“Just because I was forced to mete out justice doesn’t mean I don’t feel his pain.”
“There goes a liver.”
“Ouch.”
Chapter Four
THE NEXT MORNING
Sunlight filtered through the leaves of a jacaranda before hitting the kitchen window.
The table had orange juice and all the sections of the newspaper spread out in reading-order preference. Toast popped.
The three-bedroom Mediterranean stucco sat on a quiet street just south of Fort Lauderdale in a town called Dania. You could tell it was an original 1925 hacienda because of the detached garage out back—not the new replicas with two or three horrendous garage doors on the front of the house that wreck the architecture. It was now worth a nice chunk of change, but a bargain back when Jim Townsend bought it in the eighties. Dania was known for having one of the last jai alai frontons that wasn’t a dump.
Jim always had a knack with numbers. He was an accountant, but made more than most because he did corporate work. He could also count cards. And ex-wives, which was three.
Jim liked his toast and his jacarandas. The garage out back had recently been cleaned and emptied to make space. He was going to treat himself to something he always wanted, now made possible by the departure of his latest spouse for a defrocked priest she’d met at the holy candles.
The most important section of the paper was the classifieds. Jim found the listings for used cars. Everyone now shopped on the Internet, which meant the occasional gem could still be found in print. His finger ran down a column to the bottom, then back to the top of the next, just as it had every day for the last two weeks. But this time the finger stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Jim put on glasses and read again. Right there in black and white: a 1969 Corvette Stingray convertible with four-speed manual transmission, 390 horsepower turbojet and a 427 cubic-inch V-8. A little high on miles but the right color. Lemon yellow. But best of all was the price. It definitely wouldn’t last. He jumped for the phone. After eight rings:
“Hello?” Someone eating cereal on the other end.
“Yes, I’m interested in the Corvette in the paper.”
“But you haven’t sold it yet?” said Jim, subconsciously thinking,
“No, it’s still here.”
“Good,” said Jim. “I’d like to take a look as soon as possible.”
“Where do you live?”
“Dania.”
“Great. I’ve got to do something down there today anyway. What’s your address?”
Jim told him.
“Wait, that won’t work. Just remembered I got this other thing. You know that pancake house on U.S. 1 north of Hollywood?”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t we meet there? You can take her for a spin, and if you like it, the pancake place is there for coffee and some table space to handle the paperwork.”
“Works for me,” said Jim.
“But let me ask you a question: Are you familiar with Corvettes?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re aware the price is on the low side.”
Jim clenched up. Here it comes: the catch. He played coy. “It’s a
“Well, I can perfectly understand if this isn’t acceptable to you, but I can only do it at that price if it’s a cash deal. It’s a personal—”
“I’m an accountant.”
“So you understand.”
“Your business is your business.”
“Okay, and if you have to call me again and a woman answers . . . uh, that’s partly why we need to do this at a restaurant and the cash thing. We’re going through a—”
“I’ve been divorced three times.”
“So you understand.”
“When would you like to meet?”
“How about tonight around seven?”
Jim was in the parking lot of the pancake house at five. Straight from the bank, no stops. The whole procedure at the bank had been a rolling anxiety attack. He’d never even seen $19,000 all in one place before, stacked high on a table. The bank had arranged a private room for security while he filled the briefcase, and even instructed an armed guard to escort him to his car and see him safely off the lot.
The sun set as Jim leaned against the trunk, daydreaming about Corvettes in 1960s beach movies. A few minutes after seven, he spotted it six blocks away. The shimmering mirage of a lifelong dream, coming toward him under streetlights that shimmered off the freshly waxed hood. It already had the top down when it pulled into the parking space. Deliberate salesmanship.
The owner wore a tropical shirt and sporty dark sunglasses that made him look cool and drive badly at night. He hopped out and shook Jim’s hand. Jim was a bit wooden.
“You feeling all right?”
“Fine,” said Jim. “It’s . . . so beautiful.”
“Good. My name’s Cid. Friends call me Uncle Cid. I don’t know why. Just one of those things that stuck. And I don’t know why I brought it up.” He tossed Jim the keys. “Let’s do it.”
Jim felt like a golden warrior as he sped down U.S. 1 with the wind in his hair, running that powerful stick shift through the gears as streetlights flew by.
