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traffic cop Doojie Sr. injured was sitting in a squad car at the curb.
    The two cops wanted to see the Hillman because they’d received a report from several eyewitnesses the car had been sighted causing grievous bodily harm to a police officer on active duty. Doojie Sr. said with a deadpan look on his hungry face, “That’s just terrible.” He escorted the policemen over to the garage and showed them the Hillman. “See?” he said with great satisfaction, feeling vindicated. “It’s been in here since last night.”
    Both cops touched the Hillman’s hood to find out if the engine was warm. The metal was blistering hot, proof of Doojie Sr.’s guilt.
    They took him down to the station, and he got the crap knocked out of him again.
    With this kind of heritage, I needed some counseling, or I was going to sink into further trouble. The morning after I was stabbed, I was sitting in the most sunlit corner of the garage, meditating on my prospects. Eichmann came over to me and asked, “How’s your leg?” Before I could answer him, he added, “Louis said he was here when we were out. He talked to the landlord, and the landlord said we owed him money and that you’d been killed.”
    “Who said that?”
    “The landlord. He was working on his car in the driveway, changing his oil. There’s like eight million Pennzoil containers out there. He told Louis you’d bled to death in the hospital.”
    “What’s going on here?”
    “You tell me. Louis is going around informing everybody. He wasn’t happy to hear about your untimely demise. Sometimes I wish we didn’t have any friends, then we wouldn’t have to go through this.”
    “What’s Louis saying?”
    “That you’re dead. Now what are we going to do?”
    “About what?”
    “Jesus, I have to tell everyone he talked to that you’re alive. Do you realize what a hassle that’s going to be?”
    From the way we talked, you’d have thought we were living in a shadow land between this life and the afterworld. Eichmann also said Louis wanted to meet with us in the Linda Street park. He had important news for us. The thing of it was, Louis was getting on my nerves saying I was dead, and I didn’t care if he had news or not. It was unsettling, hearing about your own death when it was the farthest thing from your mind. Loretta overheard our debate and asked, “What did he say?”
    “The landlord told Louis Doojie was dead. Can you believe that? The landlord then said he wants rent money from us or he’s going to get the police.”
    Loretta’s face went waxy. “He wants money because you’re living in this garage? Are you going to talk to him about it?”
    “No, I’m not. We are in a nonnegotiable state of affairs here with him. Every day I’m in his garage, the more it becomes mine,” Eichmann said. Then he burped and added, turning to me, “We’ve got a meeting scheduled with Louis for this afternoon.”
    I didn’t want to hear that. “What for?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “You didn’t ask?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “How come?”
    “I don’t know … what’s the matter?”
    “You’re so secretive, like a spy.”
    “Hey, there ain’t no spies in this garage. Do you know what we’re dealing with here? With the cops and everything?”
    “I don’t want to know.”
    “I bet you don’t. Hey, fuck it, do what you want.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me. You want me to say it again?”
    Loretta stood there with her hands on her hips, her mouth caving in from the effort of holding back her confusion; her moony face was closed off with disappointment. Eichmann turned on me so fast, she was ashamed of him. She said to him, “What’s with you?”
    He gazed at her with a blank look as clear as glass. “Nothing. What are you asking me for?”
    “It’s like you want to start a fight with Doojie.”
    “Why would I want to do that? Why would I want to start a fight with him or whoever?”
    “Because you’re mad.”
    “Mad at who? Who am I mad