Chapter 2
We headed to Ida Belle’s house to pick up her checkbook and for her to change into her “serious” car-buying clothes, whatever that was supposed to mean.
I waited in the Jeep and mulled over why buying a car necessitated a wardrobe change.
Ida Belle had been wearing jeans and a button-up yellow fishing shirt earlier.
I wouldn’t call it serious, but it wasn’t as though she was dressed like a hooker or wearing a Halloween costume.
Usually, it was Gertie who insisted on an outfit change, so I couldn’t wait to see what Ida Belle came out with.
A couple minutes later, she emerged wearing the same jeans and the same shirt, but this time in blue. She climbed into the Jeep and I stared at her. Finally, when she realized I hadn’t started the vehicle, she looked over at me.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“You changed from a yellow shirt to a blue shirt. The exact same shirt. How is that different?”
“Come on, Fortune, everyone knows yellow isn’t a serious color. People see yellow, they think of girls. The last place you want people concentrating on you being a girl is talking to a man selling a car.”
I understood the “girl buying a used car” thing—many salesmen didn’t have the best reputations for treating women properly—and a senior woman would have a second disadvantage, on paper anyway.
Of course, I knew Ida Belle could outthink and definitely outshoot most of the men I’d come across since I’d been in Louisiana, but unless she whipped out a pistol and scared them into a lower price, I wasn’t sure that would be useful.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Go Fast Auto Sales.”
I frowned. It wasn’t on the highway between Sinful and New Orleans or I would have seen it. “Where is it?”
“Off the highway a bit. Just start driving. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
I set off back through downtown and got on the highway that led to New Orleans. “We ought to take a couple days off and head to New Orleans.”
“We’re off every day. We just need to head to New Orleans one of them.”
“True. Then if we can get Gertie to relinquish her fishing pole, maybe we can do it this week.”
I’d been to the city several times, but never in a joyous capacity. Mostly, I’d gone there over criminal business, which usually ended in someone shooting at me. I was hoping to see more of the city minus the gunfire.
We’d traveled about ten miles from Sinful when Ida Belle pointed to a road off to the right.
It was paved, which was always a good sign.
I turned onto it and set off down a narrow road with no shoulder that seemed to lead straight into the marsh.
A clump of trees sat in the middle of the marsh grass off to the left and as we drew closer, I realized a large metal building was hidden behind the trees.
“That’s the place,” Ida Belle said. “Just pull up in front of the shop doors. Hot Rod is expecting us.”
“Hot Rod?”
“Hank Comeaux. He can hop up most anything, even push lawn mowers. People started calling him Hot Rod Hank, then just Hot Rod because it was shorter.”
“Why not just Hot?”
“One look at him and you’ll retract that question.”
I pulled into the driveway and parked in front of a giant set of double doors. A smaller door to the side of the doubles swung open and the skinniest guy I’d ever seen in my life came walking out.
Six foot one. A hundred fifty pounds, including the wrench he’s carrying. Muscle content so low, it’s a wonder he opened the door. Threat level laughable.
He wore a pair of overalls—probably because he needed the straps to keep pants on—and no other clothing that I could see.
No shirt, no shoes, and I wasn’t about to think about undergarments.
His legs and arms bent all different directions as he walked as though he was a double-jointed praying mantis man.
As he got closer, I refined my assessment. “He looks just like the scarecrow on The Wizard of Oz. Only skinnier.”
“Nailed it,” Ida Belle said. She climbed out of the Jeep and went to shake Hank’s hand. “This is my friend Fortune.” She pointed at me. “Fortune, this is Hot Rod Hank, southeast Louisiana’s answer to Dale Earnhardt’s mechanic.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, and shook my hand. For a guy with fingers like a corpse, he had a really firm grip. “That’s a great vehicle you got there,” he said, pointing at my Jeep. “Whenever you’re ready to make that thing go like it should, you let me know. I got all kinds of tricks for Jeeps.”
Technically, the Jeep was part of the estate that Sandy-Sue Morrow, the woman I was pretending to be, had inherited.
While I was hiding out in Sinful, I had use of Sandy-Sue’s great-aunt’s house and car, but I didn’t figure my privileges extended to hopping up the Jeep, although I had to admit more than a little interest in what Hot Rod could do.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” I said.
He nodded and looked over at Ida Belle. “You ready to see this baby? I think it’s going to be perfect for what you want to do.”
“Heck yeah!”
I tried to guess what vehicle had them both so excited, but nothing had prepared me for the car that stood in the middle of the shop floor when Hot Rod swung open the big double doors.
“That’s a Ferrari,” I said.
“You know your cars,” he said. “I like a woman that knows cars.”
“It has a prancing horse on the front,” I said. “What else could it be?”
Hot Rod scowled. “Had a guy last week ask me what model Mustang it was.”
Ida Belle shook her head. “That’s just wrong. What did you say?”
“Didn’t say nothing. Just shot him and kept driving.”
I waited for the punch line, but neither Hot Rod nor Ida Belle seemed to find anything wrong with his statement.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but you shot the guy for getting the brand of car wrong?”
Hot Rod looked over at Ida Belle, then back at me and grinned. “I’m just funning with ya. Heck, I ain’t shooting nobody over a car unless they try to steal it. If people want to walk around stupid then why should I care?”
I walked over to the car and looked at the beautiful lines and shiny red paint. “What model is this?”
“That’s a 458 Italia,” Hot Rod said. “Normally, I steer clear of Italian women, but Ferrari is my exception. Mind you, they’re still just as picky and expensive.”
“But they’re beautiful,” I said. Then reality set in and I looked over at Ida Belle. “You can’t buy this car. It’s a two-seater. I’d be right back on the center console again.”
“While I must admit that it’s tempting,” Ida Belle said, “this isn’t the car we came to look at.”
“Oh.” I glanced around the shop and realized it contained at least ten other vehicles. “I guess I didn’t notice.”
Hot Rod nodded. “Happens all the time. The one you came to see is over here.”
He set off to the left, and Ida Belle and I trailed behind him. At the rear of the shop, he stopped in front of an old black SUV with too many dents and scratches to count and an unattractive boxy look to it.
“There she is,” he said. “Some of the best work I ever did.”
I looked back and forth between the two of them, figuring they were pulling my leg again, but they both stood staring at the SUV, grinning like I had at the Ferrari.
“Seriously?” I said. “I don’t get it.”
“This is K5 Blazer,” Ida Belle said. “They’re bulletproof.”
I leaned closer to the vehicle and studied the door.
“Not for real bulletproof,” Ida Belle said. “I was using that as an expression. Not a literal description.”
“Oh.” I straightened back up, still not understanding. If the vehicle had actually been bulletproof, then that would have been cool, and given our past incidences, it would have come in handy.
“The brush guards and winch are new,” Hot Rod said, “but I roughed them up a bit to blend. Put a couple more dents in the sides and the hood as well. There’s some scratches, but nothing that goes through the clear coat, so you don’t have to worry about rust.”
I stared. “You dented and scratched the truck on purpose?”
Ida Belle nodded. “I asked him to. I wanted a sleeper.”
I knew what a sleeper was. It was a vehicle that didn’t look fast but was fast. On no planet, though, could I picture this big black box tearing up the road.
“I got it up to six hundred,” Hot Rod said.
“Six hundred…” He couldn’t possibly mean miles per hour.
“Six hundred horsepower,” he said.
I pointed at the SUV. “This has six hundred horsepower? How?”
He nodded. “Upgraded engine. Upgrades to the upgraded engine. It’s what I do. You want to try it out?”
“Hell yeah!” Ida Belle whooped and opened the passenger-side door, moving the seat up. “Show me what this baby can do. Hurry up and get in, Fortune.”
I’ll admit, I was considering sitting out the test ride.
Something about Hot Rod and Ida Belle’s energy level was familiar, and the last time I’d gotten in the middle of it, I’d ended up riding in a Corvette wearing nothing but a garbage bag, then being pulled over by Carter.
Granted, I had on clothes now, but there was no telling what kind of event awaited me if I stepped into that vehicle.
Don’t be a chicken.
Crap. The chicken thing. It was the one thing I couldn’t ignore.
If it took my last dying breath, no one in this lifetime would ever have been able to call me a chicken.
I said a quick prayer and climbed into the back of the SUV.
Ida Belle practically threw the seat back and jumped inside like a circus performer.
Hot Rod was grinning like a lottery winner when he climbed into the driver’s seat.
I reached up, pretending to scratch my shoulder, and eased the seat belt down, coughing as I clicked it into place. I shouldn’t have bothered. A second later, Hot Rod put on his own seat belt and declared, “Better buckle up. You’re going to need it.”