‘Good. All the paperwork is here in the car. I just need to fill in your name for the vehicle’s title, we both need to sign, and I put price sold. Odometer statement as the car is over ten years old, you don’t really need. But I give you anyway. 176,042 miles. Here is the current smog certificate. And I will need to go and draw up a bill of sale that will help you show proof of ownership to the DMV. Then you know you have ten days to register. You from here?’

‘Originally, yes.’

‘So you know what to do at DMV to make it your car?’

The thought of it being his car was crippling.

‘You know, you don’t need to bother with that. It will be fine. It’s OK.’

Ever wasn’t sure what Mr Wong didn’t need to bother with, he just wanted to get it all over with. Quickly.

‘OK, sign here.’

Said Mr Wong producing the title deed exchange. Mr Smith was about to sign and remembered, as the ballpoint went to the paper, to sign J. Smith. He adopted a rather creative squirl, over curly writing style.

‘Wait, first the money?’

Mr Wong said, too late to stop the signature, Mr Smith thought briefly of kicking him out of the car – no he didn’t – stupid thought. Charm was not Mr Wong’s need in life, but never having had it he wouldn’t be aware of it not being there. Or even probably that it was a commodity that some people traded in.

Mr Smith handed over $1,900 for this four-speed 2.3-litre engine in a V6 pattern, naturally aspirated, no sunroof, tan interior, that he suspected might be leather but was so close to vinyl plastic it was a difficult call; it had power windows, and was about seventeen years old.

The offside front wing had been sprayed, presumably as a result of an accident, he wondered how many collisions this car had had, it was a different shade of red than the rest of the car panels which, through the sun, had lost forever their ability to produce a shine.

This car would be forever dull.

The deal was done and it was impossible to tell if Mr Wong was pleased or not, as his face had not changed expression from the moment they had met.

‘Do you like Bruce Lee?’

Mr Wong said, the first piece of unnecessary conversation.

‘Yes.’

Said Mr Smith, devoid of a committed opinion, but surprised into an immediate response.

‘He taught by my father. And they killed him you know.’

‘Bruce Lee?’

Wondering for a second if he meant his father.

‘Yes, disclosing secrets of Wing Chun to the world.’

He wasn’t picking up Mr Smith’s obvious lack of enthusiasm.