wore was no particular color. His hair was pale blond, crewcut, and beneath the grime on his face and arms could be seen a deep tan. He shook his head at the teletype and said, “Nobody wants Plymouth parts. I’m up to the ass in Plymouth parts.” Turning away, he said, “Used to be Ford, now it’s Plymouth. You wouldn’t be after Plymouth parts, would you?”
Parker took out an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over. Inside were the color Polaroid shots Lempke had taken of the electric company work truck.
Buster looked at the photos and began to smile. “You’re up to something,” he said. He grinned at Parker. “Who you got driving?”
“Maybe Mike Carlow.”
“He’s okay,” Buster said grudgingly. “Not as good as I was.” When Parker didn’t say anything to that, Buster said, “Am I right, or am I right?”
Buster had bought this yard out of proceeds from half a dozen jobs he’d driven for. He’d been a conscientious driver, imaginative, unshakable in the clutch, but maybe a little too cowboy sometimes. Parker said, “You want to drive for us?”
“Little Bus ” He laughed and shook his head. “I’m where I like to be, pal.”
“What can you do me on the truck?”
“International Harvester. Cab’s no problem. Have to dummy up something in back. When do you need it?”
“Now.”
Buster grinned. “It’s always now.” He sat down at the desk, studied the photos some more. “Phone company,” he said. “Any gas and electric company. Some television repair guys. Maybe— Hold on a second.”
Parker waited while Buster made two phone calls. After the second, Buster said, “Screwed-up fender. Let’s see what we can do.” He went over to the teletype.
When Buster was done typing, Parker said, “You can do it?”
“Sure. Perfect match.”
“Paint job?”
Buster shook his head. “That’s not me. You get that done someplace else.”
“Where?”
“You don’t know anybody around here?”
“This is your town, not mine.”
Buster scratched his nose. “I don’t like to be connected,” he said. “You know how it is.”
“I can’t hit somebody cold. I need you to clear me.”
“Yeah, I know.” Buster lit a cigarette, made a face like it tasted bad, and said, “Okay. I’ll call the guy. But you make delivery.”
“Sure.”
“You’re going to have no papers on this beast,” Buster said. “She’s a scrapped truck, she don’t exist anymore.”
“Naturally.”
“Okay. You want anything special under the hood?”
“No.”
“The one I got, we’ll have to put a new engine in anyway. A different engine, I mean. It can be whatever you want.”
“I don’t figure to race any cops out of town.”
“Whatever you say,” Buster pulled a memo pad close. “About money,” he said.
“Do it in round numbers.”
“The roundest,” Buster said. “One G.”
“Delivery when?”
“Tonight. Two o’clock. It’ll be outside the gate, across the road there, by them trees. Key under the seat.”
“Good.” Parker took out another envelope, peeled ten hundreds of Billy’s money off the stack, dropped it on the desk. He said, “Where’s the painter?”
“Lemme check with him first.”
Parker waited through another phone call, and then Buster said, “Okay, it’s fine. You bring it straight there. He’ll want a C and a half.”
“That’s a hell of a lot for a paint job.”
Buster shrugged. “You know how it is,” he said. “It’s the lettering on the doors. And the risk. And the silence. You want to argue with him, fine by me.”
“He’s pushing the price a little.”
“You’re probably right. But he’s the only guy I know that I’d trust.”
“Then it’s good. Where do I find him?”
