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Mariano looked at the license plate, and immediately saw a problem—the New Jersey plate was screwed on top of another license plate.

Damned lazy kid. He didn’t ditch the old ones. Just left them on it.

If I picked up on that, a cop sure would.

He glanced up at the rear window. The bumper sticker on it read MARION VIKINGS FOOTBALL.

And what’s a Jersey plate doing on a car with a high school sticker from a Philly suburb? Another thing that’d scream to the cops, “Pull me over!”

Stupid bastard.

Couldn’t steal a local plate? Not like they’re not everywhere . . .

Mariano sighed and shook his head. He walked to the driver’s door and, using the shop towel, opened it and leaned inside.

“Got low miles,” Mora said. “Under fifty thou.”

“I’ve told you, low miles don’t mean shit for parts. A fender’s a fender.”

Mariano looked over his shoulder. “I’m thinking five hundred.”

“Come on, man. I need the grand.”

“That’s too rich for me. I’ll go six, maybe six-five.”

Mora frowned, then glanced across the garage as he considered the counteroffer. He took a pull on his cigarette, then said, “Okay. Seven.”

Mariano ignored that as he reached down and pulled the release handle for the hood and pushed the button for the trunk. They each opened with a Click! He then went to the front of the car and, again using the red shop towel, raised the hood. He made a cursory inspection of the engine bay, grunted, slammed the hood, then went to the rear of the vehicle.

“It got a full-sized spare or one of those small donut ones?” Mariano said as he reached for the trunk lid.

“I dunno. I didn’t—”

“What the hell!” Mariano suddenly exclaimed from behind the partially raised trunk lid.

He quickly slammed it shut and stared at Mora.

“What?” Mora said, looking at the now furious face of Mariano. “I can get you a tire—”

“You stupid fucking shit,” Mariano said, failing to keep his composure while rapidly wiping his hands with the shop towel. He then nervously wiped where he had lifted the trunk lid. “Someone pay you to bring this here to dump on me?”

“Dump what?”

Mariano walked up to Mora and poked him in the chest.

“Get the hell outta here!” Mariano yelled, his face flushed bright red. “And you listen to me real good, don’t you ever come back! Ever!”

Mariano started walking quickly back toward the office. He pointed at the Hispanic worker, then at the overhead steel door.

“You! Get that damn door opened back up now!” he shouted, then looked at Mora and added, “You were never here, you got it?” then went into the office, slamming the door behind him.

Mora quickly went to the driver’s door and hit the trunk lid release that was on the door panel. He heard the latch click open again, then went and threw up the trunk lid.

“Holy shit!” he said softly, then slammed the trunk shut. “That bastard!”

He felt his heart start racing. He looked around. No one was nearby. The Hispanic male, his back to him, was standing by the overhead door and pressing the control button as the door clunked upward.

Mora started for the driver’s door, passing the worktable with the metal cans and small pile of dirty shop towels. He quickly grabbed them and then tossed them on the floorboard of the front passenger seat, then hopped in and began backing out of the garage.