exit to the Beltway that would point him toward Maryland. The nearest mechanic who would admit to being able to perform the kind of automotive surgery needed to create Rod’s car lived across the Potomac in the Southern Maryland county of St. Mary’s. It was the same man who had been identified by his peers during Hannibal’s telephone investigation.
Hannibal still marveled at how abruptly his urban environment faded to a rural setting. The city feeling dropped away within twenty minutes of driving, when he turned onto Maryland’s Route 5 and headed south toward Mechanicsville. He spent a lot of time alone with the Tornado, and he knew just where on the RPM scale she would settle into a smooth and steady cruise. This was the speed at which his Volvo was happiest, and once he hit it he liked to settle back and enjoy the scenery moving past him. At these times he enjoyed his favorite guilty pleasure, the classic rock music that always made him feel so good. None of his friends could really appreciate the Lynrd Skynrd album thumping in his CD player right then, but he was sure the people who lived on either side of the road he was cruising down would love it.
His head was still bobbing when he turned off the highway, and again onto an even smaller road. He slowed to a crawl to drive over the ruts and potholes, eventually moving onto a road barely wide enough to accommodate two cars passing. Willows lined the road, leaning far enough over to occasionally brush the Tornado’s white roof. Just as he was beginning to doubt the accuracy of his directions, Hannibal saw four single-story buildings. One looked as if it might hold an office, while the others were clearly garages and work areas.
The pit bull snarling at him at the end of a short chain marked this as rural white territory. Sarge called these people SMIBs, an unflattering acronym for Southern Maryland In-Breds. Of course, Hannibal had been in Black- owned junkyards with a very similar look except that for some reason, the brothers always had rottweillers or Doberman pinschers chained to their gates.
Hannibal sat for a moment, parked in front of a row of vintage cars, and partial cars. He allowed himself those few seconds to decide on the best approach to get the information he needed. Despite the barking dog, no one came outside to meet him, so in his own time he opened his door and stepped out. The car’s air-conditioned atmosphere puffed out with him and evaporated, allowing the heat of the day to wrap around him like a soft blanket. The humidity fogged his Oakley’s for a second. The smell of oil or transmission fluid was tainted with the odor that rises when someone who chews tobacco has spit in the same place too many times. He looked down to see dust rise from the hard packed dirt surface and settle on his previously glistening shoes. On an impulse, he pulled his gloves off, dropped them on the seat, shut the door and headed inside.
Ten steps later Hannibal opened the door of the first cinder block building. He knew right away why no one had stepped out. A loud compressor was keeping that room ice cold. He saw everything he expected to see there: a parts manual open on a wooden counter, vinyl chairs on the customer side, a Coke machine in the corner, barely clad models on the calendar on the opposite wall, and a hard-skinned, smiling white man standing behind the counter.
“Morning,” the man said. “What can I do you for today? You looking for a car, or you want some work done on that 850 GLT outside?”
Hannibal held his hand out for a shake, and got it. “I’m Hannibal Jones, and I’m betting you’re Clarence Nash.” Nash was in his early fifties, with silver hair and a beard that had simply grown as far as it wanted to and stopped. He wore overalls, but his hands were clean and his shake was firm. Hannibal’s research told him that this man was a mechanic, an artist and a salesman. He figured he could probably get away with a direct approach with the man, if he sprinkled it with a bit of flattery.
Nash took Hannibal in with one broad glance, and there seemed to be a great deal of activity going on behind his face. “I’m Nash, but folks here about generally call me Van. And I’m thinking maybe you ain’t here about no car. Hardly anybody comes here in a suit, and you ain’t no Marylander anyhow. You ain’t with the IRS, is you?”
“No kind of law, although I do have some experience in that area,” Hannibal said. “I’m private now, just trying to help a client find an old friend. I don’t have too many leads, but I think this guy was a customer of yours.”
Nash stared idly out the window toward the sound of a power sander being used in one of the garages out back. “Well, son, I’ve had a lot of customers in the last couple of years, and I don’t keep real good records here.”
Hannibal leaned an elbow on the counter while he slid his hand into his pocket. “I understand sir. This is rather an odd request. But you must keep some sort of records and I have been authorized to pay you for your time checking them. Of course if my information is right, you’ll remember this fellow. I’m told you’re the only man alive who could have built his car. Corvette in front, Cadillac in back. Sound familiar?”
While he talked, Hannibal watched Nash’s face move from suspicion to irritation to offense and finally to what looked like disgust. For a moment he feared he had miscalculated the best way to approach this man.
“Oh, that asshole,” Nash said, his eyes rolling skyward. “Well, if your client really is a friend of his, you ought to get a better class of client. But I’m betting the real reason you’re trying to find him is because he welshed on a bet or screwed your client’s old lady. Right?”
“Well, something like that,” Hannibal said. “He stole something from a lady and I’m trying to recover it.”
“Yeah, that figures,” Nash said, turning to rummage through a stack of thick binders. “Always talked about women like they was trash. I’ll never forget that guy. One of them pretty-boy weightlifters with squinty little eyes and hands like a gorilla’s paws. And the job, Jesus what a job.”
“You mean the car?”
Nash returned to the counter and slammed a big binder down on it to accent his words. “Damn straight. You know how the sixty-eight ‘Vette had that crease on the side of the front quarter panel and the doors?”
“I have to admit I don’t know much about old cars.”
“Well, they had a crease along them, horizontally, see?” Nash talked while he flipped through blue, perforated pages. “Ran down the side. So when I cut the body in half…”
“You cut the car in half?”
“Such a beauty too,” Nash said, shaking his head. “But, yeah, he only wanted the front part, before the doors. Just back to the windshield. Then I had to reform the fiberglass on the sides, to make it match up when I mounted it on the El Dorado. That meant cutting the front off that beautiful nineteen fifty-nine Caddy. It’s what he wanted, and he paid big money for it too, but believe me, driving that thing must be a bitch.”
“My client said he called it a Corvorado,” Hannibal said. “Why would a guy want to do that?”
“Why?” Nash looked up, surprised. “Boy, you’re talking about driving the biggest, flashiest thing on the road. The ‘Vette’s all nose, and that El Dorado was all ass, so you end up with this long, racy, high powered bitch that can haul ass while it’s hauling you and a half dozen of your best friends. And with the fiberglass nose making her tail heavy, I bet you she’s a hell of a street racer. And he could take care of her.”
“Meaning?”
Nash looked up again, surprised. “Meaning that he knew the machine. Think he must have been quite a shade tree mechanic, something you city boys wouldn’t know nothing about. Hell of a driver too. I rode with him on her shakedown drive. Ah, here he is. Rod Mantooth.”
“You sound a little like you admired him,” Hannibal said, staring down at the receipt in Nash’s book.
“No sir, he was a genuine son of a bitch,” Nash said, looking as if he was about to spit. “Had a hateful word for anybody you could name, and thought he was God’s gift to the world. Never seen a man swagger like that, except on TV on the wrestling shows. And the way he talked about the ladies. Damn.”
Hannibal smiled a bit. It was getting easier and easier to hate this Mantooth guy. “Sounds like I want to watch my back when I find him. But I guess he made an impression on you. Can you give me a description?”
Nash’s lower lip pushed forward, and his eyes went up and to his left as he searched his brain. “Five-ten, maybe, but he had to be pushing two hundred pounds and solid as an old oak. Black hair, and black eyes that were, I don’t know, kind of cold, you know? Kind of dark skin, too. Not like you, I mean like spics or Italians get. Real hairy arms too. And kind of a craggy face, although I bet women go for him.”
Hannibal assembled a picture in his mind, much as a police sketch artist might. He would consult it later if he thought he had the man in his sights. “I’m picturing loud, short sleeve shirts, jeans and cowboy boots.”
Nash snapped back. “How’d you know that? Well, it’s just the kind of stuff he always had on. He’s sure not from around here. He might have been a wannabe surfer dude but from that accent I’d bet he’s an Alabama boy. You know, the kind that barely get through fifth grade and learn about loving from their sister.”
Hannibal nodded that he got the idea, all the while marveling at the way some rednecks can put other
