Throttle open, the 442’s classic V8 growled. The car surged down Belair Road at speeds well above the suggestions on road signs. “I like this engine,” Alice said as she blew through a yellow light.
“Having eight cylinders helps,” Tyler said. “There’s no replacement for displacement.”
“You don’t like turbos?”
Tyler spread his hands. “I like the immediate shove, but it’s not predictable. Give me a big engine like this. Good linear power.”
Alice kept going past Smitty’s shop. Tyler made no effort to get her to turn in. Let her enjoy a turn behind the wheel of a true classic. Most people never got to pilot a car like this. Modern vehicles needed to comply with standards from many countries. Manufacturers downsized engines and bolted on turbochargers to meet fuel and emissions standards. Tyler liked some autos made today, but he found many of them boring. Too few cylinders, too little excitement, too much front-wheel drive.
“I only wish it didn’t have an automatic.” Alice glanced sidelong at Tyler as she spoke.
“Me, too,” he said. “Too much wear and tear on my legs to drive a stick every day. I get to take them for a spin when they turn up for service, though.”
“Will you test drive my Boxster once you finish it?”
“Sure.” He grinned. “I’ll even open her up an extra ten percent just for you.”
At a red light, Alice swung around and headed back toward Overlea. “Thanks for letting me drive.”
“No problem.” Tyler realized no one else had been behind the wheel since he bought the car and made it roadworthy again. It was a little over five years. He’d done all the work himself, so there was never a need for any mechanic to take the 442 for a spin. Smitty and Son appeared at the bottom of a hill. Alice piloted the large coupe onto the lot, stopping near the door. Tyler noticed Smitty staring at them and knew he’d get an earful about this little joyride later.
Tyler held the door for Alice as they walked into the shop. Smitty tapped on the keyboard. “I think we’ll be able to get all the parts we need,” he said. “They can’t all get here at once, though. You want to bring the car back in a day or two?”
“No need to do that,” Alice said. “You can keep it here. I have a ride coming.”
“All right. We’ll let you know when she’s ready.”
Alice grinned. “Thank you.” She waved at Tyler, and he swore the wattage on her smile increased. “I like your wheels, Mister Tyler.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I think we both have good taste.”
She nodded her concurrence and walked back out. “Jesus Christ,” Smitty said. “Tell me she’s not your new girlfriend, now.”
“Way too young for me. She just wanted to drive the 442. Can you blame her?”
“Guess not.” Smitty eyed the young woman. “With an ass like hers, I can’t blame you, either.”
“She’s a nice girl,” Tyler said.
“I’m sure she is. Being a knockout don’t hurt, though.”
“It never has.”
Another car pulled up. A Honda Civic at least a decade old. It sported a clearly modified exhaust—both by looks and sound—and a ridiculous wing on the back. Tinted windows prevented Tyler from seeing inside. Alice got into it, and it drove away.
The Civic drove away, and Alice walked up the flagstoned path to the front door. The grass and bushes as usual were well manicured, though the approach of winter meant they no longer needed regular maintenance. Still, living with a boyfriend who happened to be the community landscaper had its perks. Alice unlocked the door and entered the house.
It was the smallest in the posh community, but it also happened to be the nicest place she’d ever lived. The tiled foyer yielded to a living room covered in lush carpet. Rodolfo sat on the couch and stared at her. Alice smiled. He didn’t. She frowned as his glare remained in place. “What’s going on?”
“Where’s the Boxster?” he said.
“We knew it needed work when we bought it.”
“You mean when I bought it.”
Alice noticed four beer bottles on the coffee table. The TV was off. By now, Rodolfo usually held a Playstation controller. Today, it looked like he’d started early on the booze. “Fine . . . when you bought it. I took it somewhere to get it looked at.”
“You know we have a guy we can take the cars to,” he said.
“I don’t like him.” She crossed her arms. “He’s always staring at me. It’s creepy.”
“Where did you take it?”
“A place near Perry Hall. It’s well-reviewed.”
Rodolfo stood. As he stepped closer, Alice could see the effects of the alcohol in his eyes. He wasn’t slurring his words yet, but another bottle would guarantee it. She hated when he drank too much. The saving grace was he rarely did. Usually only when his cousin hassled him about business. He stopped a foot away, close enough for her to smell the beer on his breath. “You should have talked to me first.”
“It’s my car,” Alice said.
“I bought it for you,” Rodolfo said. He backhanded her across the face. Alice's head snapped to the side, and she stumbled but stayed on her feet. “Never forget. I bought it for you.”
She rubbed her stinging cheek. “How can I forget when you remind me all the time?” He’d only hit her once before, and in the aftermath, he swore he’d never do it again. Maybe she could calm him down by changing the subject. Something about the Boxster clearly had him worked up. “I got to see a really cool classic car today.” She stopped before mentioning her turn behind the wheel. It would do nothing to improve her boyfriend’s mood.
Rodolfo narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care. You know who I bought the Porsche from?” She shook her head. “My cousin put me onto him. He knew I was looking.”
So much for changing the subject. Alice blew out a breath and resigned herself to finishing the conversation. She wouldn’t tolerate him hitting her again, though. “And?”
“There was product in it.” When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “We got it all out first, as far as I know. This is why we take cars to the same place all the time. They don’t ask any questions if they find a baggy or a little residue.” He moved into her space again, and she took an involuntary step back. “I doubt your shop is so . . . discreet.”
“I’m sure they won’t find anything,” she said. If whoever unloaded it did his job right, that would be the case.
“They won’t. I’m going to get the car back. Tell me where you took it.”
“It’s a shop called Smitty’s. They’re very nice. I’m sure they don’t want any trouble.”
“You should’ve thought about it this morning.” Rodolfo took a stride forward and punched Alice in the stomach. All the breath left her body, and she folded in half. Her midsection blazed with pain. Before she could draw in more oxygen, Rodolfo decked her in the face, and she spiraled to the floor.
Mercifully, he walked out of the room. Alice would leave him. The hell with the car. No vehicle was worth this. Ever since Rodolfo got tangled up with his cousin in this damned community, he’d changed. He stopped being a landscaper and tried to moonlight as some kind of commando. It didn’t suit him, but he never wanted to hear it. Alice made it back to all fours when Rodolfo strode back into the room. She put a hand up. “Please.”
To her horror, he held an aluminum baseball bat. “You should have told me first,” he said as his arms went back.
Rodolfo stared at the body of Alice. He’d beaten her into unconsciousness quickly, and then added a few more blows to be sure. Once the reality of the situation set in, her eyes looked confused and hurt. She didn’t understand. She never understood. Alice saw him as the sweet boy she fell in love with two years ago. Rodolfo was a man now. He’d still ply his trade as a landscaper, but the real money came in working for his cousin.
He needed to call Héctor and let him know what happened. The argument and beating hadn’t been too loud. Houses here were far enough apart for privacy. No one in the community would have heard it. They might wonder what happened to Alice. Everyone knew her. Especially the men. Rodolfo simmered at the thought. They all were eager to smile and wave at the pretty young redhead. In turn, she sported low-cut tops and smiled freely. Did the men at this repair shop agree to fix the car because of her looks?
No matter. He would get the Boxster back.
Rodolfo dialed his cousin, who picked up on the fourth ring. “I have a problem, Héctor.”
A long sigh was the only response for a while. Then, Héctor said, “Tell me what happened.”
“Alice. She’s dead.”
“What?”
“I had to,” Rodolfo said. “She took the Porsche to some shop to get it looked at.”
“You didn’t tell her it came with a full shipment of product in it?” Héctor asked. The edge to his voice could cut glass.
“I didn’t think I needed to. We just argued about it. She put the whole operation at risk.” Héctor remained silent. “I did what I had to.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“We need to clean this up,” Rodolfo said.
“We? Did I murder your girlfriend?”
“No, but—“
“Listen, cousin. You’re young. Brash. You do things without thinking. I’ve told you before it would hold you back, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Rodolfo said in a small voice.
“I’ll find someone to take care of the mess,” Héctor said. “You can’t do this again, though. I know we’re in an ugly business, but we have to keep it out of our houses. Alice didn’t need to die.”
“I’m sorry, Héctor.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be better.” He paused. “And get the goddamn Porsche back.”
Rodolfo was about to answer when the line went dead.