Rose knows this man. He is the guy girlfriends warned her about, but she never listened. He is the man with a wicked streak, who seems to have all the time in the world for little ol’ you. He sees the devil in a woman and winks at her.

At twenty-two, Rose couldn’t resist him.

At sixty-eight, why bother?

She smiles back. They share a psychic wink.

“Unfortunately, I’m just looking for a car salesman,” she says.

“Carter Goodman at your service.” He sweeps the hat off and bows. When he stands, he flourishes his hand and, like magic, a business card appears between his fingers. Rose takes it.

Used car salesmen have changed a lot in the last forty years, Rose thinks.

“Now I wish I was here to buy a car,” she confesses. “I’m on an information-seeking mission.”

“If the information regards cars, music, or philosophy, I’m your man.”

“Cars,” Rose says.

“Any one in particular?”

“A black 2005 Chevrolet Silverado,” Rose says. “A man named Martinez picked it up a week or so back.”

“Right. Good vehicle for the money.”

Though she dreads the answer, Rose has to ask. “How much did it cost?”

“Sold for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-five dollars,” Carter says. “Sweet deal. Had less than seventy-five thousand miles on it.”

Less than four grand. Rose’s life is valued at less than five figures.

“Do you remember the details of all the cars you sell?” she asks.

“Sure. I’ve got one of those memories that lasers facts in stone.”

“What a drag,” Rose says.

“What’s special about that particular truck?” Carter asks. “I can probably find one like it for you.”

Rose wonders how much she should tell him. Her father always told her and Marion to “tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, and damned little of that.”

“I’m just curious who the previous owner was,” she says.

“Now, that, I don’t know. The truck was an internet sale. People get deals on the net. The vehicles are delivered to my lot for pickup. That way the buyers and sellers get a safe transfer, a buddy of mine gets first crack at selling them auto insurance, and maybe next time they don’t go to the net, they remember what a swell company Goodman’s is, and they come to me.”

“Maintaining the flow of kindness,” Rose says.

He smiles, his teeth very white against the tanned cheeks. “And, of course, there’s the hundred-dollar fee I charge for the service.”

“No paperwork?” Rose queries.

“There’s always paperwork,” Carter says. “Cars leave a paper trail a cross-eyed termite could follow all the way back to Detroit. Want to take a look? See if we can find the origin story of your previously owned Silverado?”