It drove like … a car. It didn’t have much pickup, but neither did the Rambler. If it broke down on the way, he’d worry about what to do then. “What you think?” Rodolfo asked when he parked in front of the liquor store again.

“I’ll buy it,” Jerry said.

“Bueno! I brung the pink slip with me, in case.” Rodolfo pulled it out of his wallet and unfolded it. Then, suddenly cautious, he added, “You got the money?”

“You bet.” Jerry took out his wallet, too.

While he counted greenbacks, Rodolfo filled out his half of the change-of-ownership form at the bottom of the pink slip. He said, “Lemme see your license for a minute.”

Jerry’d expected that. He gave Rodolfo the grand, waited while he counted it, then pulled out two more fifties and said, “You just did.”

It fazed Rodolfo not a bit. “Like that, huh? Okay, man, you do your half.” He passed Jerry the pink slip and a pen. Jerry named himself Gerald Smeltzer. A California driver’s license carried a letter and seven digits. He turned the M on his license to an N and added one to each number. The address he put down was just as fictitious.

He separated it from the rest of the document and handed it to Rodolfo, whose last name, he saw, was Jimenez. “You mail it to the DMV,” he said. “I’m gonna be on the road.”

“Hope it goes good,” Rodolfo said.

“Me, too,” Jerry answered. “Glad I saw your car.”

“Your car now. Me, I’m heading home.” Rodolfo snapped his fingers and dug out his key ring. “Almost forgot—here’s your trunk key, too.”

“Thanks. I wondered if it was the same as the ignition.” Wouldn’t not having it have been fun? Jerry thought.

Rodolfo unlocked his bike and pedaled away. Jerry drove the Corvair around the corner. He parked behind his Rambler. He had to remind himself the new car’s trunk was in front. He took his suitcase and the cash out of one car and put them in the other. He had a little tool kit with the tire-changing gear. He used a screwdriver to remove the Rambler’s plates and put them in the Corvair’s trunk, too. He also removed the registration from the glove compartment. Then he locked the car again.

Eventually, somebody would tow the Rambler away. Eventually, in spite of what he’d done, people would figure out it belonged to him. Eventually, the DMV would realize the info on Rodolfo’s change-of-ownership form was bullshit of the purest ray serene. With luck, those eventuallys would come too late to matter. Without luck, he’d be too deceased to care.