Rod Hewitt. Forty years
of movies
One novel

The Porsche looked like red ink in water, appearing and disappearing with the dips in the road. Arnold Schofield held his breath, looking at his right eye in the rearview. It was a hard, angry eye, gray in the pupil. Everything behind him was moving in mirages from the desert heat.

The Porsche came again, leaking a red pool onto the road, and then the car suddenly sprang into a quickened form and pounced forward.

Arnold Schofield knew what had to be done. He had to get someone to help him. He slipped out of the Rolls Royce, held the yellow driver’s door slightly ajar, half turned to the open yellow hood of the Rolls. He waited as the red Porsche began to sift out of mirage into solidity. Arnold Schofield began to feel his confidence rise in small, fast waves. His smile, his eyes, his whole body became ready. He would get this car to stop, and they would help him. He could not afford to stay out in the desert too long. He had always been golden. He was in his early sixties and forty pounds overweight; but even more than his mustard suit and yellow shirt, there was still something within Arnold Schofield that shined. The Porsche began to seethe across the road like a snake, an irresistible force almost out of control, dazed and hypnotic. The Porsche suddenly braked and came gliding to a stop behind the Rolls.

Arnold stepped toward the red Porsche, waved his hand beside his face, made sure to lock his smile with the wave. This was the way he had learned to wave at marks when he began working con jobs as a boy in Wisconsin during the Second World War.

Behind the wheel of the Porsche, a dark and exotic beauty, her hair in ringlets and her eyes like large peas, looked out the windshield. She seemed framed for a moment in absolute stillness, and the beauty of her at that moment was almost shocking to Schofield. He felt a rare, personalized excitement. The opportunity to work this situation rose in his chest like a soft storm. He glanced quickly: Next to the dark beauty was the passenger, a woman who looked almost like a miniature, her features drawn so carefully that she had the appearance of a porcelain doll with a long mane of blonde hair. Both women opened their doors and got out at the same moment. They looked like mirrors of each other, the two wearing black Escada outfits with the skirts hiked above their knees and high heels, and both of them sporting Dior bags. They closed the car doors and walked together toward Arnold.

“I don’t know anything about cars except how to buy them,” Arnold preached his predicament like an evangelist.

The Blonde looked at Arnold, then looked at his car. “We can fix what you’ve got.”

“Really?” Arnold piped a sly look to her.

“Yeah, easy fix. You might say we’re handy.” The Dark Woman backed away. “I’ll get the tools.”

Arnold looked at the Blonde, looked around the three of them at the empty desert road, and laughed, “You mean you’re actually going to fix this thing?”

“Sure, why not.” The Blonde raised her finger, pointed to the Dark Woman taking a red tool box out of the trunk of the red car. “That’s Gina, and I’m Cottie.”

Arnold smiled his best smile. He leaned on the car as Gina walked around him to look at the engine. “I’m Arnold Schofield. I just have to thank you both for stopping.”

“No problem.” Gina cracked open her tool box and started on the engine.

“Boy, you really look like you know what you’re doing.”

Gina pulled out a wrench, aimed it at the engine. “Cottie and I always know what we’re doing.”