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look around for
something I can use to take out what’s left of the back driver’s side window.
    Just then, July’s phone vibrates, making her gasp. She yanks
it out of her pocket. “What?” she asks, while down at the garage, the dogs
start barking again. She turns back to me. “Someone just pulled up out front.”
    And that isn’t all. The fence is wiggling again.
    I clutch July’s arm, pulling her down behind the rear of the
LeBaron. There’s no way we’re going to make it back to our aerie. We’d have to
cross the aisle in full sight of whoever’s coming in the back door.
    As we creep along the back row of cars, I hear the metallic
scrape of the fence being peeled back. Through the empty windows of the Capri
we use for cover, we can just see the gap at the end of the aisle. No tow truck
appears this time, just a big, low slung Cadillac. It’s primer gray with
patches of a darker color—perfectly camouflaged for a dark night with a light
fog.
    The car rocks and bumps backward up the aisle and trembles
to a stop in front of the very popular LeBaron. Its headlights wink off,
leaving just the parking lights.
    Three guys crawl out. They are not average in any sense of
the word, except possibly among members of the Average White Aryan Brotherhood.
They are young, brawny, and have barely enough hair between them to cover a
peach. It’s downright chilly for June, but two of them are wearing only jeans
and leather vests; the third sports a plaid jacket over his stylish black T—shirt.
What exposed flesh I can see is mottled with tattoos.
    The smallest of the guys moves to the rear of the LeBaron
while the other two hover in the aisle, heads swiveling. At about the same
moment I realize someone’s coming up the aisle behind us on foot, Plaid Man
reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun.
    July and I move in unison, edging around the tail of our
Capri and hunkering down.
    “What the hell are you doing?” The voice is Perry Dixon’s.
    Poking my head up as far as I dare, I can just see the back
of his head through a couple of busted windows. Beside me, July draws her
automatic.
    “Picking up,” says Lesser Tattooed Man, putting his own
piece away. “What the hell does it look like?”
    Perry makes an explosive noise and comes back with, “You
lame-ass sons-of-bitches. Are you out of your effing minds? This place has been
crawling with cops for weeks and you call for a drop off now? ”
    “We need the goods.”
    “Bad enough to go to jail? Jesus, Coop, if you leave here
with that stuff, there’s every chance some local cop is gonna bust your ass.”
    “For what, breathing?”
    “A cruiser goes by here every half hour. The cops might just
find it interesting to see a punk drive out of here in an old junker that’s
dragging its rear end on the road.”
    “Who’re you calling a punk?” asks Coop—rhetorically, I
assume.
    “You’re pretty f—ing mouthy,” says Plaid Man. He has yet to
put his weapon away.
    “Bob Wray is dead. Me being mouthy is the least of your
worries.”
    Plaid Man takes a step back and glances at Coop, who says:
“That wasn’t us. Must’ve been the other guys.”
    “Your word against theirs.”
    I’m
relieved, to an extent that surprises me, that Perry is not Bob’s murderer.
Just short of real relief, I hesitate, realizing I have no idea what Perry
Dixon is capable of.
    “So? Why do you care who shot that old nig—”
    “Don’t use that word,” says the man who not that long ago
referred obliquely to Bob as a coon. “Get out of here. Come back tomorrow
during regular hours and take the car off the lot like we planned.”
    “Plans have changed,” says Coop. “We’re nervous about
waiting.”
    “Why? Car’s
not going anywhere, and nobody but me knows there’s anything in it. I’ll be the one handing it over to you. Tomorrow .”
    There is a long, chilly moment during which Coop and his
buddies exchange glances. Finally, Coop shrugs.
    “Okay. Have it your way.