'I…guess so. Why do you want one?'
'I want a brand. Your brand.'
'Hold up, girl. It wouldn't look so sporty on the tennis court.'
'Please!'
'Let me think about it, okay?'
'Okay. Where are you— ?' She caught my look, stopped in her tracks. 'I'm sorry. I…'
'I'll call you,' I said. 'Stay here.'
Sonny was working in the driveway as I pulled in. He had the Plymouth opened to the bright sun, airing it out, doors and windows all wide open, front end assembly and trunk standing up, a hose in one hand, big bucket of suds nearby.
'Good idea,' I told him.
'I'm going to do the undercarriage later. I've got a pressure attachment for the hose— it'll be like steam cleaning.'
'You're a natural,' I said. 'Some people, you have to tell them to clean their tools after they use them. You know what to say? If the cops ask you where you were last night?'
'I…guess I don't.'
'Okay, listen up. You always want to tell the Law something as close to the truth as you can. Their game is to catch you in a lie, like a loose thread in a weave, see? They pull the thread, the whole thing starts to unravel. So always keep it as simple as you can. Last night? You were cruising all around the area, testing the car, working on your moves for the races Sunday, see?'
'Yeah. So even if we were spotted…'
'Sure. I was gonna do some work around here, if I needed a car, I wouldn't use this one.'
''Cause it doesn't blend in, right?'
'Right.'
The kid nodded, looking at the Lexus. I could almost see the gears mesh in his head, but he didn't say anything.
I went upstairs, changed my clothes. When I came back down, the Plymouth was still open to the cleansing summer breeze, but the kid was gone. I found him at the house, at the kitchen table.
'You want some food?' he asked.
'I could sure use something.'
'I got some rye bread. Fresh from the bakery. And some pineapple juice.'
'You're on the job, Sonny.'
He ducked his head. Put a couple of slices into the toaster as I pulled out my vitamins. We ate in peaceful silence. I could see he had something to say— decided to let him get to it in his own time.
He waited until I was done, watching out of the corner of his eye. Then he pulled a piece of pale blue paper from his pocket, neatly folded.
'Burke?'
'Yeah?'
'Wendy gave me this. Last night. It's a poem. About Lana. Do you want to see it?'
'Sure.'
He handed it over. It was handwritten, the letters precise, small, unslanted…almost like printing.
Lana
Can I come over?
Not yet.
But I miss you.
There's time.
Are you still so sad?
A different sad.
But you're not lonely?
Not here.
Then why are you still sad?
Because I can't come back.
Do you want to?
Not to that.
Oh, Lana, why did you go?
