handed me a Narragansett, and said, I got somethin’ for ya. We walked into the back of the repair shop. He reached down under one of the counters and pulled out a big greasy cloth.

Here, he said, handing it to me.

What’s this?

It’s nuthin’. You never seen it before, you don’t know anythin’ about it, and you sure as hell don’t know where it came from, OK?

I put the beer down and unwrapped the rag; inside was a very cool .22 revolver. I looked up at him in wonder. He smiled and said, Open it. I opened the top break and saw it was a nine-shot revolver. All the other revolvers I had ever seen were either five or six shot. This gun was pretty rare.

It’s an Iver-Johnson Super Shot, said Skip.

Wow, thanks! Sounded stupid, but I didn’t know what else to say. Then he smiled again and nodded his head for me to follow him. We went to his desk, where he pulled out an envelope. The smile again but didn’t say anything this time, just handed it to me. I opened it, and inside was a Massachusetts threefold driver’s license.

It’s blank, I said.

Don’t start gettin’ stupid on me now. It’s supposed to be blank so you can fill it out any way you like.

Oh, yeah, this is cool.

You got a Social Security card?

What’s that?

That’s what I thought. You need to go to a Social Security office, wherever you end up, and apply for a card. Make sure whatever you put on the license is the same as the card, OK?

OK, got it, I said.

Where you headin’?

I got a little over three hundred bucks left, so I thought I’d head for Chicago for a while and just see what happens after that.

OK, c’mere. We went over to another box where he had about a hundred license plates, some new, some old. He pulled one out and said, This one’s from Illinois. We’ll switch it with the one you got, and that should do you for a while.

He pointed his boot toward the Chevy and said, "This thing’s not gonna get you very far. First time it breaks down, find a junkyard,