Chapter 9: Salvage

"Then we go before Friday," I said.

"The owner'll meet us Thursday after close. Nine o'clock. He doesn't want anybody seeing a Chen in his yard in daylight."

"I'm not a Chen."

"Your card says you are."

"Not for long."

He was quiet a second.

"I'll pick you up at eight-thirty," he said.

Thursday night Lily went to sleep at Stool Nine's apartment, with his wife and three pillows and her whale.

Rafael's tow truck idled at the curb at eight-twenty-five.

I came down the side stairs in jeans and my mother's old Raiders jacket.

He looked at the jacket.

"Your mama was a Raiders fan?"

"She said it was a cross she had to bear."

He laughed and pushed the passenger door open from inside.

The cab was high. I had to grab the handle and climb.

It smelled like coffee and motor oil and some kind of cedar soap.

His big hand came across to help me up and then stayed on the seat between us a second too long.

He took it back.

We drove south on 280 with the radio low and the bay going black on our left.

He drove like he did everything else, easy and sure, one wrist over the wheel.

"You hungry?" he said.

"No."

"There's a bag of those orange crackers in the glove box."

"I'm not hungry."

"Okay." A mile went by. "They're the good kind with the peanut butter."

I opened the glove box.

He grinned at the road.

The body shop sat at the end of a dead-end street in Daly City, under the freeway, behind a chain-link fence topped with wire.

The office was dark.

The gate was locked.

Rafael pulled up beside it and cut the engine.

"He's late," I said.

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