TEPHANIE RETURNED FROM the ladies’ room, eyes puffy and swollen, nose red and sniffily. What little makeup she wore was gone. Linda, smiling, stood outside her work station as Stephanie, avoiding eye contact, passed by.
“If you’re not feeling well, why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?” she urged.
Maggie looked on, wondering if a cat fight was about to break out. Stephanie took a few more steps before turning sharply and withdrawing once more to the restroom. Maggie followed. Her friend was suffering from more than the standard hormonal imbalance of pregnancy. Linda grinned smugly to herself as the women fled the office.
Mitch’s car glided down the road. Its young driver checked his rearview mirror for the tenth time. The Chevy pickup was an easy mark, sticking up above traffic even five cars back. Mike was on the phone calling for backup when the GTO suddenly bolted across two lanes and made an illegal left turn onto Bonanza Road. By the time Mike had swerved onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, he had no idea which way the car had gone.
Vasquez sped east on 95, then north on I-15, getting off the freeway at Washington–only blocks from Mitch’s house, a residence he’d driven past an hour earlier on his way to Bino’s gas station. The Chevy pickup had been the only unexpected surprise. The driver guided the GTO down the lifeless cul-de-sac and pressed the garage door opener, easing in next to the Camaro.
Snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, he exited the car and launched into an organized search, commencing in the garage, replacing every item he disturbed to its original place. There was no hint of hurry. His years of experience in petty larceny and auto theft, combined with the information Clint had given him . . . he’d find what he was looking for, sooner or later.
The Audi pulled into the station, leaving a foul trail of blue smoke in its wake. Mitch walked over to the car and swung open the passenger door, waiting for the haze of thick cigarette smoke to clear before he dropped into the seat beside Bino. “So what’d you find on Greg Hart?”
“You’ve got trouble, kid.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Bino took a running start, drawing in as much air as his damaged
lungs would take. “I just had coffee with . . . a friend of mine . . . an expert in criminal matters. Cost me . . . three bills and . . . a huge marker. She told me . . . the police have a good description . . . and composite drawing . . . of a young man . . . early twenties, blond hair . . . blue or light green eyes . . . between 5' 11” . . . and 6' 4" and . . . weighing about 200 pounds. Says he fled the scene . . . a possible armed robbery . . . in a red Camaro.”
Mitch shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Oh, boy. . . .”
Bino’s lips reached out and sucked in a shallow breath. “The good news is . . . without a victim, even . . . even if they identify you . . . they could never make any . . . charges stick.”
“I’ve got to find the guy.”
“Good luck. He’s probably . . . hopped a train headed north . . . by now.” Bino dropped three folded documents between them on the seat. “The guy’s got more . . . financial troubles than you can . . . shake a credit card at.”
Mitch stared down at the court documents, one judgment after another, some from lending institutions, most served by credit card companies. “The paperwork wasn’t finished,” Bino continued, “but the poor guy’s house . . . was sold on the steps of . . . the courthouse this morning. The second mortgage . . . bought the first.”
Mitch let out a sigh. “I better turn myself in–explain what happened. All I did was save the guy’s life. . . .”
“It’s up to you, kid . . . but I thought you told me . . . something like this had . . . had happened to you before?”
Mitch didn’t recall the conversation, but assumed he must have mentioned something about the burglary conviction during the last two years.
Bino’s bloodshot eyes flitted about the station. “By the way, where’s your car?”
“Your buyer took it to his mechanic to have it checked out.”
“You let him take it?”
“Sure. He handed me the keys to his Chrysler and a business card. Said he’d be right back.”
“How long ago . . . was that?”
Mitch checked his watch. “Twenty minutes.”
Maggie stood facing the bathroom mirror with her arm around the shoulder of her younger friend. “It’s okay, Stephanie. Let it out. I cried the whole time I was pregnant with my second child. My husband thought something was the matter with me.”
“Uh, uh, uh . . .” Stephanie gasped, like a sobbing child who couldn’t catch her breath. “It’s–it’s more than that.”
Maggie stepped back, took Stephanie by the hands and gave her a sympathetic nod. “What is it?”
“Linda called me in the office–she, she threatened me.”
“I wondered if that was it.”
“You believe me?”
“Of course. She did it to me, too, just after I hired on. Bawled me out something awful, several times.” A glimmer of hope returned to Stephanie’s eyes. Maggie went on. “She told me I was too old to be working, and vowed to make my job miserable. I decided she could try, but I’m the one in charge of how I feel.”
“I was afraid no one would believe me . . . because she seems so friendly.”
“I would have believed you even if she hadn’t done it to me. Now, why don’t you go home and get some rest. If she tries anything tomorrow we’ll go see her supervisor together.” Stephanie blotted at her eyes with a tissue. “I’ll call, and see if you still want me to pick you up tonight,” Maggie added as an afterthought.
Stephanie looked up in disbelief. How could Maggie even suggest such a thing? “I wouldn’t dream of not going. Our visits are the highlight of my week. They give me courage. . . .”
Maggie smiled and nodded as she gently stroked Stephanie’s arm. “Isn’t it a miracle how, when we give, we get so much in return?”
Stephanie rested her head on Maggie’s shoulder. The love and kindness radiating from her friend was such a comfort. No longer able to contain them, the remaining tears suddenly burst from their reservoir. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she wailed. “Why couldn’t I have been your daughter?”
“You are, Stephanie, you are.” Maggie’s loving reassurance was a far cry from the angry words last spoken by her own parents when they refused to attend hers and Mitch’s wedding.
The GTO’s driver, a pro, who’s real name was Angelo Quintano, slid behind the passenger seat of the red Camaro, rifled through the glove box, then paused to remove a plastic bag from his pocket. He’d begun stealing cars when he was 12. Older cars were his speciality, but he could do the new ones just as easily. Most salesmen would gladly hand over the keys–with a little prep work, that is.
He could speak English without a trace of an accent, but preferred to wield a mixture of Chicano slang. Raised surrounded in poverty, the only two things Angelo’s parents had given him were a pretty good brain and a generic, honest-looking face. Everything else came from years of foster care and juvenile detention. By the time he was 18, he’d learned well the art of how to keep from getting caught.
Whenever Angelo robbed a place, he only took what he needed, and made sure everything was left exactly as he’d found it. Using this tack, people usually didn’t notice their things were gone for several days. By then, any hint of a trail was cold.
The thug had been prepping the witless used car manager for several days, using a cloned cell phone number and caller ID. The stolen phone now lay in the trash can at the Chrysler dealership, a little slap in the face when they’d find it. Angelo had expected to steal a car if something remotely worth taking came in. The luxury Chrysler itself wasn’t worth his time.
Slipping the gun he’d found into the bag, Angelo took a moment to see if any cash or credit cards were in the wallet before jamming it in a second bag. Then, removing a phone clipped to his hip, he placed a call. “Vinnie, I found a gun and wallet–belongs to a dude named Greg Hart. What you want me to do with ‘em?”
“Leave the leather, bring the piece. Have you finished the house?” “No, man. I’m still in the garage.”
“Any trouble?”
“Nah, just some guy with greasy hair tried to follow me in a brown
Vinnie probed the recesses of his brain, trying to place the truck. “Don’t take any chances. . . . Drop the car at the warehouse.”
As instructed, Angelo removed the wallet and returned it to the glove box before climbing the steps to the kitchen. Drawing the blinds, he meticulously searched each drawer and cupboard, afterwards opening the blinds and moving on to the next room.
Stephanie trudged across the parking lot. Mitch had given her the Escort as a present four weeks before their wedding, now nearly three years past. Her parents had taken away the new Nissan she’d been driving when their bitter words hadn’t changed her mind about marrying the kid from the junkyard.
Mitch had re-built the totaled Ford and was planning on selling it. He didn’t think twice about signing it over and registering the little car in her name. He’d wanted to give her this gift, even if the pressure from her parents did change her mind.
Stephanie fitted the key in the ignition and turned the motor over. It sputtered, almost started, finally spinning freely as if in protest to the warming temperatures. She leaned across the passenger seat and rolled down the window, then opened her own to let the scorching air escape.
The car had had a few minor problems the first week she drove it, but Mitch was quickly able to solve them. But recently it’d seemed harder and harder to start, though–wouldn’t you know it–the problem never seemed to manifest itself when Mitch drove it.
She would wait a minute; sometimes that’s all the old heap needed. Unfolding her paycheck, she thought of the pile of bills collecting on the counter at home. The sale of the GTO would bring welcome relief to the mounting financial pressures that seemed to plague the young couple. Fortunately, Mitch took care of the bills and always seemed to find enough money to pay for schooling as they went. He was shrewd– kept both of them walking a tight budget.
Stephanie wasn’t accustomed to the stressful realities of money. Her parents had taken her credit cards away only a few days before they took her car. She was grateful for Mitch’s willingness to deal with the money woes, but still found it a chore conforming to his budget. The landlord had called a few days earlier to ask where the rent was. Mitch had promised he’d have it by the 15th, only two days away.
After trying to start the car a second time, the motor gasped, popped, then jolted into a gentle hum as if nothing had been the matter. Stephanie decided to stop at home for a cool shower before cashing her check and buying a few new clothes, one thing she knew how to do all too well.
Bino paced the oil-stained concrete. It’d been 40 minutes since Jose Vasquez took Mitch’s car. Way too long. He chastised Janice for mixing up his instructions–“Not to let the man take the car. He didn’t trust him”–then advised Mitch to call either the dealership or the police.
Mitch balked at the latter suggestion. “Can’t call the police. The car’s not licensed or registered. The plates are off some wreck at my grandpa’s junkyard.”
Bino paid Janice in cash and sent her home. She went reluctantly, still sure Bino had told her to let the guy take the car and mumbling about how sorry she was. Her usual smiling, cordial disposition were all but spent, replaced by groans and grumbling. Mitch couldn’t bring himself to be angry at her. She already seemed to be in enough agony.
Bino turned to Mitch. “Sorry kid, it’s my fault,” he apologized. “I should’ve written a note. She sometimes forgets things.”
Mitch nodded. No need to panic until he visited the Chrysler dealer to find out if Angelo Vasquez worked there. Bino was impressed by the kid’s cool-headedness. He watched, stone-faced, as his young friend pulled from the station and drove away in the stolen Chrysler.