Webster moved closer to the wooden lean-to. “You ain’t got nothin’ for sale right now?”
“Nothin’. I tole you it was all repairs. But you give me money, I take your offer to the owner.”
“So I give you money,” Martinez said. “You go and tell the government to fuck off? What good does that do?”
Grease Pit sneered. “You don’t know shit ’bout how the government works, do you?”
Martinez waited.
Grease Pit said, “You buy off people, man! Get ’em in your pocket. They vote the way you want ’em to vote.”
“Like the NRA,” Martinez said. “Yeah, that’s smart.”
“Fucking-A right it’s smart. Money talks, bullshit walks. So if you want to give me money for the cause, I’ll take it.”
Webster said, “I give you money, you give us a good deal?”
“I take it to the owner, that’s what I said. Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout givin’ you anything.”
“Nothin’ for sale, huh?” Webster wiped sand from his eyes. “Shit, that’s too bad.” He was almost at the door of the shed. “I really didn’t feel much like wantin’ to come back.”
Sanchez shifted his bulky weight, his voice turning menacing. “Get the fuck away from my garage.”
Webster stopped, backed off, held out his palms. “Peace, bro. Sorry.”
“What the fuck you tryin’ to pull?”
“Nothin’,” Webster said evenly. “Just the guy at the shop told us we could get a real bargain here.”
“I tole you he fucked up. He fucked up bad. Now you’re fucked up bad.” Sanchez picked up a tire iron from the ground. “You give me a bad feelin’. Get the fuck outta here.”
Webster’s hand went inside his shirt, finger wrapped around the butt of his Beretta. He saw that Martinez had done the same.
Sanchez waved the iron, but didn’t advance. “Get outta here!”
Slowly, Webster walked backward until he bumped into his ’Cuda. Once Martinez was inside, he gunned the engine. As he pulled out, a rock crashed into the passenger door. Webster spun around, brought the car to a stop. “Stupid shit!” Webster screamed. “I’ll kill that motherfucker-”
Another rock came whizzing past, missed the trunk by millimeters.
“Let’s go, Tom.”
“Fucker put a dent-”
“Let’s go, Tom.” Martinez repeated. “Down. We’re going down the mountain.”
Webster cursed again and peeled rubber as he left. Martinez blew out air. “Slow down, for chrissakes. You’ll get us both killed.”
“I should report him to the local police.”
Martinez said, “You see that semi in the distance. Sanchez probably has a crew inside. Guaranteed, they’ll be outta here in less than five minutes.”
They rode the next few minutes in silence.
Martinez took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Sorry about your car.”
Tightly, Webster said, “Reckon I can fix it up pretty easy.”
“I’m not doing anything special this Saturday. If you want, I’ll come over and help you sand it out.”
“Thanks, Bert. That’d be great.”
Martinez patted his shoulder. “At least, we got what we came for.”
“I didn’t. I wanted to test-drive the Ultra Bagger. You see that mother? What a beaut!”
“Too much shit on it,” Martinez said. “Slows down the speed. I like something lighter and faster.”
“You do biking?”
“Used to do lots of it before I threw my neck out.”
“How’d that happen?”
Martinez laughed. “I rear-ended some poor harried housewife. I was driving a bunch of kids to a birthday party in my wife’s Volvo and got distracted by all the commotion.”
“You get any money out of it?”
“No, it was my fault. But the woman I hit didn’t do anything against me. Who’s going to start up with a cop?”
“The perks of the job.”
“You got it.” Martinez smoothed his mustache. “This cause that Sparks gave money to-Peoples for Environment Freedoms Act. You think Sanchez is just pocketing the money or is there actually some kind of cause?”
“He mentioned something about buying politicians. Maybe he’s buying off cops to look the other way at his chop shop.”
“Why would Sparks give money to something like that?”
“Maybe the doctor didn’t really know where his bucks were going,” Webster said. “Maybe he thought he was giving money for environmental freedom.”
“Whatever that is.”
“Telling the government to piss off,” Webster said. “Strange as this may seem, I could see an independent thinker like Sparks getting caught up in a thing like that. Y’all talk to any doctors recently, Bert? They’re real upset ’bout government telling them how to run their practices. Maybe this environmental cause struck a nerve.”
“What cause are you talking about?”
“Getting rid of the left-wing regulation shit.”
“Meaning?”
“Grease Pit mentioned helmets,” Webster said. “Maybe they’re trying to repeal the helmet law.”
“And you see a man like Azor Sparks giving large sums of money to something like that?”
“Passions run high, Bert.” Webster shrugged. “You saw the card he printed for himself. Maybe he fancied himself a bad actor.”
“Don’t see it.”
Webster shrugged. “I’m just throwing out possibilities.”
In the distance, a two-year-old navy Lincoln with tinted windows was inching up the mountain road. It was heavy with poor traction, fishtailing as it maneuvered the curves.
“Odd car to drive up here.” Martinez spit his gum out the window. “Pull off, Tom.”
Webster slowed, swung the ’Cuda onto a small, rocky ledge, the tires churning up gravel. He killed the ignition. They both watched the Lincoln pass, chugging up the mountain at unimpressive speed.
Webster said, “Do it?”
“What the hell?”
Webster made a U-turn, keeping lots of distance between the ’Cuda and the Lincoln. Martinez wrote down the license plate, was about to call it in. Then he remembered they weren’t in the unmarked.
Webster said, “I’ve got a cellular in the glove compartment.”
Martinez opened the door, took out a compact phone, and pressed a couple of buttons. “What am I doing wrong?”
“No reception?”
“Nothing.”
“We’re probably too far out,” Webster said.
Martinez’s face was tight in concentration. Stuck in Lodi with no radio contact. Not good.
Slowly, the ’Cuda reclimbed the mountains, bucking at the reduced speed. No one spoke. Within minutes, the graded area appeared, followed by the two skeletal remains of ranch houses. Sure enough, the Lincoln had pulled off, was heading toward the motorcycle lot.
Which was now an empty field of scrub grass. Only the shed remained.
Webster sped up and passed the dirt clearing. “They’ve gone fishing.”
“Forever.” Martinez’s breath was shallow. “Turn around. Let’s get out of here.”
Webster reversed the ’Cuda, and they headed down the mountain at rapid speed. When they had reached the freeway, Martinez tried the cellular again. This time it connected through. He called in the license plate to the Radio Transmitting Officer and waited.
Webster said, “You know, if you come over Saturday, why don’t you bring the wife and kids. I’ll make a barbecue.”
“Sounds great. Thanks.”
“You eat red meat?”
“Yes.”
“Steak?”
“Perfect. I got a portable TV. I’ll bring it and a six-pack. We’ll watch the game while we work.”
“Great.”
The cellular phone rang. Martinez picked it up, wrote down the information, then pressed the end button.
Webster looked at Martinez. His face was tense. “Who?”
“Three guesses.”
“Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”
“William Waterson-Sparks’s estate lawyer.”
Nobody spoke for a moment. Webster said, “Think we should go back up?”
“Yeah, turn around.”