Emma
Emma thought she could probably count on one hand the types of cars she had been in. Where she lived, everybody’s parents drove the same ones and didn’t think about the others too much. Subaru wagons. Honda minivans. A Prius here and there. So many white Lexuses or Acura SUVs, she’d lost count. Occasionally, a Range Rover or Tesla showed up at a soccer game, and the boys were excited by that. She supposed if you were a gearhead, the suburbs of Philadelphia were a very disappointing place to grow up, because no one flaunted their wealth with cars. Maybe there were Porsches and Mercedes convertibles tucked into garages for occasional use, but she didn’t see them, and the Ferrari dealership on the edge of town always looked like the set of a movie, clean and sparkling and empty of people.
But this car that she’d slid inside now was unquestionably different. No extra room in the front seat, it enveloped her, hugged her, the way she imagined a race car might. The softest leather seats, different from leather in other cars. The dashboard and its instruments unusual, too, more like an airplane.
“Wow,” she said.
“I know, right?” Michael said. “Some days, I have the best job in the world.”
The main lot was across the street and didn’t involve much driving. But he explained that there was an overflow lot several blocks away, and he sometimes brought the nicer cars there just to have a chance to drive them longer. Plus the guys who oversaw that lot loved cars, guarded them with their lives. He said the guy across the street sometimes fell asleep in his chair out of boredom.
“So if I want to steal a car, I should go to the lot across the street?” she said.
“Ooh, a girl car thief. I love it.”
“Don’t be sexist, Michael.”
“Sorry.”
“Maybe my dad taught me how to hot-wire.”
“Or your mom,” he said, winking.
“That’s better.”
He went the long way, to the farthest lot, and predictably, the two men in charge of it fawned over the car, running their hands across the curves appreciatively, asking if Michael needed it washed or detailed, if it needed gas, anything extra. Michael said no, handed over the keys.
“You don’t lock it?” she whispered.
“Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes we leave the keys inside, too. Depends how busy we are. Can’t be locking and unlocking all day long. Unless the tip is huge. But forget about cars, right? It’s a nice day for a walk.”
She smiled. It was a nice day—cool but not windy. Not that feeling that winter was on the way, threatening.
“You wouldn’t rather spend all your time inside a car?”
“Maybe half the time. I’m studying to be a high-performance mechanic,” he said proudly.
“Sounds fancy.”
“It pays, like, crazy amounts of money. More than you can make with a lot of college degrees. No offense.”
“None taken. I get it. I do.”
“I figure being a valet is a good way to network for my next job.”
“Makes total sense. But I was wondering, maybe, related to that, to networking, that you could help me with something?” she said.
“So you’re not just flirting with me because my future as a mechanic is so bright? Damn.” He smiled.
She laughed. There was something incredibly easy and welcoming about him, and she thought that it was probably a shame that he hadn’t gone to college. A nice guy like this was a rarity and the reason you sometimes saw beautiful girls with lanky, ordinary-looking boys. Because they were attentive and nice.
“But back to your question, sure, if I can help, I will,” he replied, and she didn’t doubt him. Everything about him was earnest, born to be helpful. She knew, too, that people like him were also born to be taken advantage of. Had he figured that out yet?
“So,” he continued, “do you need help buying a car or something?”
“No. Listen, I know we don’t really know each other, but I sense you can keep a secret.”
“Oh, I can,” he said. “Like a vault. You can ask my brothers and sisters. My poor parents,” he sighed.
“Good. Well, I’m investigating something, and I need help.”
“Look, if this means borrowing a car, I can’t—”
“No, no, nothing like that. I need…people. Sources.”
“You want me to keep my eyes open, search a glove box, something like that?”
“Well, that might be helpful, too,” she said, “but mostly I’m wondering if you know anyone who goes to that club, London…and if anyone who goes there and leaves their car with you…if you might have noticed anything about them.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe they seem…regretful. Or guilty. Maybe they used to go and stopped? But still visit the store?”
He stopped on the sidewalk, as if he couldn’t think and walk at the same time.
“Whoa,” he said slowly.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, to process—”
“No, I’m just thinking for a second. About this situation.”
“I know you don’t approve of what’s happening there, so—”
“No, no I do not. I got a sister, you know?”
“Yes.”
“So, are you trying to close them or something? For, like, health violations? Are you a cop?”
“I’m a reporter,” she said, whispering, as if she didn’t quite believe it herself. But something about saying it out loud, practicing it, made her swell with pride.
“Wow,” he said. “I knew you were smart. I sensed that right away.”
“So I need a man who’s been there and is unhappy about it. Maybe he hates the owner, maybe he hates himself? Someone who was tricked by a girl or lost all his money or feels guilty about the girls being young. I need someone…disenchanted.”
“But, like, off the record?”
“Well, on or off, either one is good for now.”
“Disenchanted is a very nice word. Very descriptive,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You should use that in the story.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You know, there is someone. I haven’t seen him in a while, but he used to go over there on Wednesday nights. One time, he came to Beck’s first, with a new haircut, you know, spiked up like Alec Baldwin’s. Then he went in the store and got all dressed up. He got a new shirt and tie and a jacket to go with his jeans, and he asked me to put his old clothes in his trunk before I parked the car. He even had on new cologne. I remember that because I told him he smelled like a million bucks, and he asked me if it was too much and I told him no. He had a present wrapped up with him, too. Pink ribbon. It was like, I don’t know, like watching someone go to prom, you know? Then later that night, instead of coming back with a girl, he came back alone. He said, ‘I’m an old fool, Michael.’ And I’m like, ‘What’s wrong, Mr. M?’ And he said, ‘It’s true, you know. Money cannot buy you happiness or friendship or love. Remember that.’”
“Wow. Have you seen him since?”
“Couple times, but only in the store, far as I know.”
“He sounds perfect. Do you know his name or where he works?”
“His first name is Andrew,” he said. “Last name starts with an M, because that’s what he asked me to call him. I don’t know his last name. I guess if that’s important, I could look for his registration? In the glove box? I think maybe he’s retired. Or maybe just a consultant. Something part-time, you know. He sits on a board, I know that. But all these guys do. I always thought it was because they were guilty, you know? Like if they did some good somewhere for free, it would make up for something bad they did for money.”
Emma paused and took that in for a moment. It struck her as both wise and cynical, and Michael didn’t really seem like either of those things. It made her wonder about his father, his mother. If he was quoting them. If they were good people, and he was a good son.
“Oh, and one more thing. I know he’s a widower. That’s why, you know, he ended up going there. He was lonely. I remember him buying a new suit for the funeral. Cancer.”
“It sounds like you’ve been a good friend to him,” she said.
“That’s funny you should say that. I told my mom once that’s what I try to do. Be the friend they know they can trust with their car.”
“I love that sentiment.”
“I mean, wealthy peoples’ cars are one of the most valuable things they own, after their home or their, you know, watch. Some of those guys, man, those watches are worth more than my parents’ house, that’s for sure.”
They were nearly back at the store, and Emma realized she’d been walking slowly, extending their time together.
She said she’d try to find this customer on her own, but if she couldn’t and Michael ran into him, would he be able to mention it, gently, to him? And he said sure, he could. “I know you’ll take good care of him, just like me with his car.”
“I like the way you look at things.”
“Well, you’re easy to talk to, Mary.”
“One more thing,” she said. “Please don’t be mad, but…my name isn’t Mary.”
“Wow,” he said. “What is it?”
“I don’t think I should tell you quite yet. For both of our sakes.”
“Wow. That’s some heavy shit. Pardon my French.”
“Yeah, maybe I’m being paranoid, but I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
“Okay, so…you’re working undercover.”
“I guess.”
“Well, you know what that means?”
“What?”
“We’re under the covers together now.”
She laughed, and he laughed, too, a kind of giggle that reminded her of a child, like someone she’d known forever.