Mo left the Astro Van in the U-haul parking lot across from the car dealer Stan had sent him to. He didn’t mind being the errand boy. This was a task that needed done, and he was capable. It kept the girls out of danger — or as far away as he could manage at the moment — and it got him out of the house.
Concentrating on his surroundings was easier when somebody wasn’t chatting away in his ear. Less likely to miss something or to make a mistake they would all regret.
It was overcast and threatening to rain all morning. Air so thick he could almost see the haze hanging in front of him.
He pulled the bill of his ball cap down as he jogged through a gap in the traffic. Jumped a dry ditch full of weedy gravel. Hit the edge of the crumbling asphalt where all the converted vans were.
He didn’t know what he was looking at. Except for the interiors full of leather and gadgets, he didn’t know what made one of these vans better than any other. Stan had spit out stats and numbers, and Mo had just shaken his head and put his hand up. “Does the guy know what I’m coming for?”
Stan grinned. “He’ll have a couple to choose from, yeah.”
“Fine.”
The guy was Emmet “Dead Blow” Barnes. His skin was one big freckle. It matched the ginger flat-top hair, making him look like an orange dead blow mallet. Mo thought the nickname was fitting when he finally saw him bobbing through the rows of used vehicles.
“Are you Moses? Stan's boy?” he shouted.
Mo kept his face calm. “Nope. I’m Mo. But I’m here on his word.”
Emmet stuck his hand out for a shake. His grin made his red cheeks come up to cover the bottoms of his eyes. Up close, he looked about seventy years old. “I didn’t mean nothing. Just a question I’d ask anybody.”
Mo decided to let it go as he took the hand. Felt the strength in the old man’s hands as they each gave two pumps before letting go.
Mo looked back over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to pick up a van. A converted RV style?”
Emmet nodded. “Yup. Got a couple out of the wash.” He looked up at the sky with a chuckle. “Could have waited on that, I reckon. Looks like she’s about to open up and do the job on all of ‘em.”
He turned with a wave to follow, and Mo hurried to match the man’s pace. Ennet’s feet were trucking like a little bird’s, and he was covering some ground.
“He’s a good boy,” Emmet said. “Served with my youngest back eighteen or so odd years ago. I don’t really remember. Time turns into an enemy when you get to be my age. You’ll get there someday and see what I mean. One day looks a lot like the last one, and years are nothing but pictures taped in a book.”
They approached a cream-colored building with a tinted glass front wall. A double door for customers. Emmet held it open and ushered Mo inside. He pointed to a younger copy of himself behind the counter. “That boy’s my oldest, Chester. Named after a cigarette. His mother was a real one, I tell you.”
Mo nodded, but that wasn’t enough for Chester. He gave a grin just like his father’s. A big wave that made the fat under his chin wiggle.
Emmet was already at another door, waiting for Mo to catch up. “My middle boy, Ben, works in the back there. Maintenance and whatnot.”
Mo walked through the door into a big room lined with lifts and tools. Three vans at the end. “Your youngest work here too?”
“No, sir. He died in Iraq. Was Stan that brought the flag to me. He was a good boy though. Proud he was part of something bigger ‘an him. Though I didn’t agree with the politics at the time, I understood Bill’s gumption to go.”
Mo covered his heart with his right hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
“Thank you, Moses. Did you serve?”
“I did.”
“We appreciate that here, by God.”
Mo held his hand up to slow ol’ Emmet down. “No need for that.”
“You’re right. I don’t need to. I want to. Here’s the rigs you was looking at.”
Mo looked to where Emmet pointed. Three big white cargo vans. The Mercedes badge on the grill was like a dinner plate. Emmet spread his hands. “All of ‘em are Sprinters. Upfitted for glamping. Got the high top in her. Even a boy big as you can stand up straight inside.”
He’d heard the context of Emmet’s “boys” enough to feel no sting when he heard it this time. Just something he said. Still — out of respect — Emmet should probably learn when not to say it. Not his place to preach, though, he was here to buy a van.
“Four can ride in comfort, but she only sleeps two. A little shower and a cassette toilet. Little kitchen for snacks and such, and Stan wanted the biggest fridge they would fit. Still not very big for these ones at sixty quarts. Got the mobile-tainment nonsense up front. A bunch of connections and the Wi-Fi’s and what all else. It’s really just down to picking the color and whatnot.”
Mo shook his head. “They’re all white.”
“Yup. And the insides are all the same taupe or tan or probably what the factree calls Tropical Dune.”
“So they’re all the same.”
Emmet nodded. “Pretty near. Stan said he wanted to choose from the best of what I had on the lot. That’s these three gals.”
Mo pointed to the one in the center. “Then I want that one.”
Emmet stood on his tiptoes to clap Mo on the shoulder, and he suddenly realized that it was all an act. His awkward old man energy. The redneck slang. It was a mask, a character he played for customers.
Mo was certain the face he showed Stan — people he knew and trusted — was much different than this caricature.
“Then I’ll get the keys. Throw a tag on her, and you can be on your way.”
“Wait a minute. How much is this costing him?”
Emmet smiled like he just got caught eating the last piece of pie. “Oh, we don’t talk about such things, Moses.”
Then his face changed. No more of the ruddy mirth, the ignorant huckster. His expression grew somber, and the nervous energy fell away until he appeared rooted to the concrete floor. “Mr. Manning knows the debt I owe him. Still as yet unpaid.”
Mo looked back at the van behind him. Three hundred thousand sitting there? A half a million? And he was just gonna drive a third of it out of here?
When he looked back, Emmet was hustling away to a rack full of shining silver. The jingle of keys as he reached to the top row. Spun back with his grin plastered back on. “Here she is. Wouldn’t do much without these babies.”
He handed them over, and Mo took them with numb fingers. What had Stan done to earn this man’s regard? Did Emmet’s youngest boy have something to do with it? He knew he couldn’t ask. Not that. He had to fill the silence with something though. “So, is there something to sign … or something?”
Emmet shook his head. “No, sir. Just drive it right out the side there once I open her up.”
He looked up at the ceiling with a frown. Rain swelled against the metal roof. He clicked his teeth. “Shoulda waited on the washing. Oh well.” He stuck his hand back out for another shake. “You tell that boy not to take so long next time. Tell him we know why he stays away even though it breaks our very hearts.”
His grip tightened on the end, then he let go and whirled away. To the chain next to the overhead door. Hand over hand, and the rattle of it rolling up was barely louder than the pounding rain.
Sitting at the light at the intersection was a silver Camaro. Black stripes down the hood. The window was up, but Mo could see the shadow of long hair as it passed. The rear wheels spun on the wet pavement before getting traction and roaring away.
Was it the P.I. from the hotel? Somebody else?
Not every Camaro and Charger was somebody trying to kill him.
Emmet was waiting with a perplexed smile, so Mo ran to the center rig. Jumped into the front seat that felt like a melting marshmallow. He pulled into the rain with a final wave. Watched the door roll down behind him in the side mirror. Eased into traffic and settled in for the ride.
It was the nicest vehicle he had ever been in. Too bad he had to wait for people trying to kill him before living in luxury.
Two questions still bothered him. Who had been in the Camaro? And, did he really know Stan Manning?