After we passed the accident, traffic opened up and flowed. Within a few minutes, the downtown skyline came into view, small by big city standards but overwhelming compared to Millerton.
Wyatt guided the car off the highway onto the surface streets below. He expertly twisted and turned through the roads. I was soon quite disoriented. I could find my way along winding rural roads without a single signpost but would get quickly lost in any city within just a few blocks.
The first neighborhoods appeared to be in renaissance, older homes in various stages of renovation situated on small but well-kept lawns. Young, well-dressed people strolled on the sidewalks or sat at cafe tables in front of coffee shops. I imagined couples debating decorating choices and then searching through the antique shops for that perfect find. In the evening, those lattes and mochas they sipped would be replaced with long-stemmed glasses of white wine or frosty mugs of craft beer. Their conversations would be political debates or thoughtful discussions of the latest serious novel they pretended to read.
A few blocks later, the situation transitioned. The houses weren’t as well-kept. A loose gutter here or there. Some paint faded from years of sun. A rusting bicycle laid in overgrown grass. No one strolled about the uneven and cracked sidewalks because there was nowhere to go on a Sunday morning. No sidewalk cafes. No quaint stores.
The farther we drove, the more things declined. A very tall, leggy woman—or maybe man—in fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes waved at us as we drove by. She looked disappointed we didn’t stop to buy what she was selling and adjusted her tight faux-leather mini skirt. Her halter top was tied in a knot, revealing a flabby stomach.
As we slowed at the next intersection, two young men leaned against a telephone pole. They stopped their conversation and glared at us, a clear sign we were unwelcome intruders. I was thankful Wyatt had insisted on our not coming over on a Saturday night.
After hesitantly looking right and left despite the lack of traffic, Wyatt committed to a direction. We worked our way down an even narrower road with cars parked on either side. The small houses were packed close together. Fences enclosed the front yards, postage-stamp-size areas choked with weeds. A man lay sprawled on the front steps of one house—sleeping, I presumed. Or hoped. I didn’t want to find out.
At the next turn, we saw a long building, which was nothing but a string of cheap apartments. In a cracked parking lot in front of the first apartment sat a familiar Chevy Nova. Wyatt nodded toward it and said, “Just as Noah told me. There it is.”
We inched past, our heads turning to watch it, and then circled a vacant lot to an older cinder block convenience store with iron bars on the windows. We pulled beyond the gasoline pumps to the rear of the building. Wyatt shifted into park but left the engine idling. We had a clear view of the quiet apartments and my car.
Wyatt smiled and said, “Look on the bright side. Not often is your car the best looking one around.”
Weeds battled for supremacy in the cracks of the pavement. A smattering of cars parked between faded lines. Leaked oil blotted the ground. Pushed by a light summer breeze, a fast-food cup skittered across the lot and under the Nova.
A gold Chevy Impala rested on cinder blocks, its hood raised to expose an empty engine compartment. The shattered front windshield hung loosely in its frame. In the street out front, a Ford Fiesta with faded blue paint leaned like a drunken sailor, its right front tire flat. The remaining dozen cars in view appeared in better shape, at least operable if at the end of their lives, though most featured crumpled fenders, plastic-covered shattered glass, or duct-taped trunks. The least scarred carried only scratches, dings, or rust.
The parking lot of sad cars framed the front of the nondescript two-story apartment building, little more than a rectangular box with peeling paint. No gutters lined the faded and stained roof. Dried mud splattered the wood siding. A graffiti-tagged plywood board covered the lower window of the third apartment, burn marks streaking the wood siding above.
Each of the eight entry doors opened onto small square concrete porches. Two steps led off each stoop to the hard-baked ground barren of grass or bushes. Cigarette butts, plastic bottles, and crumpled cans littered the ground. I suspected I could find hypodermic needles scattered among the debris.
C.J. leaned across the seat and jabbed a meaty finger toward the Nova. “You’re positive that’s yours?”
I grunted in disbelief, but Wyatt was the one who pointed out the obvious. “Green driver’s door. Red passenger door. Primer gray paint. What are the odds? Of course it’s his.”
“What about the Tennessee license plate?”
Wyatt squinted against the bright sun. “Common tactic. Steal the license plates off another car and slap it on there. Keeps things from being too easy for the cops.” He turned to me and asked, “Now what?”
“Call the cops.” C.J. shifted his weight in the back seat, the springs squeaking in protest. When we didn’t respond, he grunted. “That’s what we said we were going to do.”
I replied, “I never reported the car stolen. When we say we found my car, they’ll ask what stolen car because they can’t find a report. Then what do they do?”
C.J.’s mouth fell open. “What do you think they do? Don’t you watch those detective TV shows? They run the VIN on their little computer and find it’s registered to you. They check the glove compartment for registration and insurance—which will be in your name. Maybe they make you go back to Millerton and do the paperwork—I don’t know how that works—but they sure don’t just leave a car that belongs to you—one you can easily prove you own—sitting here in the middle of this neighborhood, do they? They impound it and hold it until you get the paperwork straight.”
“I understand that.” I turned in my seat so I could see both of them. “I meant we still have the problem of explaining how we found it without getting Wyatt’s friend in trouble. It’s not like we can claim we were just driving through here.”
C.J. shrugged. “We’re going to have to come up with something sooner or later if we’re going to call the cops.”
I swallowed hard. I hadn’t told them what I was planning to do because I knew what their reaction would be. “Not if I just take it back.”
“You’ll what?” C.J.’s face reddened. “Are you nuts?”
“If it’s my car, why not? What were we going to do yesterday if we found it? Were we going to call the sheriff? Or were we going to take it home?”
“Just going to take it, but that was Miller County. People know us there and know your car. No one would have thought anything about us getting into it and driving off.” C.J. leaned forward and rested his arms on the front seat. “In case you haven’t noticed, we aren’t home here. If someone in those apartments sees us, they might think we’re stealing it and call the police.”
I gestured toward the graffiti spray painted on the walls, the boards over the windows, the litter in the grass. “Does this look like the type of place where people call the police? I bet people who live here mind their own business. The last thing they want are cops poking around.” When I didn’t get an answer, I turned back to lock eyes with C.J. “It’s one of those places where no one ever sees a thing. Or don’t you watch those TV shows?”
C.J. nodded in resignation and shrugged, his shoulders nearly touching his ears. “You’re probably right, but what are you going to do? Walk over there in broad daylight, look inside, and then hot-wire that car?”
“I don’t have to.” I dug into my pocket and extracted a key ring. Holding it high in the air, I said, “They stole my car, not my keys.”
C.J. slumped into his seat. A quiet “oh” was all I heard.
“No one over there is going to question a guy getting into a car with keys in his hand, cranking it up, and driving away. If the cops do show up, I’ll say everything you said earlier.” I pushed open the passenger door and asked, “Are we done arguing and ready for action?”
I swung my legs out of the car, but Wyatt’s hand gripped my arm to stop me. He was holding me back, his eyes wide. I tried to shake off the hand. “Now what?”
Wyatt pointed toward the apartments. “Him.”
The lot was no longer empty.