Of course he does.
Porter’s not even inside the trailer five minutes. My heart sinks. And it sinks again twice more, because we drive to other lots that look similar to this one, just farther out of town and smaller. Now I’m getting worried. What if it wasn’t Davy? What if it was one of those two Richie Rich punk kids who tried to steal the Maltese falcon statue? Maybe they stalked me at work and were trying to get revenge. But Porter doesn’t buy this. He says Davy has stolen stuff before, and that he never comes by the museum. It’s too coincidental. I guess he’s probably right, but I’m starting to freak out again, and I’m having a hard time thinking straight.
Porter is tapping the van’s steering wheel. He snaps his fingers, and then tugs his phone out of his pocket and looks something up. A couple of minutes later, he’s calling someone. That’s a bust, but he calls someone else, dropping his family name—I hear him say “Pennywise”—and then a third person. That’s the call that sticks, because he’s suddenly all relaxed and loose-limbed, one hand atop the wheel, as he tells the person he’s looking for Davy. After several grunts, he hangs up, and then five minutes later, someone calls him back.
“I think I may have a lead,” is all he says after it’s over.
So why doesn’t he sound more hopeful?
A soft rain begins to fall. Porter turns on his windshield wipers as we pass a sign telling us that we’re exiting Coronado Cove and another identifying some tiny township that has four thousand residents. Everything here seems to be about state parks and camping and hiking. Oh, and car repair—lots and lots of car repair. Auto body, auto detailing . . . auto restoration. There’s a small industry built up out here, people who are into muscle cars and racing, and I wonder if this is where my dad bought his car.
But Porter’s headed past the nicer places. He’s going down a dirt road into the woods, to a cinder-block garage with a number six spray-painted on a door to the left of three closed bays. Carcasses of rusted motorcycles lay in heaps near the building, discarded with other metal scraps. This is some kind of motorcycle chop shop, a place good bikes come to die. I’m suddenly very scared for Baby. A little scared for us, too.
Porter parks the van several yards away, under the fanning branches of some pines. “Stay in the van.”
“You must be kidding,” I say.
“If he’s inside, I don’t want you to see what might go down.”
He’s scaring me a little, but I don’t want him to know this. “No way. This area reminds me of Deliverance territory. We stick together.”
He snorts, hand on his door. “That takes place in the backwoods of Georgia, but I’m not even going to ask how you know about that movie, because we don’t have time. So just . . . come on.”
Rain dots the dirt road in front of our steps as we make our way to the door with the red six. It’s eerily quiet, no one leaving or coming, no signs that the place is even in business. But as we get closer, I hear the faint sounds of a radio and voices, and I get nervous.
As Porter lifts his hand to knock, the door cracks open. A goateed African-American man in a tight-fitting red T-shirt pokes his head out. He looks Porter over, eyes zeroing in on Porter’s scars. “Roth?”
“Yeah. You Fast Mike?”
The man’s face softens. “You look like your mama.”
“Thank God. Everyone usually says that about my sister.”
“Never seen her, but my cousin painted that old Thunderbird your mama had.”
“Yeah? She sold that a couple of years ago,” Porter says. “Hated to. She loved that bike.”
Fast Mike looks past Porter and notices me.
“This is Bailey,” Porter says. “The Vespa we’re looking for belongs to her.”
The man blows out a hard breath through his nostrils. He opens the door wider. “Better come inside, then. Got a feeling this isn’t gonna be pretty.”
We follow him through a small office with two tidy desks, a counter, and an old register. No one’s there. Past an old couch and a coffeemaker, another door leads into the garage. Burnt engine oil and old paint fumes hit me as we step onto stained concrete. Seventies rock music plays on a radio on a work bench. Rows of fluorescent lights hum over three drive-in bays, the closest of which is occupied by two motorcycles. The middle bay is empty but for three people, sitting around in folding chairs, talking. But it’s what’s in the far bay that snatches 100 percent of my attention.
One mustard-yellow pickup truck, blue lightning on the side, passenger window covered in a black garbage bag.
And behind the truck: one turquoise Vespa with a leopard-print seat.
I feel like I might pass out. And maybe that’s why it takes my brain a couple of extra seconds to realize that one of the people lounging around in the chairs is Davy. In a way that’s good, because I suddenly feel like committing a wild and vicious attack on him. But in another way, it’s really, really bad, because Porter isn’t dazed like me. Just the opposite, in fact. He’s a laser beam, and he’s headed straight for his former best friend.
The two other seated people scatter. Davy now sees Porter coming and the look on his face is absolute panic. He rushes to leap up, but his foot slips, and he can’t quite stand. Porter lunges with both arms, shoving him with so much unhinged violence that Davy flies backward. Boy and metal both slam against a concrete pylon and slide across the floor.
“You piece of shit,” Porter says, stalking Davy to where he’s now crumpled in a heap by the tire of his truck. “Too much of a coward to steal from me, so you jacked her stuff?”
Davy’s groaning and holding his head in his hand. I’m worried he’s got a concussion, but when he opens his eyes and looks up at Porter, there’s nothing but rage. “I hate you.”
“That makes two of us, junkie.”
Davy cries out, a horrible battle cry that tears through the air and bounces around the garage. In quick succession, he leverages onto his good leg, grabs the folding chair, and swings upward. I scream. The chair bashes into Porter’s face. His head jerks sideways. Blood spatters. The chair leg slips out of Davy’s hands and sails through the air, clanging into his truck.
Porter’s doubled over.
I try to run to him, but strong hands clamp around my arms. “Whoa,” Fast Mike says in my ear. “He’s okay. Let those boys work it out themselves.”
But he’s wrong. Porter’s not okay. When he pulls his hand away from his face, there’s blood all over it. A big gash crosses his cheek. Dumb boy that he is, he just shakes his head like a wet dog and refocuses.