Demon Box

The car had been carefully preserved, unscratched except for the right side of the front bumper, which had been bent in shipping and was crimped against the tire. Felix even started the engine with a jump from Deboree’s panel. Everybody drank champagne in the yard while the big engine idled in the garage. Felix asked Dolf if he would like to drive it when the bumper got straightened, that there might be a chauffeur’s job open as soon as the California bar exams allowed Felix to practice. Felix said he couldn’t legally drive it himself for another nine months because of a DUIL, and his wife wouldn’t drive it because she was Jewish, “So I need somebody.”

Dolf was politely thanking the couple for the offer but was saying he would probably stick with his old Schwinn—“For my German vehicle”—when into the drive came a steaming, lurching ‘53 Chevy with a noisy rod about to blow under the hood and noisier driver already blowing wild behind the wheel. Houlihan was out the door and into the startled yard before the signal from the ignition had reached the poor motor, shirtless and sweating and jabbering, zooming around to open the other doors for his usual entourage of shell-shocked passengers, introducing each to everybody, digressing between introductions about the day’s events, the trip down from the city, the bad rod, the good tires, the lack of gas, and grass, and ass, and of course the need for speed—“Anybody? Anybody? With the well-known leapers? Bennies? Dexies? Uh? Preludins even? Oops? I say something wrong?”—admonishing himself for his manners and his hectic habits, complimenting Felix on his idling heirloom, kicking the tires, clicking his heels and saluting the two-headed hood ornament, starting all over again, introducing his bedraggled crew again only with the names all different… a typical Houlihan entrance that might have gone on uninterrupted until his departure minutes or hours later, if Felix hadn’t distracted him with a huge joint that he drew out of his vest pocket as though he’d been saving it for this very occasion. And while Houlihan was holding the first vein-popping lungful of smoke, Felix led him by the elbow to the little cement bench in the shadow of the acacia where Lars Dolf had retreated to sit in full lotus and watch. Without speaking, Dolf had slowly untwined his legs and stood to take Houlihan’s hand. Houlihan had resumed his chatter, the words spilling out as irrepressible as the smoke:

“Dolf? Dolf? Didn’t I, yass I did hear tell of a fella supposed to have confiscated all the switchblades in Ensenada—or was it Juàrez?—went by that name Lars Dolf, also by the nick of ‘Snub,’ Snub Dolf the sportswriters called him, used to be a footballer, all-something, all-defensive something of the something, forsook future with the Forty-niners for meditation, which, the way I see it, correct me if I’m wrong, is mainly the exchange of one coach and his philosophy for another coach and another game plan—same game—single wing ‘stead of double—this meditation practice probably just as beneficial as tackling practice—rather beat off, myself personally, if it’s for spiritual purposes we are considering…”

And on and on, in a fashion best left inimitable, until the round, grinning face and the ominously unblinking eyes began to affect Houlihan in a manner none of the fans had ever witnessed before. In the face of Dolf s deliberate silence, Houlihan began to stammer. His rap began to rattle and run down. Finally, with his brow creased over the same mystery that Buddy and Deboree had encountered Indian wrestling, Houlihan stuttered to a rare stop. Dolf continued to smile, holding on to Houlihan’s hand, watching him fidget in his unaccustomed silence and humiliation. Nobody broke the silence as the moment of victory and defeat was wordlessly accepted and formalized.

When the victor felt that his power had been sufficiently acknowledged by this silence, Dolf let go the hand and said, softly, “That is the way… you see it, Mr. Houlihan.”

Houlihan could not retort. He was buffaloed. The dozen-or-so spectators smiled inside and congratulated themselves on being present during the decisive settling of this historic duel. They had all known it all along. When it comes right down to it, the mouth is no match for the muscle. Houlihan turned away from the grinning puzzle, seeking some route of escape. His eyes fell again on the idling Mercedes.

“Well on the other hand hey, what say, Felix, that we take ‘er for a little turn?” He was already opening the right side door to climb behind the steering wheel. “Just round the block…”

“ ‘Fraid it would have to be one way around,” Felix said casually, hands in his pockets as he followed around the front of the car after Houlihan. He took him by a naked arm and drew him back out of the car. He pointed at the bent bumper with his long chin. “Until we get that straightened, the best you could do is keep going in circles.”