“Thanks for the tip,” Janson said, nodding at the patent lies of a used-car salesman. There was something almost endearing about the spirited way he upheld the stereotype of his trade.

“I personally like ’em, mechanical troubles and all. Like the look of ’em, somehow. And repairs ain’t a problem for me, because we’ve got a repair guy on call. If what you’re looking for is reliability, though, I can steer you toward one or two models that’ll probably outlast you.” He pointed toward a maroon sedan. “See that Taurus? One of the all-time greats. Runs perfect. Some of the later models all loaded up with special features you never use. More useless features, more stuff to go wrong. This one, it’s fully automatic, you got your radio, your A/C, and you’re good to go. Change the oil every three thousand miles, gas up with regular unleaded, and you’re laughin’. My friend, you are laughin’.”

Janson looked grateful as the salesman fleeced him, taking the late-model Altima in trade for the aging Taurus and asking for an additional four hundred dollars on top. “A sweet deal,” Jed Sipperly assured him. “I just have a weakness for an Altima, kinda like Butch and his Raggedy Ann. It’s irrational, but love’s not a thing to reason about, is it? You come in with one of those, of course I’m gonna let you waltz off with the nicest car on the lot. And anybody else would say, ‘Jed, you’re crazy. That piece of Jap tin ain’t worth the hubcap on that Taurus.’ Well, maybe it is crazy.” An exaggerated wink: “Let’s do this deal before I change my mind. Or sober up!”

“Appreciate your candor,” Janson said.

“Tell you what,” the salesman said, signing a receipt with a flourish, “you give me another fiver and you can have the damn dog in with it!” A long-suffering laugh: “Or maybe I should pay you to take it off my hands.”

Janson smiled, waved, and as he got into the seven-year-old Taurus, heard the sibilant hiss of another screwtop Budweiser being opened—this time in celebration.

The doubts Janson had as he traveled intensified upon his arrival. The area around Millington was down-and-out, struggling and charmless. It simply did not feel like an area that a billionaire would have chosen for a country retreat.