Even seated, Buster didn’t seem all that much shorter than the kid. He had thrown a black leather jacket over his undershirt, but the jacket only seemed to amplify his size. I watched as he pulled a serrated, four-inch folding knife from his pocket.
Buster flicked the knife open with his thumb and used the gleaming blade to spread butter on a piece of bread, his eyes never leaving our waiter. “How about you put in one burger, and then instead of the second one, I eat you?” he suggested, his mouth full of bread.
Our waiter turned the approximate color of our napkins.
“Two burgers for you, yes sir. Right away.”
“Medium raw,” added Buster. “With extra onions.”
I ordered and the kid took off toward the kitchen like he was running the hundred-meter dash in the last meet of the season.
I looked fondly across the table at my friend. “Cannibalism. I always thought you’d find your way there eventually.”
Buster stuffed more buttered bread in his mouth. “That skinny little prick should be so lucky.”
Our waiter came back with our drinks: one beer for me, two for Buster. He set them down without a word and disappeared back toward the kitchen as fast as the first time.
Buster took a gulp of beer. Half of his first pint vanished.
“That’s the beautiful thing about exercise,” he observed. “The rest of the day, you get to do whatever you want.”
I clinked my glass against his. “No heart attacks, please. I’m too busy to be bringing you flowers in the hospital.”
“You do care, Nikki, you really do! I’ve always known it would slip out one day.”
* * *
Our food came out with impressive alacrity. Buster sprayed hot sauce and ketchup under the buns and bit into the first of his two burgers, chewing with gusto. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re taking me to lunch?”
“I have a problem,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow, still chewing. “Body to hide?”
It was a comment that would have been funny, except he was serious. Buster had helped me hide bodies before. He’d probably hidden a few of his own, too. He’d do it again if asked.
“No,” I said, then added, “not yet, anyway.” I bit into my burger. It was delicious, the patty seared to a perfect medium rare, the bacon crispy against the melted Cheddar. “Right now, I have to find a vehicle.”
Buster’s first burger was already gone, along with both of his beers. He waved his empty glass at our waiter, who was cowering by the bar.
“A car. Okay, that’s a start.”
Buster was good at quite a few things. He was a great mechanic, an even better drinker, and, all jokes aside, as sturdy and reliable as a Swiss Army knife. If I had been asked to draw up a list of the five or six people I trusted most in the world, Buster would have made the cut. He also knew more about the stolen car business than anyone I had ever met. After all, he worked in it. Stolen cars were more his bread and butter than the stuff on our table.
He crunched through a pile of French fries like matchsticks but his eyes, now, were serious. “What do you have, what do you need?”
“A Mercedes G-Class. One of the big Jeep-y things that probably gets ten miles a gallon on a steep downhill.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re in the auto market?”
“I need a person. The car can get me to him. I hope.”
Buster considered. “A G-Class should be a bit easier. There aren’t that many floating around. You’ve seen it?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know it’s hot?”
“I got someone at the DMV to run the VIN. It came back as stolen.”
Buster accepted a third beer from our waiter. “Where was it?”
“Monterey.”
He considered while working on his second burger. “Tough market, Central Coast, if you’re looking for something. So much volume. Not nearly as bad as SoCal, though.” He took another bite and kept thinking. “I know a couple Koreans down in San Jose who work Monterey. They deal with a lot of inventory. We can start there.”
“When?”
He shrugged. “Tomorrow? Day after? I’m around.”
“It’s urgent. Like, today urgent. And,” I felt I should add, “possibly dangerous.”
“Dangerous, eh?” Buster dipped his folding knife into his untouched ice water and wiped the blade clean with his untouched napkin. He put the knife back in his pocket and looked at me, both his plates and row of pint glasses empty. “What are you waiting for, then? Check’s all yours.”
* * *
Like me, Buster was a motorcycle guy, but we took his car so we could talk on the way. One of his cars, anyway. I’d never seen him in the same car twice. Today’s was a bright orange Z06 Corvette, low and mean and aggressive, the engine loud, leather racing seats molded firm against my back. I felt like I was in the cockpit of a fighter plane. We drove south on the 880, the San Francisco skyline visible across the Bay to our right. We passed the Oakland port and then a series of nondescript cities, Hayward, San Leandro, Fremont with its sprawling Tesla factory semi-visible on our left. The temperature grew hotter as we left the fog and cool air currents of the Bay behind.
Given his quick temper, Buster was a surprisingly laid-back driver. No aggression, no cursing, no weaving in and out of lanes for the best spot. With a cigarette in his mouth, a Miller tallboy “road soda” wedged between his thick thighs, ponytail and wraparound sunglasses, he was the picture of relaxed cool as he turned up the rock station on the radio and blew smoke out the side window.
“What’s new? Still enjoying the single life?” I asked.
“I told you. Four divorces were enough. No one’s putting a ring on this boy ever again.” He held up a finger the size of a sausage. It was hard to imagine anyone fitting anything smaller than a Hula-Hoop around it. “How about you?” he wanted to know. “Probably breaking hearts right and left?”
“Actually, going steady,” I admitted.
He glanced at me, surprise showing even through the mirrored sunglasses. “Not that Berkeley kid, still?”
“The very same.”
“You can handle that? A civilian?” His tone was openly curious. “You got enough oxygen to breathe and all?”
I pushed away Coombs’s face. “So far, no complaints.”
“Does he know?”
This time I paused before answering. “A very, very approximate idea.”
Buster said, “So, no.”
I didn’t say anything.
“And it works?”
“Yeah. It does. So far.”
“If you say so.” Buster’s voice contained doubt but he didn’t press me.
His questions had pushed Coombs back into my mind. His knowledge of me. The eyes that seemed to see me for who I really was. The challenge in his tone—as though daring me to show myself. The thrill of not knowing what would happen if I did.
The excitement.
I’d spent my whole life searching for dependability. Security. Control. And I’d found Ethan—been lucky to find him. I knew that. A partner who was compassionate and loyal and intelligent, the very definition of stable, tenure-track job and no secrets, and he accepted everything about me. I’d found someone good. And someone really good—for me.
Yet here I was searching for a bad man. Objectively bad, by any measure society had to judge. A cheat, a criminal, an outlaw. Not just a con artist, but apparently a convicted killer, a felon. A dangerous, murky chameleon, full of secrets and feints and uncertainties. A man whose presence in my life promised the very opposite of security and control and all the rest of the things I had tried so hard to get.
Why was all that uncertainty so damned exciting?
In San Jose we merged onto the 101, and then Buster took a cloverleaf exit that left us north of downtown. California wasn’t all stunning coastlines and vistas. The state could be as ugly as anywhere else when it tried. Or when it didn’t bother not trying. We drove through a c
harmless neighborhood, wide flat straight roads, all asphalt and endless strip malls. Fast-food and chain stores, gas stations and car washes and convenience marts, signs for auto parts and liquor specials. Aggressive colors trying to grab the eye, the hot sun pounding down. The ocean could have been as far away as Nebraska.
Thirty or fifty years ago the whole ugly mess had probably been shaded and fragrant with orange groves and lemon trees. The thought made me question progress.
“You know these guys pretty well?” I asked. We were driving south on 13th Street. Seen on a map, from above, we’d be roughly in between the 101 and 880 freeways that arched around us on either side.
Buster shrugged. “So-so. They do decent bodywork. We used to do business here and there.”
“Used to?”
“One of them doesn’t like me that much. Sort of a falling out.”
“A falling out?”
The cigarette still in the corner of his mouth, Buster wriggled a toothpick between his teeth, one hand lightly on the wheel. “I think I beat up his cousin, a few years back. Apparently, these Koreans have great fucking memories. They’re like elephants. I keep waiting for him to forget—and he just doesn’t.”
“Why did you beat up his cousin, Buster?”
He shrugged and tapped ash out his window. “I don’t remember, honestly. My memory’s a goddamn sieve. But I must have had a good reason. I think?” His cigarette butt vanished out the window. The toothpick followed. “Because in general, you know, I’m a total pacifist.”
* * *
We pulled into a tiny used car shop circled by metal fencing, parked, and got out. A sign that hung off the fence advertised GREAT CARS LOW RATES. The great cars looked like they hadn’t been washed in years. They sat jammed up against each other, claustrophobically close, like penned cattle. Four-digit prices were painted in neon green onto dusty windshields. Some were old enough to have stick antennae, the thin wires looking odd and old-fashioned. Like walking into a house and seeing a VCR.
A cinderblock garage squatted in the rear of the lot, a glass door opening to a phone booth of an office. Buster ignored it and circled around toward a pair of open bay doors in the back. We squeezed through rows of cars. There was a snap that made my head jerk. A man of Buster’s bulk didn’t squeeze so easily. He had snapped off a Honda’s side mirror. He gave a what-can-you-do shrug and moved on.
As we reached the open bay, we were examined by a mechanic in blue overalls. Sure enough, he was Korean, late twenties and muscular, spiky black hair gelled so intensely it looked flash-frozen.
“What?” he said. No recognition in his words, but a little in his eyes.
Buster did the talking. “Mikey around?”
“He’s busy.”
Buster shook his head. “He’s busy, you’re busy, I’m busy. We’re all fucking busy. I want to talk to Mikey. Got a question for him, drove all the way down here.”
A name patch identified the mechanic as Eddie. “Hope you took the scenic route, at least.” His voice was surly. “Get something out of the trip and all. We’re closed for the day, Buster. Always a pleasure, great to see you, goodbye and good luck.”
“If you’re closed, open up,” Buster said.
“Go bother someone else.” Eddie started to turn away.
“I come in peace,” Buster said.
Eddie turned back to see Buster removing his sunglasses and gazing down with a look that could almost have been paternal affection. “Peace for now, anyway.”
27
We followed Eddie through the small garage. He walked casually but I could see the tension in his shoulder muscles. Two cars were up on lifts, metallic innards exposed. Korean hip-hop pounded from a speaker. I smelled oil, metal, laced with a burnt chemical edge I wasn’t sure about. A few steps forward and I had the answer. A second Korean guy was using a welding torch on the fender of a red Saturn. The odor of burnt metal became stronger. He looked up at us, and his expression changed as he recognized Buster.
He turned the torch off and got up. “Why are you here?”
Buster had lit yet another cigarette, flying in the face of every HIGHLY FLAMMABLE warning I’d ever heard of. I looked around nervously for nearby oil puddles.
“Hey, Mikey,” he said. “Got five minutes?”
“What do you want?” Mikey asked again.
“Trying to track down a G-Class. Would mean the world to me if you could help.” Buster’s voice was cheerful. I wondered if he noticed a third mechanic who had drifted behind us. I hadn’t seen him when we came in. He looked like a bodybuilder and held a monkey wrench.
“Can’t help you,” Mikey said. “Maybe call next time. Save you a trip down.”
“That’s what I told him,” said Eddie.
“Yeah, but you haven’t really tried,” said Buster.
Eddie stared. “Tried what?”
“You know—helping us.”
Eddie said something in Korean and Mikey answered in fast words. It was obvious they were brothers. From a distance I could have mistaken them for twins. When Eddie spoke again, he sounded angrier. “If you wanted my help, maybe you shouldn’t have messed up Dave, asshole.”
Buster gave me a helpless look. “See? What did I tell you? Great memories.”
I didn’t answer. I found myself wishing that Mikey wasn’t still holding his welding torch. I heard a grinding noise and glanced behind us. The third mechanic had hit a switch and the bay doors were clanking down, the chain drive rumbling in the ceiling.
“Look,” Buster said. “I’m sorry, honestly. It was a big misunderstanding, not really sure what happened—”
“You broke his jaw, dude!” Eddie exploded. “That’s what happened! He was drinking through sippy cups for two months! And now you walk in here with your girlfriend asking for a goddamn favor?”
He was interrupted by Buster’s booming laugh. We all stared at Buster like he had cracked up. “Girlfriend?” he finally managed. He pointed at me. “Have you seen her?” His finger flipped around to his own chest. “And me? Girlfriend, right. And the goddamn Pope calls me on my birthday.” He was still chuckling.
No one else seemed to see the humor.
Eddie’s voice was low and dangerous as a rattlesnake. “How about we break both your jaws and send you back up to North Bay to eat applesauce? Would that help you?”
Buster stopped smiling.
I was remembering that under all his jocularity he had an awful temper. He scratched his jaw like he was at a loss, then shrugged and folded his sunglasses into a back pocket. “You’re not being nice.”
All four men in the garage looked like they didn’t see the point of talking more. The big guy behind us had moved closer, hefting the monkey wrench. Mikey and Eddie were spreading out, flanking us. I’d never been attacked by a guy with a welding torch before. My mind filled with unpleasant technical questions. Questions like how long it would take to relight, and how close skin could safely get to the nozzle. I knew aluminum melted at about twelve hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Gold, about two thousand degrees. Steel, closer to three thousand degrees.
I wondered how hot the welding torch got.
The triangle tightened. Faces resolute, eyes angry. The look of three men committing to an action, preparing for violence. The garage practically stunk of testosterone.
“Guys,” I interjected. “Can I say something, please?”
Everyone stared at me. I took the silence as an invitation to continue. “First of all, this is my fault. Buster is doing me a favor.”
Mikey asked, “If you’re not his girlfriend, who are you?”
“You could say we’re old friends. And I’m sorry about Dave, really—we both are. Whatever happened, whoever’s fault.”
“I don’t know who you are—” started Eddie.
“I’ll explain.” It was useful having an expense account. Especially in cash. I took a rubber-banded packet of hundred-dollar bills that equaled $2,500 out of my purse and tossed them to Eddie, ignor
ing Buster’s disappointed look. “Call that medical expenses, reimbursement, whatever. That’s for Dave, whether you help us or not.”
He held the money, uncertain.
I wasn’t done. I produced a packet of bills identical to the first. This one I held on to. “For your time,” I said. “Like I said, we drove down here, but I know you’re busy. I want to buy an hour of your time. For twenty-five hundred dollars. To see if I can learn anything about this car I’m looking for. If I can, great. If not, the money’s yours to keep—as long as you put in a good faith effort.”
Eddie’s eyes shifted from me to the money. Then back again.
He pulled a phone from his pocket and touched the screen. The loud music went quiet. In the silence, everyone seemed to relax a little.
Mikey set the welding torch down. “Tell me everything you know about this Mercedes.”
* * *
There had been plenty of times in my life when I’d gotten better value out of $5,000, but the money I’d spent—rather, what Mrs. Johannessen had spent—wasn’t wasted, either. After almost an hour of nonstop phone calls and text messages, they reached a wholesale auction place down in Salinas that made Eddie reach for a pen. I was starting to glimpse how connected the auto theft network was. Everyone doing business with everyone else, constant communication, ceaseless interaction. Hundreds of roving groups out on the streets and probably hundreds more garages all over the state, repainting, chopping up for parts, maybe putting them back on the road. A thriving, humming hive devoted to the stealing and reselling of cars.
Eddie made another two calls in quick succession, then handed us a yellow Post-It Note. On the little square of paper there was a Salinas address. There was also a name.
Leo.
* * *
Five minutes later we were back in Buster’s Corvette on the 101, heading south. Almost three o’clock. The big eight-cylinder engine rumbled under us. The pavement streaked by.
One Got Away Page 21