Spencer looked around the empty showroom. He’d part owned the Jag. The others had belonged to private owners hoping to sell high thanks to Spencer’s reputation. They’d been paying him a forecourt fee. They were going to have a time of it, trying to get their property back before Ron disposed of it.

As he walked back to his office, his steps echoed in the emptiness. He dug around in his desk for any coke. He wondered about his habit, about who was in charge. He reckoned he’d stuck to half a gram a day for the last year: no more than four lines. Of late, though, the lines had been getting fatter and by the second day he’d only had enough left for three. And he’d had a nosebleed out of the blue last week. Abby had been jealous. She said that whenever someone at school had a nosebleed they were superstar heroes, at least until lunch break. Spencer wasn’t feeling particularly like a superstar or heroic—just lost.

Johnny Boy watched a flatbed truck pass slowly by. Two guys in coveralls were rubbernecking, scoping the scene. The truck continued down Winchester to the stop, turned, and came back at a pace. It stopped and reversed up to the Lotus, raising its bed as it did so, until its edge scraped on the sidewalk. Leaving the engine running the two guys leapt out. One of them went under the Lotus and clipped a hook straight on its chassis. The other guy flipped a switch on the winch motor and the Lotus was dragged backward. Its rear wheels, locked by the parking brake, juddered as the car slid up onto the flatbed. It was slick and fast.

They’d lowered the bed and were securing the wheels of the Lotus when they heard a yell. Spencer had appeared from around the corner of the building carrying a trash bag. He dropped the bag, ran for the fence, and started to climb.

The two recovery guys finished lashing the wheels, leapt into the cab, revved the engine, and took off just as Spencer landed on the sidewalk. He ran into the street after them, just managing to touch the back of the truck before it left him behind.

Spencer went apoplectic, swearing and kicking the hell out of the gates. Johnny Boy waited. If there was one thing he had down, it was when to put an idea in someone’s head. That wasn’t when a client was madder than a rat in a tin shithouse. It was after but not so long after that they’d flopped in a sorry-assed little heap. Johnny Boy liked to think of it as the moment in a western when the cavalry appeared. He was the cavalry.