“Nice day,” Andy said.

“Oh yeah,” I said, taking a sip of the hot coffee.

“Laura’s sure been on the warpath,” he said. “Leaning on everyone to get their numbers up. But sometimes, you know, things are just slow. What are you gonna do, right?”

“Sure,” I said. “It happens.”

“Yeah,” he said, like we were two buddies, just shootin’ the shit.

“So, you gonna tell me?” I asked.

“Hmm?” said Andy.

“You going to tell me about the Pilot you sold to Lorna and Dell?”

Andy coughed up a nervous laugh. “Oh yeah, I was going to.”

“Were you?” I said. “You seemed to have forgotten about it when I asked you how things had gone the last few days.”

“It just kind of slipped my mind, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’ll split that commission down the middle with you.”

“Let me tell you something, Andy,” I said. “You’re still relatively new, so I’ll cut you some slack today, but you ever pull a stunt like that again I’ll slam a hood down on your fucking hand.”

“Sure, you bet,” Andy said. “Won’t ever happen again. You gonna tell Laura on me?”

I shook my head. “Laura’s sales manager. She doesn’t give a shit who gets the commissions as long as the cars get sold. She’ll just let us sort it out, and that’s what I’m doing now. Understand?”

“You bet.”

I tossed my full coffee into an old oil drum and went back inside. There was a guy hanging around my desk. The girl at reception caught my eye as I walked into the showroom and said, “That gentleman asked for you.”

He was sandy-haired, trim, mid-thirties, smart clothes. I put out my hand as I approached. “Tim Blake,” I said. “You were looking for me?”

He nodded and returned the handshake. “Eric Downes,” he said. “I got your name from a guy I work with who bought a car from you a few years ago.”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Dan?” he said. “I don’t even know his last name.” He laughed self-consciously. “You’d think I’d know a coworker’s last name.”

“No problem,” I said. I could recall two or three Dans off the top of my head, but it didn’t really matter which one. “What can I help you with?” I asked.

“I’ve been seriously thinking about a Civic coupe,” Eric Downes said.

“The regular coupe, or the Si?”

“Oh, the Si,” he said.

“Nice vehicle,” I said. “Six-speed, alloys, 197 horsepower. It really goes, and at the same time, you’re going to get respectable gas mileage with it.”

“Everyone’s thinking about that these days,” Eric said. “I’ve been reading up on them online, I’ve looked at other people’s, but this is the first I’ve been into a showroom to look at one. Thing is, I’ve also been looking at a Mini, and a GTI. The Volkswagen. But I wanted to check the Si first. You have any in stock?”

“I don’t have one on the floor here,” I said, “but I have one on the lot, a demo.”

“What I’d really like to do,” he said, “is take one for a test drive, but like, do I have to put down a deposit first to do something like that?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “I can arrange for you to take one out if you’d like. I just need a copy of your driver’s license, and it’d be my pleasure to ride along with you to show you the car’s features.”

Not that Eric would be able to pick up a load of manure with an Si, but I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

Eric glanced at his watch like he had someplace to get to, then shrugged and said, “What the hell, let’s do it.”

While I was arranging to have one of the summer hires bring the red demo we had up to the door, I watched Andy skulk in and slink into his chair. He didn’t look over at me, or my customer. He was an okay kid. He just still had a lot to learn. Unless, of course, his ambition was to be a slimy car salesman. If that was the case, he was ahead of the game.

Shannon, at reception, made a copy of Eric Downes’s license, gave the original back to me, and I handed it over to him while he inspected other new cars on the lot. A couple of minutes later, the red Civic Si rolled up.

“What are you driving now?” I asked Eric.

“I’ve got a Mazda,” he said. “I’ve had good luck with it, but I feel like a change.”

“You’d be looking to trade it in?” I asked.

“I’m actually at the end of a lease,” he said.

“They call this Rallye Red,” I said, pointing out some of the Honda’s exterior features for Eric. The rear spoiler, the Si badging. I opened the door for him to get behind the wheel, then joined him on the other side.

“Nice,” he said, running his hands over the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I directed his attention to the navigation and audio systems, the side bolsters on the racing-style bucket seats.

“Start ’er up,” I said.

Eric turned the engine over, gave the accelerator a couple of light taps to hear the revs, pushed in the clutch and worked the gearshift around, getting an idea where all the gears were.

“Can I smoke in here?” Eric asked, about to reach into his jacket.

“Once you own it,” I said, smiling. “But for now, no, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” he said.

“Let’s go out that way,” I said, pointing right. “Then we’ll head up to the turnpike, get an idea how it performs on the highway.” I got the navigation screen set up so we could keep track of our movements. “You ever had a car with one of these built into the dash?” I asked.

“Yup,” said Eric. He didn’t seem particularly impressed.

While Eric waited for a break in traffic, I happened to look across the street at the vacant lot there. It’s usually totally empty, which probably explains why the dark blue Chrysler van with tinted windows sitting there caught my eye. I didn’t give it another thought after that. There are a few thousand of those on the road in Milford alone.

Eric put the Civic into first, eased up on the clutch, and took us out onto Route 1. But instead of turning right, as I had suggested, he went left, front tires squealing. This is one of the first things you learn in the car-selling business: test-drive routes have as few left turns as possible. You don’t want someone unfamiliar with the car making turns in front of traffic. That goes double when the car has a stick instead of an automatic.

I said, “No, I thought we’d head-”

“I want to go this way,” he said.

Eric tromped on the gas, the engine pushing the car up through the gears until we were cruising in sixth, weaving from lane to lane, zooming past motorists with more conventional driving habits. I glanced over at the digital readout on the dash, saw that the car was topping out at more than sixty.

“Eric, I know the car goes like stink and it doesn’t feel like you’re going as fast as you are, but I think you might want to let up a bit on the pedal there before we get a ticket or something worse.”

Eric glanced over and flashed me a grin, but there was nothing friendly about it.

“Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the ride,” he said, “and tell me where the fuck your daughter is.”