A block past Sawyer on the western side of La Cienega was the slender entrance to an auto mechanic garage with a red-and-yellow sign that read EXOTIC CAR SERVICE AND REPAIR above the roll-up chromium door. Past the entrance was a workspace that bulged out to accommodate three hydraulic lifts surrounded by deep shelves stacked with automotive parts and tools. The business was a two-man operation. The first of these was fifty-four-year-old Lester Pineman, the original owner, who now spent most of his time sitting on a backless metal stool in a little nook of an office at the entrance. Short, he was fat around the middle with powerful hands and usually had a cigar clenched between his teeth.

“Rawlins, right?” he asked in a gruff voice. I imagined that his larynx was coated with thirty-weight car oil after all those years in the garage.

“Yeah,” I said brightly. I’m always happy when the decision is made and the job is before me.

“Lihn!” Lester shouted.

“What?” came a definitely feminine voice from the bowels of the repair shop.

“It’s that guy about the six.”

From behind a concrete pillar came a short figure wearing a teal-green jumpsuit. She was pulling heavy canvas gloves from her hands and shaking her head so that her thick black hair would fall back. This was Vu Von Lihn, a thirty-seven-year-old refugee from Vietnam. Her story was that, from 1965 to 1967, she had worked for Nguyen Van Thieu and his staff. The distribution of labor between Lester and Lihn was that he chewed the cigars, collected the money, and pontificated while she repaired the fancy automobiles.

Lihn was slight and sleek, sultry and strong—she had a scar like a lightning strike down the right side of her face that had left that side’s eye a useless and pale blue orb. Her lips were thick and sneered naturally, telling you there were some teeth behind any kiss she might bestow.

“Hello, Mr. Rawlins,” she said, walking right up to me and holding out a hand.

“Ms. Vu Von,” I said.

“You can call me Lihn,” she said, almost as if in song.

“How’s my baby?”

She turned away and walked toward the back of the garage. There she, and I, came upon the Rolls. Its long snout and classic cabin just about yelled elegance. It had a rolling chassis and a black hood and roof, with pale yellow sides. Just looking at it took my breath away.

“It’s in perfect shape,” Lihn said. “I did some work on the engine so it will keep its calibration longer than most of these V8 disasters.”

Nodding at the car, I was thinking about the mechanic.

“Tell me something, Lihn.”

“What’s that, Mr. Rawlins?”

“Easy.”

She gave me that dangerous smile and said, “Easy.”

“If you’re only a year or two out of Vietnam, how come your English is so good?”