I was betting she’d be calling Xavier, but if he was working days, the shift didn’t change for another two hours. I had time to drive over to the Bevilacqua dealership. The glare of the summer sun on the cars hurt my eyes even through my sunglasses.
No one was out on the lot, but as soon as I parked, a man in shirtsleeves and tie surged over to greet me. His smile could have lit most of the South Side. He looked at my nicked and dusty car as if it were a precious piece of art.
“You’re a lady with a discerning eye for a quality sports car. Let me tell you, if you liked this Mustang, you’ll love one of our new Camaros.”
I smiled regretfully. “I’ve come about a Camaro, but not to buy. To check the legitimacy of a sale.”
Like a turtle retreating into a shell, he switched off his heartiness and appeared more like a funeral director greeting the bereaved. “If this is a legal matter, you need Mr. Bevilacqua.” He spoke into a mike that hovered a few inches from his mouth, announcing to someone inside the building that trouble was arriving.
I walked through the sliding glass doors into air-conditioning so intense that I hugged my arms to try to get some warmth back into them. The cold air carried an unpleasant odor, maybe the glue they used in the carpeting.
A receptionist waved me toward a corner office. I wasn’t a customer, I didn’t deserve a personal greeting, let alone a smile. As I threaded my way around the cars and trucks that filled the showroom, I couldn’t resist stopping to stroke a Corvette. My dream car, the 1938 Jaguar SS 100, was reselling for about half a million these days—the price of Dick’s watch, come to think of it—but a Corvette wouldn’t be a shabby second choice.
The receptionist coughed loudly and pointed toward the owner’s office. Carm Bevilacqua was waiting in the doorway. A heavy man who would have had trouble squeezing into a Camaro, with eyes as cold as the air-conditioning, he demanded to know what authority I had to question any sale on his premises.
“Easy does it, Mr. Bevilacqua. This isn’t about you but about one of your customers. He has a long list of creditors and they’re licking their chops over the Camaro he just bought. If he wrote you a check, it’s probably bouncing around like a kangaroo right now, but before I let any of my clients seize the car, I’m doing you the courtesy of seeing how he financed it.”
My glib patter was essentially meaningless, but Bevilacqua didn’t pounce on the faulty logic. He didn’t even demand my ID, so relieved was he to find out I wasn’t raising a legal issue about his dealership. Instead, he wanted the name of the customer.
I looked around to see who was in earshot, and prudently closed the door. “Xavier Jurgens,” I murmured.
He asked for the spelling, sat at his desk, and busied himself on the computer. I perched on the visitor’s chair. The smell in the showroom seemed to come from the upholstery.
“Yes, here it is,” Bevilacqua said. “Jurgens bought a new model Camaro eighteen days ago, with premium wheels and the extended warranty. He paid fifteen in cash and financed the remaining ten, but we ran a credit check, Ms., uh—”
“Cash? You mean actual dollar bills?”
“Actual hundred-dollar bills, to be precise.” Bevilacqua permitted himself a chuckle; we were teammates now. “He has the title, and our financing company looked at his employment.”
“I know: he’s at the Ruhetal hospital,” I said absently. “Works in the forensic unit, so he’s probably got good job security. Which he needs, since the woman in his life doesn’t seem able to work.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. She certainly was the one who asked the tough questions during the financing session—he was all about the car. Between you and me, he would have paid an extra half point in interest if he hadn’t had her along. If your clients are dealing with her, well, they’ll have a hard time getting that car away.”
“I’ll make sure they know.” I was out the door and back to my Mustang before Bevilacqua remembered he didn’t know my name.
Word must have traveled fast that I hadn’t come to challenge the dealership’s financing policies. My hearty friend personally opened the Mustang’s door for me and handed me his card. “When you’re ready to trade in your baby, you come talk to me!”
27.
JUST A FLESH WOUND
I DROVE BACK TO XAVIER AND JANA’S WITH THE WINDOWS open. Muggy air, even stained with exhaust fumes and grease from the fast-food chains, still sat easier in the lungs than the frozen gluey smell inside the car dealership.