Chapter 17: Trade-In

On Saturday, Pete called me from the garage and said, "You need to see this. Bring a camera."

Malloy Auto sat on Archer Avenue between a tire shop and a church.

It had two bays and a hand-painted sign my father had hung in 1998.

When I came around the corner, the black Maybach was parked in front of the left bay.

Harrison stood beside it with his hands in his coat pockets.

Pete stood beside Harrison with a clipboard, and his Cubs cap was on backwards, which meant he was enjoying himself.

"It starts, it stops, it has heated seats in the back," Pete said. "I've never seen so many cup holders. I'd give you nine hundred dollars for it."

"It's worth a hundred and ninety thousand," Harrison said.

"A dealer on Western will give you a hundred and seventy-five. I'm only telling you what I'd pay."

"Pete," I said.

"He asked me to sell it for him, Kate. I'm the only honest car guy he knows."

I turned to Harrison.

"You love this car."

"I hid you in this car," he said. "I drove you to a dark side street in it every Sunday for years."

He said it quietly, in front of my brother and the church next door.

"I don't want to drive it anymore."

Pete sold the Maybach by one o'clock.

Harrison signed the paper on the hood of a pickup.

A man with a gold chain handed over a cashier's check.

Pete drove the Maybach away himself, with the seat pushed all the way back.

Harrison stood on the curb and watched it go.

"I thought I'd feel something," he said.

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