A woman waiting in the Chrysler New Yorker in front of Sam’s old Toyota was obviously unimpressed by Vince’s style. She glared at the man paying Vince inside, her face pinched and her eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Sam smiled over as her gaze wandered in his direction, but the smile faded on his lips as she returned his greeting with a look of distaste. Second time today, he thought. You put out and you get nothing back. He was grateful that this time it was him getting the cold shoulder and not Billy. Sam looked in the booth to check out which poor sucker had to share not only the car but his life with the old snake.

There was a guy in a felt hat at the counter, who kept glancing back at Billy while Vince worked at his credit card. He mouthed a sentence to Vince and laughed. Vince smiled, then caught sight of Sam watching him. Vince saw something in Sam’s eyes and averted his gaze. The customer picked up the paperwork and left the shop.

Billy was still spinning the cassette rack when Sam came in to pay.

‘Anything?’

Billy looked thoughtful. ‘Whitney Houston?’

Sam made a fanning motion in front of his face like he was wafting away a bad smell.

Billy rolled his eyes and resumed his search, as Sam walked over to the desk.

‘How’s it going, Sam?’

‘Good. Good.’

‘Twenty-eight dollars.’

Sam fished the bills out of his wallet. ‘What did that guy say about Billy, Vince?’

‘What guy?’

Sam jerked a thumb in the direction of the man strapping himself into the Chrysler beside the wicked witch of the east.

Vince looked out. ‘Aw nothing. Just passing the time of day. Tourist.’ He held his hand out for the money. Sam put the bills on the counter.

‘What did he say?’

Vince sighed. ‘He said, am I getting old or are truck drivers getting younger? Funny guy, huh?’

‘That was it?’

‘That was it.’

Sam looked into Vince’s eyes and was confused by the message there. Vince picked up the money and opened the till.

‘Need a receipt?’

‘No. Thanks.’

Billy joined them, his head barely making it over the counter, his hand clutching a cellophane-wrapped cassette.

‘Okay, what about this one? Kenny Rogers.’

Sam put a hand on his son’s head, still looking at the man behind the till, and tried to repair the damage. ‘Jesus, Vince, your taste in music stinks.’

‘We aim to please.’

‘Catch you later. Give my regards to Nancy.’

‘Will do.’

‘Billy. Put back that box from Hell.’

Billy complied and they left the shop.

They had driven fifty yards before Sam spoke again. ‘What did that guy in the shop say to Vince? You know, the guy that was in before me?’