He couldn't recall what she had said
about those. Maybe it would come to him. He wished he had told her that
he already had a few good etchings. And the car! That was plain in his
mind--little old last year's thing--at that shop around the corner. Did
one say "garrash" or "garrige"? He heard both.
Anyway, he owned a motor car; you couldn't get around that. Maybe Bulger
wouldn't open his eyes if he knew it. Bulger was an authority on cars,
and spoke in detail of their strange insides with the aplomb of a man
who has dissected them for years. He had violent disputes with the
second bookkeeper about which was the best car for the money. The
bookkeeper actually owned a motorcycle, or would, after he had paid five
dollars a month a few more times, but Bulger would never allow this
minor contrivance to be brought into their discussions. Bulger was
intolerant of anything costing under five thou'--eat you up with
repairs.
Bean longed to approach Bulger and say:
"Some dame, that! Just sent me a little old last year's car."
But he knew this would never do. Bulger would not only tell him why the
car was of an inferior make, but he would want to borrow it to take a
certain party, or maybe the gang, out for a spin, and get everybody
killed or arrested or something. Bulger dressed fearlessly; no one with
eyes could deny that; but he was tactless. Better keep that car under
cover.
At seven-thirty that evening, with Nap on a leash, he strolled into the
garage.
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