“And if you did find him?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Damn, Gibby … just … shit.” He tossed out the cigarette, barely smoked. “You’re an impossible friend. You know that, right? A pain-in-the-ass, impossible friend.” I kept my mouth shut. “Don’t smirk like that.”

“It’s not a smirk.”

But it kind of was, and Chance knew it.

He said, “Okay, genius. What next?”

“We need a new car,” I said. “Before my mother finds out we stole this one.”

“How do you propose to find a car?”

“Come with me.”

I walked to a pay phone across the lot, and dropped in two dimes. “Becky, hey. It’s me.”

“Gibson French, I was hoping you might call.”

“Was there ever a doubt?”

“Well, you did see me in my underwear.”

“All the more reason.”

She laughed.

I got to the point.

“Listen, Becky. I need a favor.”

When I stepped from the phone booth, Chance was waiting. “She’ll help,” I said.

“She doesn’t have a car.”

“No, but Dana White does.”

I started walking, and Chance trotted to catch up. “You know that Dana White is not exactly our friend.”

“True.” I slid behind the wheel of the Cadillac. “But Becky said she only looks like a brittle bitch.”

“She actually said that?”

“Yeah.” I laughed a bit. “She did.”

Half a block from home, I saw Becky, as lovely as ever in a T-shirt, denim shorts, and the same white vinyl boots where I’d seen a safety pin in the zipper, standing at the curb by Dana White’s car. I stopped before I got too close, told Chance to get out, and drove on before Becky could get a good look at my face.

That part was going to be tricky.

My mother’s car slid into the garage as if it had never left, and I skulked out of the driveway in a half crouch. On the street, I tried to keep the limp out of my walk, but Becky already had one hand up to cover her mouth. Either Chance had told her what happened or she had better eyesight than I thought. Up close, I saw the shine in her eyes, though she hardened quickly.

“Let me see,” she said. “I can handle it.”

I removed the cap first.

“Glasses, too.”

I took off the shades, and Becky studied the cuts and the cruel, black stitches. “Chance said it was bikers.”

“That’s right.”

“Because you were asking questions about your brother.”

“He didn’t kill anybody.”

Becky said nothing.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you have a good heart.” She placed soft hands on my face, and kissed the places that hurt. “I believe I like you more now than ever.”

Her hands stayed on my face until Chance cleared his throat, making it awkward. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”

“What if I don’t want to go home?”