Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell #3)(17)

Jupe zipped up a green army surplus field jacket covered with old horror movie patches. “I know, but what’s wrong with multitasking? Oh man, I think I smell nachos.”

Funny, because all I smelled was burnt engine oil and stale valrivia smoke. “Help me find a sky-blue Road Runner in that side lot over there,” I said, pointing to rows of restored cars that filled a curving strip of asphalt, hoods propped open to showcase gleaming engines. “And if you do, I’ll buy you nachos with extra cheese.”

“Throw in some jalapeños and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Jupe said, waggling his brows.

Lon snorted. “So I can listen to you moan and bitch when you’ve got a stomachache later? Forget it.”

“Jalapeños are barely even hot going in,” Jupe noted. “Why do they hurt so much coming back out?”

“God moves in mysterious ways.”

“Hoof it,” I said, planting my hands on the kid’s shoulders and pushing him into motion.

Jupe loves cars. Jupe loves old things. So a couple of months ago Lon and I gave him a busted-up 1967 GTO for his fourteenth birthday. Lon thought it would be a good experience for his son to learn how to rebuild a car in the two years he had until the dreaded sweet-sixteen driver’s license—otherwise known in the Butler residence as the first day of the apocalypse. Neither of us expected Jupe to actually do all the work by himself. I personally thought he’d remove a few rusted bolts and call it a day. Surprise, surprise: Jupe had managed, with a little help, to strip out half of the parts under the hood. The kid was smart. And determined. Lon might’ve made a huge mistake giving him that thing.

We strolled down the first aisle of vintage cars, stopping every few feet so Jupe could ooh and ah. The fourth car we came to was a red convertible GTO. “Look, Dad! It’s just like my car!”

“I see.”

Jupe leaned over the engine, craning his neck to peer inside as the owner, a middle-aged Indian man with a light blue halo and matching blue-framed glasses, walked up. “Did all the work myself,” the man said, proudly.

“Cool. I’ve got one, too!” Jupe blurted. “Mine’s a ’67. What year is this? ’70?”

“You’re close. ’71.”

Jupe backed up to look at the grille. “Wire mesh. I should’ve known.”

“Ah, very sharp. I’m Nihal, by the way,” he said, offering his hand to Jupe.

“Jupiter.”

“You restoring yours, too?” the man asked.

“Sure am. It’s a hunk of junk right now, but I’m going to get it in shape like yours. Hey, how long did this take you, Nihal?”

“Eight years, I—”

“Eight?” Jupe’s horror-striken eyes were big, green grapes. “Man, it better not take me that long. How much did it cost you?”

“Jupe,” Lon chided. “That’s rude.”

Nihal grinned. “No, that’s okay. He’s a fellow GTO-lover.” He walked with Jupe, who was now checking out the driver’s seat. “I bought it for $18,000 and put about $15,000 into it.”

Jupe mouthed the amount to Lon.

“But I’ve insured it for $55,000. That’s how much it’s worth.”

“Holy sh—”

“Crap,” Lon and I both spoke over his response.

Jupe frowned at us. “I was going to say ‘shamrock.’ Geez, give me some credit.”

Nihal grinned.

“He was raised by wolves,” Lon said to the car owner.

“Oh, please,” Jupe said. “Don’t flatter yourself.” While Lon shook his head and slowly inhaled, Jupe ran a slender finger over the leather headrest. “Hey, Nihal. You wouldn’t happen to know about a blue Road Runner that shows here?”

Nihal’s eyes tightened briefly, then his brows shot up. “Sky blue? Black stripe on the hood?”

“That’s the one,” I said.

“Sure, I’ve seen that here before. I think someone bought it at last month’s rally.”

Dammit. “Do you know the owner’s name?”

“His first name was Dan, I think. But I never knew his last name. Ask Freddie—he’s the guy at the end of the row standing next to the white Barracuda. Freddie’s a Plymouth man. I’ll bet he knows.”

“Thanks, man!” Jupe said.

“No problem. Good luck with your restoration. If you need any pointers, I usually come here every month. Stop by and see me again.”

“I will, thanks.”

We strolled away from Nihal, heading toward the man he’d pointed out, but stopped a few cars away for Jupe to inspect another Ford.

“So Nihal was being honest?” I asked Lon.

“Completely,” Lon said as Jupe ran a hand over white-walled tires.

Kinda figured he was, but you never knew. Lon often busted my bubble when it came to trusting people—not that I need much help in that department. But because of his knack, I no longer ate at the sweet little fish-and-chips restaurant near Tambuku with its nicer-than-pie elderly owners. Lon informed me that they were lying about their spotless food safety inspection scores; the grade A posted in the window, much like my own birth certificate, had been falsified.

We made our way down to the Plymouth expert, Freddie. He was in the middle of a conversation with someone. Jupe wandered off, chatting up another muscle car expert, while Lon took a work phone call.