He is enjoying that fine air and the feeling of a premium steak settling in his stomach when what does he see but a Cadillac—his Cadillac—parked illegally in the handicap spot? He walks slowly around the vehicle, his throat getting thick as he reaches the back bumper. His vision clicks across the plate’s letters and numbers: they match. The thief even kept the Lions license plate holder—that takes some nerve. Through the window tint he can see the back seat, littered with to-go containers and kids’ stuff—more of Alex S.’s homework? It must be hard for that boy to be upended so. Moving from empty home to empty home. But still. Michael’s been upended, too. These visitors destroyed his home, his pride, his sense of security.

Michael straightens. What would Joe do? He flits through the options, the car going blurry before him.

Joe might’ve called the cops, given them an earful. And Michael could chew out the Scottsdale PD: they couldn’t find a stolen car that has been right under their stinking noses the whole time? Not that reporting it would matter—the car belongs to the insurance company now, Michael saddled with a consolation Chrysler and significantly higher monthly premiums.

Or maybe Joe would’ve walked back into the restaurant and quietly cased the joint. Gone from table to white-linened table and figured out exactly who had wrecked his place and stolen his prized possession—and then broken a bottle of Scotch over the guy’s head.

No, no. As much as the idea of catching a thief red-handed makes Michael itch, he knows that isn’t right—Joe wouldn’t have caused that kind of scene. He might have intercepted his dining companion (gorgeous, of course) at the front of the restaurant, and walked her the long way around the lot so she would not have even noticed the offending car. He would’ve gotten her home safe, then driven down to the precinct and ripped the cops good. In person, not over the phone, so the coppers could see how much better Joe was than them.

But Joe was a man, too, and every man has his limits. Michael knows the Clipper went through some tough times, bared his teeth, snarled enough to make people wonder what was going on behind that buck-toothed smile. Joe fought with the media, made a scene about Marilyn’s funeral, wouldn’t let Sinatra come. We’re all allowed to lose our tempers when we’ve been pushed too far, Michael is certain of that. Joe’d done it, and Michael feels himself about to go there, too. The car’s paint wavers in the streetlights: black, then blue, then black again. It is too much.