And it was going to end now. He had work to do. He leaned forward and craned his neck, looking left, right, ahead, and behind him.
No one was in sight. He took Nathan’s Dopp kit and used the reflection off the tinted exterior side windows of the sedan to trim up his new beard, which was still mostly black with a touch of gray around the chin. He combed his hair, snipped a few stray strands with the scissors and made it as presentable as he could. He had gone to sleep while it was still wet and that never turned out well. However, hidden beneath a wool knit hat, that would not matter.
He brushed the trimmings off his clothing and appraised the reflection.
Not bad for an escaped felon on the run. But was it good enough? While the sleep did him a world of good, did he look presentable or would he scare away an unsuspecting passerby? He could not be objective—and he did not know what picture the police were using in their Wanted notices on TV and online. Probably his booking photo, which was now several years old. Wait, no. They had shot another one when he was transferred to Potter.
Nothing he could do about it. Except … he popped the trunk release and rummaged through a road hazard toolkit, which contained nothing of use. But he found a Nationals hat in a backpack—a more disarming look and better coverage than the beanie—along with a sweater and a bottle of sunscreen. He searched inside the car and pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses from the glove box. Not a good look on him, but the idea was to hide his identity, not pose for GQ. With the hat, shades, and nascent facial growth, it was a decent start.
He parked the Mercedes up the road several spots from his discarded beard and hair clippings, then wiped down the interior and abandoned the vehicle.
Marcks made his way on foot toward Kenilworth Avenue and found a Chinese takeout restaurant. After crossing the street, ten feet from the door, he saw two police cars cruise by, the officers’ heads rubbernecking in both directions. Looking for him, no doubt.
He ducked into the storefront and quickly moved away from the windows. By the time his order of Chow Mein was ready, the cops were gone, off to another part of their patrol grid.
He asked to use the phone and called a cab. Twenty minutes later the taxi was dropping him half a mile from where he really wanted to go: a used car dealership that had been around since he was a teenager. He never bought a car there but his friend Booker had.
When he walked into the office, it was pretty much as he had remembered it: a shithole of a business. The elderly man lounging behind the counter was camped out in a lawn chair watching some insipid TV show on an old compact VCR/television propped in a corner on a pile of yellowed phone books.
“Help ya?”
“Looking for a car. Something old, real cheap. Got cash.”
“How much cash you got?”
“What’s the cheapest car you got?”
The man put a beat-up clamshell cell phone down on the counter, swung his feet off an orange overturned bucket and stood up—not quite erect but enough to shuffle his way out the door. Marcks realized the guy was older than he had initially thought.
“Name’s Oliver. You?”
“Bud. Friends call me Buddy.”
“Can see why.” He didn’t turn but kept walking another dozen or so yards.
“Anyone else work here with you, Oliver?”
“Nope. Juss me. Ain’t got no kids, neither. Don’t make enough to hire no employees. Why?”
Marcks took a look around, trying to appear nonchalant. “Oh, just lookin’ for a job.”
“Can’t help ya there, son.” Oliver stopped in front of a sedan to catch his breath and leaned his right hand on the hood. “But I can help ya with a car. Got something for a hundred twenty-five bucks.”
“Still run?”
“It runs. How much longer, who knows.”
“How many miles?”
“Lots.” Oliver straightened up a bit and started trudging along again, working his jaw, then said, “I take it out every now and then. Engine purrs, runs real smooth. Not burning oil, so that’s good.” He stopped in front of an ancient Buick LeSabre, its tan finish long faded into a hazy gray suggestion of its former luster. “Sixty-four. Nothin’ fancy. Gotta roll down the windows with a crank. Automatic transmission, but no headrests, none of them airbag doohickeys, no ee-lectronics. Just your basic car.”
“Can I take it around the block?”
Oliver reached over to a carabiner hanging from his pants belt loop and selected one of several dozen keys. “Just around the block. And don’t get lost. Police’ll track you down if you try to stiff me.”
Marcks took the ring from Oliver and said, “Yes sir. Be back in five.”
He returned in three. It had decent pickup, the engine was in surprisingly good condition, and the tires were not bald. It needed an alignment but it was a sturdy car built like they made them back in the sixties.