“In addition, Ron-at-the-Bank’s called. Twice. He’s not happy. He didn’t go into specifics because he said you’d know. I did get the impression he was pissed. He’s expecting a call today. That was today by the way, did I mention that already?”

Spencer leaned back in his chair and looked at Angela like he was waiting for her to finish so he could go back to doing whatever it was that was so much more important. It was the final straw.

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve obviously taken all that in stride. Don’t let me keep you from firing up your master plan for the business any longer. I’m outta here.”

And with that, she turned and left. Confused, Spencer checked his watch.

In the showroom, Angela had already picked up her bag and was heading for the exit.

“Where’re you going?” he shouted.

“Home, Spencer,” she yelled back, without even slowing up. “Husband? Kids? I don’t get paid for being there either, but at least it’s got cable.”

She barely acknowledged the well-dressed man with whom she nearly collided as she left.

Back in his office, Spencer reflected on the day’s progress. It had started with promise. The TVR was supposed to have gone and a test drive had been booked with a guy who Angela said had been just peachy on the phone. Both had been duds. And Ron-at-the-Bank seemed to have gone from being a staunch ally of Winchester Auto Specialists to a major-league pain in the ass.

Spencer supposed Ron had reason to take things personally. In their first-ever meeting, he knew within five minutes the guy was just loving Spencer’s play: the British charm, the racing stories, the pretty American wife with her genuine Detroit grit. The farthest Ron had traveled had been over the border to see Niagara. Ron had fought for credit for Winchester and taken genuine satisfaction in its first encouraging figures. But that was then. Now he was just one of the many Spencer had to keep sweet until the luck changed.

He stared at the door out of which Angela had just flounced. She’d calm down when she got paid. His mind began to churn. What the hell should he be doing? Was there a master plan?

Of course there is.

Run it by me.

Borrow more money, until the sales start coming in again.

What if they don’t?

Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer sensed movement in the showroom. He saw a tall guy in a sharp-as-hell suit. Short, tightly curled, mostly gray hair. He was looking at the Jaguar D-Type, the Jaguar D-Type with a ninety-five-grand tag, twenty-five of which would go straight in Spencer’s pocket.

Hah! As I was saying . . .

Well, don’t fuck it up by thinking all that negative shit.