Marvin went over the car in great detail. The old Chevy was one of the last of its breed: the large, powerful American car. It had a four-hundred-cubic-inch engine with a four-barrel carburetor. The car was long, low, and heavy. It had such a potent power-steering pump that you could turn the wheel effortlessly with just the tip of a finger. The body, the engine, transmission, and interior were better than new. The previous owner—a middle-aged man—had spent five years putting the car into perfect condition. It was better now than the day it had rolled out of Detroit.

“What happened to the owner?” I inquired.

“He got to drive it for a year. Then—cancer. He died four weeks after the diagnosis. I bought the car from the estate. He was a friend of mine.”

Marvin gave me a sad eye. “Tells you to eat your cake first, doesn’t it.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I think it does,” I responded. “So let’s write the papers on her.”

“I haven’t even told you the price, Kennesaw. You’re depriving me the pleasure of seeing your face when I tell you what an astounding deal I’m going to make you.”

“Let’s go inside, Marvin. You can tell me in your office.”

“You are a strange man, Kennesaw,” he said, shaking his head as we crossed the lot. “A very strange man indeed.”

Now this is a car, I said to myself as I cruised away from the lot. She handled with authority and aplomb. I could feel the power under the hood ready for instant use, and she braked with a confident firmness. The body was tight, with nary a squeak nor a groan. The handcrafted interior was a study in the upholsterer’s art. It was obvious the previous owner had loved this car.

My first stop was at the pet store to buy a cat carrier. Then it was off to the vet’s to pick up Tybee. The veterinarian came out to speak with me about the little fellow. She told me that, as I had suspected, Tybee was indeed a he. And that he had been close to starvation when I had found him. He had been covered with fleas and full of internal parasites, but had no injuries or infections and was coming along nicely now—all he needed was proper nutrition. She told me he was probably five or six months old, and that when his condition improved a little more—say, in a month or so—that I could bring him in for neutering.

My last stop was the auto shop where I hoped to find Danny Ray’s brother-in-law. He was there, poking through the ruins of the shop and shaking his head at the tragedy that had befallen them.

“Thank God,” he said, “I still had insurance. At least I can rebuild, and you and the others with cars here will be repaid.”