Spencer’s mind flashed back to the first time he met Marielle. It was at a car museum in Beaulieu, a sleepy village in England. The museum was hosting some joint show with the Henry Ford Museum in Detroit and a couple of the rally drivers had had to show up to keep the sponsors happy. Spencer was one of them. Marielle had stood in line to be driven on a muddy little circuit set up in the grounds of the manor house. Most of the time the car had been sideways and Marielle had nearly died laughing. Spencer was smitten with her laugh. He’d taken her around three times, pissing off all the other people waiting in line, just so he could hear it some more.

“So how’d your cars keep selling while the Motor City’s finest went under?” asked McGrath.

“Because we have corners where I come from?”

McGrath laughed. “I’ll tell you why.” A Buick drove by in the opposite direction, followed by a Caddy. “You see that? And that? Twelve hundred bucks of every one of them went to the unions. Handout, handout. Killing this country’s chances.”

McGrath spoke like a man from the streets, but one who’d traveled, climbed, and refined himself—just not so much that his roots weren’t evident. But if he allowed them to show, he did so by choice, when it suited or amused him. Spencer suspected McGrath could move in the best and worst of circles yet would take shit in neither.

McGrath leaned forward and picked a small straw off the floor. “Amazing what people leave in their cars these days.”

Spencer feigned bemusement. “Don’t worry, all cars are fully valeted before going to new homes. So, uh, what line of work are you in, Dominic?”

“Dom, please. I run a . . . a profitable niche business you might say. Currency movement, that kinda thing.”

Zeb looked at the bag of money now on the seat beside him. He was tense. He had no idea why he was supposed to come on this one or why Johnny Boy had told him to keep an eye on Rosso. Rosso was a bore. Slick driver but a bore.

Rosso turned into a parking structure and headed down the ramps. Most of the lights were out below ground. AtoB liked it that way.

At the bottom level, they slowed and looked for the distinctive green-and-white AtoB livery. They saw it on a little truck tucked away at the far end. As they headed over, its cab door opened and a man got out.