“Yes?”
“Do not repair anybody else’s vehicle until after.”
Theodore looked through the window toward Danielle’s house.
“No promises.”
Elliot sighed.
At 10:40 the next morning, Theodore finished Danielle’s Civic.
New hose.
New belt.
Coolant topped off.
He cleaned his tools.
Washed his hands.
The grease came off his palms but remained in the lines around his nails.
Theodore considered changing clothes.
Then decided against it.
He wore a faded red-and-black flannel over a gray shirt, khaki work pants, and brown boots.
The flannel had one dark oil stain near the lower pocket.
He had owned it eight years.
It was clean.
Just permanently marked.
He climbed into the Chevy.
The starter groaned once.
Then caught.
Theodore patted the dashboard.
“Do not embarrass me today.”
The Foster Automotive flagship showroom sat on Fifth Avenue in a wealthy commercial district outside Charlotte.
Glass.
Stone.
Chrome.
High ceiling.
Italian marble.
Climate-controlled delivery bays.
A private consultation lounge.
The building looked less like a dealership than a place designed to persuade people that money had solved ordinary life.
Theodore pulled into the customer lot at 11:47.
He parked between a white Porsche Cayenne and a black Mercedes S-Class.
The Chevy looked like somebody had accidentally included the maintenance truck in a luxury car advertisement.
Theodore noticed.
Smiled.
Then walked inside.
The receptionist looked up.
Her professional smile began.
Then weakened.
Not disappeared.
Just changed.
That was familiar to Theodore.
He had spent sixty-eight years noticing small changes.
The salesman near the front window looked at his boots.
Then his truck.
Then turned away.
Another salesperson continued speaking to a couple examining a Ferrari Roma.
Theodore did not care.
His attention had already gone elsewhere.
Centered on a raised display platform was a crimson Ferrari 296 GTB.
Even Theodore stopped.
Not because of the badge.
The engineering.
Compact V6.
Hybrid system.
Aerodynamics integrated so carefully the car looked fast standing still.
Theodore walked closer.
He did not touch it.
He studied the rear haunches.
The air channels.
The way the bodywork narrowed before widening again.
“Beautiful.”
He said it quietly.
“Excuse me.”
Theodore turned.
Derek Whitmore stood several yards away.
Forty-four.
Branch general manager.
Tailored navy suit.
Silver tie.
Hair that looked sprayed into agreement each morning.
Derek had run the Fifth Avenue store for three years.
His numbers were good.
That mattered too much to the people above him.
Top transaction values.
Strong margins.
High finance penetration.
Excellent relationships with wealthy repeat clients.
His staff surveys were average.
Customer complaints existed.
But complaints at luxury dealerships were easy to explain.
Entitled customer.
Misunderstanding.
Unqualified lead.
Security concern.
Nothing had ever been serious enough to threaten Derek because Derek understood how to produce numbers executives liked.
He approached Theodore slowly.
“Can I help you?”
“Hope so.”
Theodore nodded toward the Ferrari.
“That’s a 296?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting packaging.”
Derek’s eyes moved over Theodore’s clothes.
“What exactly are you doing here?”
The question was not:
What brings you in?
It was:
What are you doing here?