Porter gives me a sideways glance. ?ere’s a wariness behind his eyes; he’s not sure if I’m teasing. But the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “Both?”
“Both,” I repeat softly, more than satis ed with that answer. “I think I understand now.”
“So … ,” he says, “I guess the real question is, how badly do you want to choke me right now for what’s happened? (A) A little, or (B) a lot?”
I shake my head, both dismissing his question and unable to answer. I’m not mad at him. How could I be? It’s not his fault that he’s got crappy friends.
“Hey, Bailey? I’m going to get your bike back,” he says, face turning stony and serious. “I meant what I said before. Davy will pay for this.”
God help me, but at this moment, there is nothing I want more.
After another mile, the van slows, and I see where we’re headed. On the left-hand side of the highway, just off the beach, a giant paved lot is banded by a sign that reads: MOTO PARADISE. ?ere must be a hundred used scooters for sale here. Porter pulls up next to a fenced-in trailer that sits on the back of the lot and tells me to wait in the van. “?is is the long shot, but it’s the closest to the museum, so let’s rule it out rst. Just sit here and text if you see Davy. He drives a bright yellow pickup truck with blue lightning bolts airbrushed on the side.”
Of course he does.
Porter’s not even inside the trailer ve minutes. My heart sinks. And it sinks again twice more, because we drive to other lots that look similar to this one, just farther out of town and smaller. Now I’m getting worried. What if it wasn’t Davy? What if it was one of those two Richie Rich punk kids who tried to steal the Maltese falcon statue? Maybe they stalked me at work and were trying to get revenge. But Porter doesn’t buy this. He says Davy has stolen stuff before, and that he never comes by the museum. It’s too coincidental. I guess he’s probably right, but I’m starting to freak out again, and I’m having a hard time thinking straight.
Porter is tapping the van’s steering wheel. He snaps his ngers, and then tugs his phone out of his pocket and looks something up. A couple of minutes later, he’s calling someone. ?at’s a bust, but he calls someone else, dropping his family name—I hear him say “Pennywise”—and then a third person. ?at’s the call that sticks, because he’s suddenly all relaxed and loose-limbed, one hand atop the wheel, as he tells the person he’s looking for Davy. After several grunts, he hangs up, and then ve minutes later, someone calls him back.
“I think I may have a lead,” is all he says after it’s over.
So why doesn’t he sound more hopeful?
A soft rain begins to fall. Porter turns on his windshield wipers as we pass a sign telling us that we’re exiting Coronado Cove and another identifying some tiny township that has four thousand residents. Everything here seems to be about state parks and camping and hiking. Oh, and car repair—lots and lots of car repair. Auto body, auto detailing … auto restoration. ?ere’s a small industry built up out here, people who are into muscle cars and racing, and I wonder if this is where my dad bought his car.
But Porter’s headed past the nicer places. He’s going down a dirt road into the woods, to a cinder-block garage with a number six spray-painted on a door to the left of three closed bays. Carcasses of rusted motorcycles lay in heaps near the building, discarded with other metal scraps. ?is is some kind of motorcycle chop shop, a place good bikes come to die. I’m suddenly very scared for Baby. A little scared for us, too.
Porter parks the van several yards away, under the fanning branches of some pines. “Stay in the van.”
“You must be kidding,” I say.
“If he’s inside, I don’t want you to see what might go down.”
He’s scaring me a little, but I don’t want him to know this. “No way. ?is area reminds me of Deliverance territory. We stick together.”
He snorts, hand on his door. “?at takes place in the backwoods of Georgia, but I’m not even going to ask how you know about that movie, because we don’t have time. So just … come on.”
Rain dots the dirt road in front of our steps as we make our way to the door with the red six. It’s eerily quiet, no one leaving or coming, no signs that the place is even in business. But as we get closer, I hear the faint sounds of a radio and voices, and I get nervous.
As Porter lifts his hand to knock, the door cracks open. A goateed African-American man in a tight- tting red T-shirt pokes his head out. He looks Porter over, eyes zeroing in on Porter’s scars. “Roth?”
“Yeah. You Fast Mike?”
?e man’s face softens. “You look like your mama.”
“?ank God. Everyone usually says that about my sister.”
“Never seen her, but my cousin painted that old ?underbird your mama had.”
“Yeah? She sold that a couple of years ago,” Porter says. “Hated to. She loved that bike.”
Fast Mike looks past Porter and notices me.
“?is is Bailey,” Porter says. “?e Vespa we’re looking for belongs to her.”
?e man blows out a hard breath through his nostrils. He opens the door wider. “Better come inside, then. Got a feeling this isn’t gonna be pretty.”
We follow him through a small office with two tidy desks, a counter, and an old register. No one’s there. Past an old couch and a coffeemaker, another door leads into the garage. Burnt engine oil and old paint fumes hit me as we step onto stained concrete. Seventies rock music plays on a radio on a work bench. Rows of uorescent lights hum over three drive-in bays, the closest of which is occupied by two motorcycles. ?e middle bay is empty but for three people, sitting around in folding chairs, talking. But it’s what’s in the far bay that snatches 100 percent of my attention.
