“Is he getting better?”
The mechanic shrugged. “I think so. He bought a motorcycle. You can’t ride that in your living room.” He watched the sweat bead on Peter’s neck and face. “You were over there, too.”
Peter nodded. “Marines.”
Al sighed again. Then he pushed Peter’s pack back across the desk without opening it. “Bring those chairs over, would you?”
By the time Peter came back with the chairs, the black automatic had disappeared. He held a chair for June, then sat. June was looking at Al’s hands with their faded blue tattoos.
“Some people tried to pull June into their car a few days ago. We don’t know who or why. They told her they were government, but she didn’t believe them. She’s an investigative reporter, writes about technology. She went to hide at a university research station, but they found her again. We just met this morning. I helped her get away, but we totaled her car, rolled it a few times, which is how we got so beat up. She needs a new one. Something very reliable, something that won’t stand out. A small SUV would be good, or a minivan. Something she could sleep in if she had to.”
Al raised his eyebrows, his voice deadpan. He looked at June, at Peter.
“You expect me to believe that story.”
“You can believe it or not,” said Peter. “It’s the truth.”
Al shook his head. “How do you plan to pay? You can understand that I’m reluctant to take a personal check. You carry that kind of cash around?”
“I don’t carry cash, but if I can borrow your phone, I can wire money directly into your account. You can check with your bank before you give her the keys.”
“This would be the young lady’s car, then.”
“Yes,” said Peter. He glanced at June. She was looking directly at him now. Peter was aware of the sweat running down his face. His heart like a hammer in his chest. Soon he’d have trouble catching his breath. “I don’t know what she wants to do next. It’s her show. If she wants my help, she’s got it. But no paperwork, no records of any kind. We think they were tracking her phone.”
“But I could give her the keys and you’d watch her drive away.”
“Yes,” said Peter. “If that was what she wanted.”
June watched him intently. Al leaned back in his chair with his fingers steepled on his chest, invisible calculations going on behind the wire-rimmed glasses.
“My mom owns the grocery store,” he finally said. “She loves that red Mustang out there. Always borrowing it, racing around. Seventy years old, thinks she’s Danica Patrick driving the Indy 500.” He shook his head. “Anyway, she’s got a Honda minivan, forty thousand miles. Maybe that would work?” He was looking at June as he said it. She nodded. He looked back at Peter. “You buy my mom that pony car, we’ll call it an even trade. I’ll give you two weeks before I call it in stolen.”
Peter did the math in his head. The number on the Mustang’s FOR SALE sign was double or triple the value of the Honda. He’d expected to pay a premium, but this was a little steep. He thought about the black Explorers pulling off the two-lane. They definitely needed the wheels.
“For that kind of money, June gets legal title,” he said. “How about your mom signs it over, dates it two weeks ago, and we register it next week in another state. That protects her and you.”
“Done,” Al said, and stood to shake hands. From the speed of his agreement, Peter could have done better on the price, but he didn’t care. It was only money, and not even his. At least not originally.
Peter pointed to the phone on the desk. “May I?”
Al shook his head. “Use this one.” He fished around in his desk again, came out with a basic flip phone. “It’s a prepaid,” he said apologetically. “I got some old friends who are a little paranoid. They still worry about the Man listening in.”
A smile ghosted across June’s face.
Peter went to the window and keyed in a phone number he’d memorized. It helped a little to look outside. He could see the highway, too. No more Explorers out there yet.
“Who the hell is this?” The voice was like heating oil, slippery and dark and latent with combustion.
“How are Dinah and the boys?” asked Peter. “That dog chew your ass up yet?”
“Holy shit, it’s the jarhead.” Peter could hear the tilted grin. “Let me call you back from another number.”
Al’s friends weren’t the only ones who were paranoid.
The phone rang thirty seconds later. Peter flipped it open. “Who the hell is this?”
“Motherfucker,” said Lewis. “Where you been, Jarhead?”
“Jarhead” was a term of pride, if you were a Marine. From anyone else it was an insult. Except for Lewis, who’d earned the right.
“Working out a few things,” said Peter. “I need some money.”