Jesus and crew arrived forty minutes later in Jesus’s brand new Jaguar X-Type. The vehicle suited him: all show, little substance. Because under the prancing cat hood ornament, and leather and wood interior, it was nothing but an all-wheel-drive Ford Mondeo. Jesus likely didn’t know that. He would have purchased it because it was the type of car a young, affluent guy should be driving.

While Pita went out to greet everyone—wearing a chambray shirt with roll-tab sleeves and cutoff jean shorts that showed off the bottom curve of her ass—I went to the garage and loaded our daypacks into my three-year-old Porsche 911. It was parked next to a junked ’79 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. I used to own the same make and model as a kid in Vegas. I’d worked in an auto-repair shop for three years to save enough money to buy it. When I turned eighteen and got my racing license, I began racing four nights a week at the local tracks. I consistently finished middle to back of the pack, but I nevertheless became a fan favorite because of my name. The race track announcers thought Jack Goff sounded like a joke and took every opportunity to mention it over the PA system to the delight of the crowd. Soon nobody was calling me Jack anymore. It was always Jack Goff. Announcers, interviewers, fans, whoever. It had that two syllable cadence—and of course innuendo—that made you want to say the whole thing.

I never won a checkered flag with the Monte Carlo, but it was my first race car, and I had some of my fondest memories in it. That’s why I bought the junker to restore a few months ago. It was a pet project, a way for me to fill in the days now that I was finished racing.

I got behind the wheel of the Porsche and rolled down the driveway until I came nose to nose with the Jaguar. Elizaveta, in shotgun, her face hidden behind a large sunhat and sunglasses, flashed me a smile and a wave, which I reciprocated. Jesus had his window open, his elbow poking out, as he spoke with his sister. His hair as always was impeccably neat, the sides short, the top parted to the left and slicked back. He wore Aviator sunglasses and a day’s stubble he no doubt considered fashionable. The glare of the sun on the windshield prevented me from seeing Pepper in the backseat, and I was wondering if I should get out to say hi when Jesus and Pita finished their chat.