Free Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll by John Farris

Buick, walked around it and lifted the hood. In a minute or so I found the gimmick, unwired it from the starter and pulled it tenderly away from the motor. Three sticks of dynamite wired together composed the guts of the homemade starter bomb. If I had turned the key inthe ignition, the Buick would have looked as though it had been dropped into the middle of the street from an airplane. What I would have looked like was too sickening to think about.
    I put the thing in the trunk, wrapping it in an old inner tube and sticking it into a corner where it wouldn’t bounce around. The little boy was still close by. He had saved his own life as well as mine by speaking out. He had a pleased smile on his face.
    “He fix yoah cah.”
    “He sure did,” I said. I had to sit down. I opened the door of the Buick next to the sidewalk and sat inside, my feet on the pavement.
    “Come here a minute, son,” I said.
    He backpedaled cautiously. “Ma said not to.”
    “Okay, then. Stay there. Did you watch this man fix my car?” He nodded.
    “What did he look like? Was he as big as I am?” He nodded again.
    “Bigger?” He looked uncertain.
    “Came in a car?” Nod.
    “Was it a big car, like this one?” Not sure.
    “What color?” Blue.
    “What was he wearing? Like I’ve got on, a suit?”
    He studied this. “Ov’alls,” he said.
    Overalls. I tried to think what else I could ask him that he might have paid attention to. License number? Ha-ha. I was too upset to think it through. I wanted to get in the car and drive it right back to Orange Bay. A sudden thought came to me.
    “Did he have on a hat? A blue hat?” The head went from side to side, slowly. Well, that was crazy, anyway.
    Down the street a woman yelled hoarsely, “Ronniieeee!” We both jumped. He looked around, aimed the tricycle in that direction and pedaled off.
    That left me alone on the lazy noon street. A breath of air touched my hot forehead. I wondered if any of the neighbors had noticed the phony mechanic doctoring the Buick, decided it wasn’t worth asking. I got under the wheel, put the key in the ignition gingerly and winced when I turned it, forgetting to step on the gas.
    “Oh, Elaine,” I said under my breath. “Elaine, Elaine, Elaine.” I drove away from there. Ten minutes later I felt the first satisfying edge of anger and my stomach had stopped jumping. I parked in front of a drugstore. I had a very vague idea and nothing else to do but track it down.
    I found the number I wanted and a fresh young voice answered right away. “Stan’s Restaurant.” I asked her where Stan was. She didn’t know. He usually came in for lunch but today he must have gone home to eat. I asked where home was. “I can’t give out that information,” she said coldly. I hung up.
    Just for the hell of it I looked through the phone book and there it was. Maxine, Stanley, 1901 Jacaranda. I went outside to the Buick, dug out the city map again and found Jacaranda. It was in the Lake Alena section, a block from the golf course that rimmed the west side of the lake.
    In fifteen minutes I was there. It was a nice two-story house of peach-colored stucco, with a little Mexican balcony above the front entrance, and a big side porch.
    There was no car parked in front and I didn’t see a drive, so I decided the garage could be reached only from the rear. I rang the doorbell.
    “You want something?” a soft voice said behind me.
    I turned and looked at a big Negro with elegantly graying hair and magnificent shoulders. He was wearing levis, a T shirt and a bandana around his throat. He carried a pair of hedge clippers.
    “I was looking for Stan,” I said pleasantly.
    The hedge clippers went chop-chop. “He’s not here,” he said in an unfriendly tone.
    “When would he be likely to get here?”
    “I wouldn’t know that,” the man said. “I just work here.”
    The front door opened. I looked at a girl in red toreador pants and a bare-midriff blouse. She had lots of