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Leonard locked his office and headed out early, something he rarely did. He strolled over to the shop and spoke to Oscar, his head mechanic. The guy was a magician with engines.

“When will those rigs be operational again?” Two of his commercial buses had overheated during their last two pickups. “I’ve got a seriously tight delivery schedule and need those things on the road a-sap.”

“We’ll have ’em up and runnin’ by tomorrow afternoon, boss.” Oscar wiped grease from his hands with a red shop towel. “All we had to do was—”

“Oscar.” Leonard held up his hand to cut off the mechanic’s detailed description of what he did to fix them. “I trust you.” He clapped him on the back. “Thanks for gettin’ that done.”

“No problem.” Oscar nodded, turned, and tossed the rag on a tool bench on his way to where an engine block hung by some large chains.

Leonard did his daily walk of the entire lot, checking things out on his way to where he parked his car. He rounded the corner of the building, and there sat his baby—a 1975 Cadillac Eldorado convertible in Commodore Blue Metallic.

With the way the sun shone off her, she looked like a damn angel.

As a kid, he’d seen one cruising down the street and swore that someday he’d have one of his own. As soon as he was making decent money, he’d put out feelers and started looking all over for one. Finally, after almost two years of searching, he found his dream car in Ohio, of all places, and had it loaded onto one of his flatbeds and transported back to him.

He admired the original paint job as he smoothed his hand along the edge of the roof like he was caressing a naked woman.

Leonard was pretty sure he loved the car more than he ever loved his wife. Maybe even more than he loved his damn ungrateful kids.

He carefully fed the key into the lock, turned it, and swung open the wide door. He slid behind the wheel, twisted the key in the ignition, and smiled when the original V8 engine roared to life with the spit of dark smoke from the exhaust.

“Ready to go for a ride, baby?” He clicked his lap belt into place and stroked the dash.

It was a nice summer afternoon, so he pressed a button and waited while the big convertible top folded back out of the way. Once it was locked in place, he pulled down the gear shift on the steering column, backed out of his space, and headed toward the exit at the back of the property.

His phone rang as he cruised past all of his trucks. While he waited for the gate arm to rise, he tugged the cell phone from his pocket, looked at the screen, and recognized Pennington’s number.

“What the fuck is that dumbass doing calling my personal phone?” He tossed it onto the passenger seat. It bounced, and he caught it before it dropped to the floor. “Stupid son of a bitch can leave a message.”

Three phone calls from him were enough for one day.

A moment later, there was a beep, indicating he’d left a voicemail.

Leonard turned on the radio and pressed the preset button for his favorite classic rock station.

“Led Zeppelin. Hell, yeah.” He cranked up the volume and sped down the road.

The weather was incredible, and he was enjoying the music and the sense of freedom he always felt when the top was down and the wind swirled around him.

This car was a sanctuary for him, a place where no one could bother him.

Then his phone rang again, disturbing his solitude, and he wasn’t surprised when there was another beep.

“God dammit.” He snatched up the phone and listened to the first voicemail.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Pennington shouted. “And where the hell is Kimball?”

“Fuckin’ asshole has the balls to yell at me?” Who the fuck did Pennington think he was, talking to him like that? “Screw him. He can wait.”

Leonard didn’t even bother listening to the second message. He just leaned his head back against the headrest and stomped on the gas.

If there was any news, Vinny would’ve told him.