I turned. Coury said, “What do you want?” Alert, yet disinterested. One hand rested on the calculator. The other was cupped and aimed at me, as if ready to collect something.

“I’m thinking of some custom work.”

“What kind of car?”

“Seville. Seventy-nine. Are you Mr. Coury?”

He looked me over. “Who referred you?”

“Read your name in an auto magazine,” I said. “From what I could tell you seem to work on a lot of contest winners.”

“It happens,” he said. “Seventy-nine Seville? A box. They built ’em on Chevy Two Nova chassis.”

“I know.”

“What do you want done to it?”

“I’m not sure.”

He smirked. “Can’t think of any contest you’d enter that in—unless it’s one of those AIDS things.”

“AIDS things?”

“They’re trying shows, now. To raise money for AIDS. Some little fruit came in, wanted me to cherry up his ‘45 BMW.”

“Take the job?” I said.

The cupped hand waved off the question. “Seventy-nine Seville,” he said, as if offering a diagnosis. “It’s still gonna be a box unless we get radical. And then there’s the engine. It sucks.”

“It’s been good to me. No problems in fifteen years.”

“Any rust on the belly?”

“Nope. I take care of it.”

“Right,” he said.

I said, “It’s here, if you want to see it.”

He glanced down at the calculator. Punched numbers as I stood there. “Where’s here?”

“Out in front.”

He snickered. “In front.” He stood to six-three. His upper body was massive, with meaty shoulders and a swelling gut, outsized for the narrow hips and long, stalky legs that supported it. Tight, black, plain-front slacks slimmed the legs further and accentuated the effect. On his feet were black crocodile boots with silver straps banding the shins. He came around the desk jangling. Walked right past me and out of the garage.

Out at the curb, he laughed.

“Tell you what, we wreck it, give you four hundred bucks, call it a day.”

I laughed back. “Like I said, it’s been good to me.”

“Then leave it the hell alone—what the hell would you want to do with this?”

“I was thinking about turning it into a convertible.”

“Figures,” he said. “What, chain-saw the roof off?”

“Only car you can do that with is a Rolls Silver Cloud,” I said. “Not enough tensile strength in any other chassis. I was figuring take the roof off, strengthen the frame, install an automatic soft-cover with a mohair liner, rechrome, and do a custom-color. You guys still doing lacquer?”

“Illegal,” he said. “Listen, man, you want a convertible, go buy yourself one of those little Mazdas.”

“I want this car converted.”

He turned his back.

I said, “Too complicated for you?”