Pristine Used Motors made a killing fixing up totaled cars and not telling. They bought the wrecks at auction. Head-ons, T-bones, cars sheared in two. Sometimes they welded together halves of different cars. The junks were practically free, the bodywork done by underpaid wizards with no green cards. They replaced grills, straightened fenders, somehow got them running and, most crucial of all, a nice wash and wax. Out on the lot they went, under the balloons and strings of flapping pennants, big orange numbers on the windshields:
One of the biggest profit zones was the airbags that had opened in the wrecks and were required by law to be replaced. But that was hundreds of dollars. Sand was free. Other dealerships moved more cars, but Pristine Used Motors was all about the margin. The owners had become quite wealthy and now drove fancy luxury vehicles purchased from reputable dealers because they wanted to make sure the airbags worked.
The odds began to hit. One fatal head-on, then a second, paramedics peeling open cars with hydraulic jaws. Prosecutors took it to the grand jury. The owners were a step ahead. They had compartmentalized the operation, assigning only one mechanic to airbag duty in a locked garage after hours. Then, every other month, an anonymous tip to immigration, and the mechanics were somewhere in Tijuana when the D.A. came looking for witnesses.
The defense: Hey, we’re as outraged as you are! The mechanics were working on commission and did this without our knowledge. They skated on the first case. Prosecutors weren’t allowed to introduce the acquittal at the second.
The postverdict celebration spilled down the courthouse steps, where a red BMW full of scuba gear was waiting at the curb. The three defendants had decided in advance that they were going to let off some serious steam if they got out of this one. They jogged to the street and piled in the car.
A reporter ran after them with a microphone.
The BMW headed south.
THE ’71 BUICK RIVIERA neared the eastern end of the Seven-Mile Bridge. It had a newly installed trailer hitch.
Coleman fired a doobie. “Where are we going?”
“Have to start preparing for the wedding.”
“You mean the date.”
“That’s just a formality,” said Serge. “We’re meant to be together.”
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”
“That’s the best place. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Coleman took a big hit. “Can’t believe I’m actually going on a date tomorrow.”
“Weddings are incredibly complicated,” said Serge. “A million arrangements to be made. That’s why you have to get a huge jump.”
“I thought the women took care of everything.”
“Are you kidding? The guy has all kinds of responsibilities leading up to the big day.”
“Like what?”
“Like you need to hurry up and buy all the shit your wife would never let you get after you’re married. I’ve always wanted an airboat.”
“Hey, look!” said Coleman. “A waterspout!”
“I see it,” said Serge. “Out by the Sombrero Key light. It’s a big one.”
“Whenever I spot one, I feel special.”
“Me, too,” said Serge. “I’m going to make a wish.”
“You can’t make a wish on a waterspout. Only shooting stars and magic wells.”
“That’s just politics.”
“The spout’s gone,” said Coleman. He took a big hit. “Now I’m bored.”
“Let’s look for irony.”
“Okay.” Coleman took another hit. “Does something I already saw count?”
“If it’s worthy.”
“Then I’m calling it. That store back on Stock Island. Paradise Guns and Ammo.” Coleman licked two fingers on his right hand and slapped Serge hard on the forearm.
“Ow,” said Serge. “My turn. Let’s see…. Over there. That Suburban with the PROTECT THE MANATEES specialty license plate.”
“What about it?”
“It also has a Florida Cattlemen’s bumper sticker: EAT MORE BEEF.”
“So?”
Serge licked two fingers. “Save the seacows, fuck the land cows.” Slap.
“Ow.”
“Here’s Pigeon Key coming up.” Serge pointed north at the remains of the old Seven-Mile Bridge running parallel to the new span. “That gap is where they blew it up in
Coleman was giggling. “Pussy Galore…”
“Different movie. Low-water mark of Bondian humor.”
Coleman couldn’t control his snickers. “It’s just too funny. Know what I mean? How do they ever think up that stuff? See, her first name is, you know, and like her last name… Zow! Good weed!…”
The Buick neared the end of the bridge and the shore of Vaca Key.
“What’s that new building over there?” said Serge.
“Which one?”
“That big one on the shore. When did they start putting it up?”
