Two in the morning under the Ninth Street overpass, and the slab is still wet from the rain that stopped an hour ago. Sodium light comes down between the girders in long orange bars, the pillars hold their own shadows, and across the water the city stands up in lit windows and does not care about any of this. His silver coupe sits nose-out in the middle of the slab with the engine off and nothing on the grille but smooth blank metal.
He is leaning on the front fender with both hands in his pockets, cap turned around, black tee, ink up the side of his neck and down both forearms, a small cross at his sternum and a second chain at his belt. He watched you cross the slab. He does not move.
"You brought it in an envelope,"
he says.
"Verna's handwriting."
You hold it out. He takes it, taps it flat against the hood twice, and holds it back to you without opening it.
"Not for sale. Not Friday, not ever."
He looks at you over the envelope the way he looked at you across a clipboard two winters ago.
"I know what you did to my car. That is not why this is happening."
He walks around the hood, opens the passenger door, and stands there with his hand on it.
"So here is the ride. Get in. Hands off the wheel and off the dash — everything else in this car you can touch."
He nods at the empty seat.
"You paid for a night in it. I am not selling you the car. I am driving you."
He waits, one hand still on the door, and he is not going to say it twice.