“Listen and you’ll find out.” We walked into the garage. Three cars were up on racks: a ten-year-old red Honda Accord, a six-year-old green Mitsubishi Montero, and a ten-year-old white Suburban, their underbellies serviced by two young Hispanics. One of them was holding a wrench. He saw us and wiped his sweaty face with the back of his arm. I showed him my badge. “I’m looking for Angus or Morton.”

He eyed me suspiciously, then shifted his gaze to my father. The sight must have had impact. He jerked a finger over his left shoulder.

“Thanks,” I told him.

He had pointed out a tiny office—an all-glass enclosure with two desks, two phones, one computer, and piles of color-coded paper. Only one of the desks was occupied. The guy working was as fat as a barn, with shoulder-length, matted mousy brown hair and an untrimmed goatee. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt that exposed arms inked with tattoos, starting at the wrists. He also had a tattoo on his neck and a tattoo on his forehead, both drawings different renditions of bulls.

Angus … bull. Ha, ha, I got it.

I rapped on the glass and held up my badge to the window. The Loo did the same. Angus got up and waddled over to the door. He opened it, his bulk blocking the entryway. He reeked of cigarette smoke; his fingernails were stained amber. “What?”

“You Angus?” I asked him.

“What?” he repeated.

“I’m looking for a car,” I said. “Bronze Nova, maybe a ’91 or ’92, lots of primer on the driver’s side. Tinted windows. In real bad condition, man. At least four bullet holes.”

“Don’t have it.”

“So then you don’t mind if we walk around to check.”

His eyes traveled up and down my body. His voice remained steely. “Yeah, I do mind. What do you want?”

“The car,” I told him. “The Nova’s driver had the temerity to shoot at me last night. I took it personally.”

Angus didn’t talk.

“You don’t want to handle something that hot,” I said. “He shot at a cop.”

“Maybe he didn’t know it was a cop.”

“But now you do, so that makes you an accessory if you have the car.”

Angus said, “I don’t see a warrant.”

“That’s because I don’t have one. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking.” I smiled. “C’mon, man, let’s play like good sports, okay? How much you pay for it?”

Angus was quiet.

“Look, hombre,” I tried again. “All I want is the car. I can cause you a lot of grief or you can be a good citizen and report it to your local police. I’ll even throw in a reward for your time and effort. What do you say?”

“Five hundred bucks,” Angus told me.

“That’s ridiculous! You probably didn’t pay more than a hundred for it.” I rummaged through my wallet. “I got twenty-seven bucks on me.”

“Get out of here!”

“No need to get nasty.” I turned to my father. “How much do you have?”