“Yes,” Johnis said, walking up to the counter. “Tell us that and you can keep the coin.”

“You guys are serious? You don’t know how to drive?”

“We throw knives, we kill Scabs, we put fools in their place, but we don’t drive,” Johnis said. “Not yet.”

Ray humphed, picked up the coin, and rounded the counter. “You’re both nuts.”

He led them from the station, explaining that the “feed,” as they called it, was actually gas, and the buggies, or more properly “cars,” had motors that made them run as long as you kept the tank full of fuel. He showed them how to operate one of the upright feeding troughs, called a “pump.”

Johnis took it all in with supreme confidence, though Silvie doubted he was retaining as much as he let on. Then again, he seemed completely taken by the whole business.

When they approached the red Chevy parked next to the station, his eyes stared like a spider’s and his jaw remained slightly parted in dumb wonder. Silvie was more taken by his reaction to the contraption than by the car itself.

“Fantastic!” Johnis breathed, stepping lightly around the car. “Cherry Chevy. How long have they been around?”

“Chevys? You can’t be serious. You guys really haven’t seen a car before? You grow up in a monastery in Tibet or something?”

“Something like that.” Johnis held out his hand. “How old is this one?”

“2008.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Long as you don’t scratch it. The boss has won his share of races in this. Modified. I’m a Harley guy, but I don’t mind saying she’s a beauty.”

Johnis let his fingers run along the dark red skin. “Fantastic. It’s like silk!” Silvie followed his example, impressed by the hard shell. She was still more fascinated by him than this cherry.

The attendant opened the doors and let them both sit inside, talking them through the “fundamentals of driving,” as he called them. “Insert and turn the key to start it, like this. Put it in Drive. Most street racers are manual, but Joe likes the automatic. That’s the brake to stop it. That’s the gas to make it go. You steer with the wheel.”

“Fantastic!” Johnis stared at the wheel in his hands, ran his fingers over the workings on the black dash, kneaded the leather-wrapped gear stick. It was enough to make Silvie jealous!

“Okay, come on, that’s it. Out. I have a customer.”

Johnis crawled out, then stuck his head back in and took one last long look. “Where’s the key?”

“That wasn’t part of the deal. You mess with this car and you’ll be sorry you were ever born. In case they didn’t teach you this in Tibet, knives don’t do too well against shotguns.”

The man left them at the door, and they headed behind the building.