It’s a ’50 Buick Super Riviera hardtop with fat whitewalls. It has a Fireball straight-eight with a smooth Dynaflow transmission and I baby every square, red inch of it. I love the waterfall of chrome teeth in the grill and the low ride of it. Cars and dames. They’re connected somehow. I like how they both make me feel. The guy who designed this car must’ve been thinking of a woman.

    This is a long red light.

    The kid in the jalopy next to me revs his flathead and hollers at me: “Hey, square, wanna race?”

    The red-headed doll beside the kid, giggles. “Yeah, pops, wanna bend a fender?” 

    I sneer, finish my cigarette and flick it toward the kids Duece. “Beat it, Brando.”

    The kid looks angry now. More revving and the girl sticks her fat tongue out in my direction. The light turns and the kid lays a smoking trail of black bias ply down the intersection of Broad and 5th.

    I flip them the bird as I turn left on to 5th. “Punk kids…”

    If it isn’t the mob, the Chinese gangs or the cops; it’s these hepcats buggin’ my ass—