Spencer slowed up on a service drive of the Lodge Freeway, took a left onto Martin Luther King, and headed west. It was good to be out. Chris had guessed something was up with the dealership and Spencer had had to fess up. But when Spencer told him not to worry, that he had a plan, and a darn clever one at that, he was taken aback by Chris’s utter lack of enthusiasm. It was as if he’d been primed to be negative.

Spencer drove alongside a chain-link fence, its top crowned with coiled razor wire. Behind the fence, across an empty broken lot, stood a nondescript medium-size, two-story concrete office-cum-warehouse. The area was typical for southwest Detroit: lots of light industry and office buildings, many of them empty but not yet dilapidated.

The fence turned south along Gibson and then into Noble. Spencer counted down the numbers. He slowed as he passed a gateway, set back from the road between two warehouses. Through the gateway, across a small lot, Spencer could see the other side of the building he’d clocked from Martin Luther. Much of the ground story was given over to loading bays with steel roller shutters. A small truck was backing into one and Spencer just had time to discern cars parked inside the others.

He continued for a short distance and then pulled over. He kept the air on as it was so humid outside. Clouds were rolling in from Lake Erie, but it seemed too much to hope that the weather might break. His hands drummed the steering wheel, and he was conscious of his heart thudding. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. It was like having race nerves.

Well, it’s not a race, which means all options are on the table.

Rummaging in the glove compartment, he found Penny’s logbook and user manual, still pristine in their folder. He fished a wrap out from his pants and tipped a line on the plastic cover.

Moments later, he flipped a U and then turned into the gateway. He dropped the window and pressed the intercom. After a moment an unfriendly voice crackled.

“Yeah?”

“Spencer Burnham to see Dominic McGrath.”

Silence for a moment. “Who’d you say you are?”

“Spencer. Spencer Burnham. Johnny Boy told me to come.”

Silence but longer this time. Spencer wasn’t fazed.

Ready for anything, dickwads.

He drummed the wheel, more rhythmically now.

The gate suddenly swung up. He drove through and across to the depot, pulling up in front of the far loading bay. He caught his own reflection in the rearview.

Do this, Spencer. Make it work, buddy.