Mercy Street(61)

Timmy replaced the couch cushion and saw that she had, in fact, left something behind: the bag of product she’d bought and paid for, an eighth of Cocoon. I should call her, he thought, but of course it was impossible. Every text message they’d ever exchanged had been deleted immediately, his standard operating procedure. He had never saved her number to his phone.

HE MET THE BUYER IN A GROCERY STORE PARKING LOT. THEY had exchanged a half dozen messages: the condition of the engine, the asking price, when and where to meet for a test drive. The guy, Ross Weaver, was clearly new to Craigslist. Timmy had used the site for years, to buy and sell car parts, vinyl records, Bruins memorabilia, electronics. Never once had he given anyone his last name.

Weaver rolled up in a taxi, a tall, skinny guy underdressed for the weather, in faded red chinos and a floppy trench coat.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Intense traffic coming from Newton.” Over Timmy’s shoulder he studied the car. “Wow. Wow. She’s in beautiful shape.”

Timmy flinched. There was, he felt, a special section of hell reserved for people who referred to cars as “she.”

Weaver ran his finger along the trim. “Is this original?”

The question offended him slightly. “Yep,” Timmy said, popping open the hood. “Like I said, the transmission is completely rebuilt. New alternator and fan belt. The battery is a year old. You should get another five years out of it.”

“Awesome,” Weaver said, barely looking. “Can we take her for a spin?”

They got into the car. Timmy sat in the passenger seat, where Claudia had sat the night before. He slouched down low and studied the dashboard. He wanted to see everything from her perspective, the Cuda exactly as she had experienced it, the world through the windshield of this magnificent car.

Weaver backed out of the parking space. Timmy was aware of holding his breath. Years ago, working a show for the Stagehands, he spotted in the crowd a girl he’d banged in high school and had all but forgotten, now making out with some dirtbag who never let go of her ass. When Ross Weaver turned the key in the ignition, he had a similar feeling: that he’d been robbed of a thing he’d thrown away with both hands.

Timmy noticed, then, the guy’s bare ankles.

“Dude,” he said gravely. “Where’d you come from?” There was still a foot of snow on the ground. No local guy—not even a douchebag from Newton—would walk around without socks.

“The Bay Area. San Francisco,” Weaver said.

They pulled out into traffic. Timmy saw immediately Weaver was a terrible driver, anxious and aggressive. He braked too hard, signaled too early. He shifted clumsily, grinding the gears.

Timmy imagined telling the story to Claudia. So the fuckwad stops at a yellow light. Claudia, he felt, would share his outrage.

“I haven’t driven a stick in a while,” he said, confirming a truth Timmy had always known. Only a twat drove an automatic.

“You’ll get used to it,” Timmy said. “Drive this car for a week and you’ll never want to drive anything else.”

“The car isn’t for me, actually. It’s for my son.”

“No shit.” A sour feeling in Timmy’s stomach. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen. He just passed his driver’s test.”

“I have a kid that age,” said Timmy. “Well, almost. He’ll be fifteen next month.”

Weaver grinned. “Good luck, my friend. Fifteen is the worst. Luke put us through hell. Three schools, rehab, you name it. But he’s come out the other end. The car is his reward.”

Timmy thought, You get a reward for that?

“I’ve been looking for one of these for a while,” Weaver said. “Plenty of scammers out there. Everyone says mint condition. Then you find rust in the undercarriage.”

“Not this one,” said Timmy. “Have a look if you don’t believe me.”

“No need. I can see she’s in great shape. You made a great investment,” Weaver said. “It’s a hell of a business model. You buy a car that’s forty or fifty years old, the cars we wanted when we were kids. The nostalgia market. It’s how you get guys our age, at their peak earning power. That’s the sweet spot. The old guys don’t care anymore, and younger guys don’t have the dough.”

They rolled back into the parking lot. Weaver pulled into a space and engaged the brake. He reached into his coat and handed Timmy a sealed envelope, looking over his shoulder. “This feels a little sketchy. I mean, I never carry cash.”

Timmy, who always carried cash, slid his finger beneath the flap.

Weaver looked alarmed. “You’re going to count it?”

“No offense.” Timmy thought, Why the fuck would I not count it? I’ve never seen you before in my life.

“None taken. Just . . .” Weaver glanced around nervously. “This isn’t the best neighborhood.”

Timmy blinked. He’d chosen the meeting place carefully, a high-end grocery store in gentrified Jamaica Plain, where a small apartment went for a half million—still a rough neighborhood, apparently, to a man in pink pants.

He counted quickly. After twelve years in a cash business, he could have done it in his sleep. “Looks like we’re good,” he said.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Weaver offered his hand. “Sorry, I never got your last name.”