Johnny Boy sat at the wheel of the SUV, noting the reaction of the man sitting next to him. Not many people could wear a beautifully tailored suit every day without looking like they were trying too hard, but he’d known a few in his time in the Chicago law offices in which he’d spent the first thirty years of his working life, and Dominic McGrath rocked it as well as the best of them.

Neither Johnny Boy nor McGrath were men who felt the need to fill a silence. McGrath had employed Johnny Boy for moments just like these: a transaction of skills and time. McGrath would come to Johnny Boy with a problem or requirement. Johnny Boy would ponder and research. He’d speculate as to what exactly his employer wanted and then—and this is what put Johnny Boy in his own league—he would speculate what his employer might not even realize he wanted.

The guy in the back wasn’t as cool with silences. His foot began to drum lightly on the floor. Soon his head and hand fell in time, nodding and tapping to some imaginary beat. The movement caught Johnny Boy’s eye in the rearview. It irritated him. People who brought nothing special to the table always irritated him, jittery people even more so. The guy in the back saw Johnny Boy’s look in the mirror but misread it. He thought Johnny Boy was as bored as he was—a kindred spirit. He leaned forward.

“Yo bro, mind if I smoke in here?”

“I don’t mind if you smoke on the sidewalk, Zeb.”

Zeb flopped back with a sniffy huff.

McGrath sat with his elbow on the car’s windowsill, thumb under chin and forefinger lightly against his temple, watching—watching Spencer. He knew that if he was here looking at this man, in this place, then there was a very good chance it was because he needed to be.

“How’d you find him?” he asked Johnny Boy.

“Maintains his listing with the Auto Sport Association.”

“He still race?”

“Nope. Lets him say they’re buying from a real race driver.”

McGrath nodded. He scanned the lot, seeing the gaps where sold cars hadn’t been restocked.

“Foreign, you say?”

“Yep.”

“That was good thinking.”

And that was another thing Johnny Boy liked about McGrath. A man secure enough to praise—, but only when it was due.

McGrath looked around. Not the worst of Detroit but . . .

“So why didn’t he move somewhere better?”

“Other issues demand his attention.”

McGrath nodded again. “Heard from the Yo-Yo?”

“No. But I expect to anytime.” Johnny Boy glanced at the car’s clock. “Imminently, in fact.”

“You sure he’s up to it?”

“When has he not been?”

“I know he’s got no problem with the technical requirements of his job. It’s just, he ain’t no Robert Redford.”