Buzz Almond parked his Suburban in the driveway of the modest one-story home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Pine needles from the surrounding trees covered the wood shake roof and overflowed the gutters. The flower beds were barren, and the lawn was buried beneath leaves fallen from the now-bare limbs of the maple tree in the center of the yard. Parked in the dirt-and-gravel driveway was a Ford Bronco.
Dressed in Levi’s and tennis shoes, Buzz zipped up his winter jacket as he approached the Bronco. The fall sunlight glinted off the windshield, which was clear but for dappled spots of sap from the trees. It didn’t have a crack, chip, smashed bug, or smudge on it. The rubber bead around the glass also looked new. Buzz circled, running his hands along the fenders and doors. Despite the recent weather—rain and snow—the Bronco also looked like it had just come out of a hand car wash, with not a speck of dirt on the body or in the cracks and grooves of the oversize tires.
When he reached the passenger side, Buzz paused to remove his sunglasses, then stepped closer. After a moment he stepped back and took a different angle, comparing where the right fender met the passenger door, separated by a thin seam. He ran his hand between the two. The fender and the hood were a slightly different shade of yellow than the door.
“You interested in the car?”
Buzz Almond looked up as Ron Reynolds came out the side door of the house. Reynolds looked every bit the part of the high school football coach, in an Adidas sweatsuit and a white ball cap with the red initials SH woven on the front.
“How much are you asking for it?” Buzz asked. The sign in the window simply said “For Sale” with a phone number.
“Twenty-five hundred.”
Buzz did his best to look disappointed. “That’s a little more than I was looking to spend.”
“It was the last year Ford made the half cab, and it’s got all the extras—bucket seats, roll bar, running lights, front winch. Did you see the ad in the Sentinel?”
“No,” Buzz said. “I was just driving by.” He’d first seen the Bronco in the Stoneridge High School parking lot, ran the plate, and determined it was registered to Ron Reynolds. He wasn’t so much interested in the car as he was the tires—oversize all-terrain tires.
“How many miles you got on it?” he asked.
“Just under forty-four thousand.”
“Are you the original owner?”
“No. I bought it used.”
“Looks like it’s had some bodywork done,” Buzz said, pointing to the front right fender.
“A little bit,” Reynolds said, stepping back and considering the front fender at the same angle as Buzz. “Runs like a top though. Interested in taking it for a spin?”
“Could I hear the engine first?”
“Sure.” Reynolds reached into his pocket and produced the keys. He didn’t bother climbing in; he just opened the door and leaned across the seat to insert the key in the ignition and turn the engine over.
“Starts right up,” Buzz said.
“Like I said, runs like a top.”
“Where’d you have the bodywork done?” Buzz asked.
“It wasn’t anything, just a few dings. I just took it up to Columbia Auto Repair.”
“Looks like you also had the windshield replaced.”
“Decided to kill two birds with one stone,” Reynolds said. “Same thing. One small crack from a rock chip.”
“Where’d you get that done?”
“Same place. Actually, just across the street. Also had the oil changed, new spark plugs, air filter. I don’t want any trouble for the new owner. I’m Ron Reynolds, by the way.” Reynolds stuck out a hand. “I’m the athletic director and football coach over at the high school.”
Buzz shook hands. “Ted,” he said. “Congratulations. I read about your big win. Quite an achievement, I’m surmising, from all the excitement around here.”
“Thanks. Yeah, pretty heady stuff for such a small school, but that’s just the start of things to come. That school has more championships in it. I just have to squeeze them out of the kids.”
“I’ll tell you what. Let me talk this over with the missus, and I’ll call you back.”
“You sure you don’t want to take it for a spin?”
“Let me bring my wife back. She’s partial to yellow. I’m hoping if she sees it, that’ll seal the deal.”
“I hear you. Do you hunt? Put on the all-terrain tires little over a year ago.”
“No, but we like to hike.”
“All right then. You need the phone number?”
Buzz pointed to the number handwritten on the “For Sale” sign. “I wrote it down when I pulled up. I’ll be in touch.” He started to walk away but turned back as if having thought of something else. “Would you mind if I took a couple pictures to show to my wife? If she won’t let me buy it, I have a brother up north who hunts and fishes who might want it.”
“No problem,” Reynolds said. “But I got another potential buyer coming by later this afternoon, so you don’t want to delay too long. I’ve priced it to sell.”
“I appreciate you letting me know,” Almond said. He took out the Instamatic from his coat pocket and snapped a couple of photographs, careful to get the side of the tires, as well as the tread. He put the camera back in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I think I’ve got everything I need.”
When Tracy arrived at Jenny’s home that evening, where they’d agreed to meet, Jenny answered the front door looking harried. She held Sarah, who was in a bathing suit, her eyes distorted behind swim goggles, and holding a red plastic squirt gun. Tracy heard Trey laughing and shrieking somewhere in the house.
“Sorry,” Jenny said, stepping back to allow Tracy inside and then shutting the door. “Neil’s stuck at work. He said to eat without him.”
“That appears to be the least of your troubles,” Tracy said, watching as Trey came running down the hall in his bathing suit, also wearing swim goggles and holding a water pistol. He came to a halt when he saw Tracy, then dashed, shrieking and laughing into another room. “I’m just trying to get him into the bath so I can get dinner on for us. The nanny fed them earlier.”
“Let me give you a hand.” Tracy held out her arms for Sarah, who smiled and went willingly.
“I’m free,” Sarah said, holding up the correct number of fingers.
“I know,” Tracy said. “May I borrow your squirt gun?”
Sarah gave it up. Trey made another appearance, and Tracy said, “Halt right there in the name of the law, mister.” Trey froze. “I am a Seattle police officer, son, and I am about to arrest you for failure to stop at a four-way intersection.”
Trey looked uncertainly to his mother, who kept a straight face but arched an eyebrow.
“Now, I’m going to give you until the count of three to march up those stairs into that bathroom before I arrest you and put you in the back of my police car.”
Trey wanted to smile, but with Tracy and Jenny poker-faced, he dashed up the stairs in a bear crawl.
“I think you have everything under control,” Jenny said with a smile. “I’ll get dinner going.”