Binding the Shadows
Page 16
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I gave him a blank look, but Lon was grunting in appreciation.
“An old racing car from the seventies,” Andrew explained. “Prettiest shade of sky blue you’ve ever seen with a black stripe down the center of the hood. The kid sometimes drove it here—parked it outside by the curb. Had a dragon bumper sticker on the fender. The dragon on your jacket reminded me.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“And you don’t know his name?” Lon asked.
“Sorry.” Andrew said.
I looked at Lon. “Unusual car. Can’t be that many of them in the city.”
“I don’t know,” Lon said. “A lot of car collectors in Morella.”
“Especially the old muscle cars,” Andrew agreed. “They race them every month.”
“Where?”
“Speed Demon Rally. Down at the Morella Racetrack, on the highway going out toward La Sirena. I go sometimes. Next one’s tomorrow night.”
“Have you ever seen that boy there?” Lon asked.
“Saw the car there a few weeks ago, but not the boy.”
Couldn’t hurt to check it out. At the very least, one of the collectors might know the name of the kid’s father.
I thanked Andrew and told him I’d let him know if I found out anything. On my way out, I paused at the door. A dark sedan was parked across the street where we’d seen Davey through the window. The driver was staring at the corner store, but ducked when he saw me through the glass. Huh.
“Hold on,” Andrew called out from behind me.
I pulled my attention away from the car and watched him hurry down the candy aisle. He returned with a white plastic tub that fit inside my palm and rattled when he handed it to me. “For the Chinese girl,” he said.
I looked at the label. It was the cantaloupe gum from Hong Kong that Kar Yee loved.
“On the house,” he said. “Tell her Mr. Andrew says to get better. And if you find that boy and it was him who robbed us, you bring him here to me.” He lifted the hem of his pink panama shirt to reveal a giant jeweled belt buckle shaped like a cobra head. “My kids are too old to get a whipping, but he’s not.”
I grinned. “Sure, I’ll let you have him, but I want the telekinetic boy.”
Lon and I exited the corner shop. As we discussed tracking down the Road Runner at the racetrack, I glanced across the street. The dark sedan was gone.
“This place is bananas!” Jupe shouted over the rumble and roar of muscle car engines. His spiral-curled, bushy dark hair was limned in both the lime-green of his halo and the megawatt halide lamps lighting up the night sky inside the Morella Racetrack.
Jupe was tall for his age, only a few inches shorter than his dad, and though he was skinny as hell—all legs and arms and slender fingers—a masculine build was blooming beneath his lankiness. He had Lon’s green eyes and his African-American mother’s alluring mouth—well, as best as I could tell from photos; I hadn’t actually met the woman. Yvonne used to be a model when she was younger. And though she’d pretty much given up her visitation rights (it had been a couple of years since she’d bothered coming to see Jupe), her mother and sister remained close—they were the ones coming to spend Christmas with Jupe and Lon.
Jupe, Lon, and I made our way past half-empty grandstands and a massive warehouse-like building that housed a retail shop and a long aisle lined with food vendors. There, we stood for a moment, watching the track. Old, rusted muscle cars sat near the starting line.
“So they don’t race the restored cars?” Jupe asked.
“Too much money and time in the restorations to risk wrecking them. The race cars are beaters with souped-up engines,” Lon said. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not here to watch races. We’re here to find the ass who robbed Cady.”
Jupe zipped up a green army surplus field jacket covered with old horror movie patches. “I know, but what’s wrong with multitasking? Oh man, I think I smell nachos.”
Funny, because all I smelled was burnt engine oil and stale valrivia smoke. “Help me find a sky-blue Road Runner in that side lot over there,” I said, pointing to rows of restored cars that filled a curving strip of asphalt, hoods propped open to showcase gleaming engines. “And if you do, I’ll buy you nachos with extra cheese.”
“Throw in some jalapeños and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Jupe said, waggling his brows.
Lon snorted. “So I can listen to you moan and bitch when you’ve got a stomachache later? Forget it.”
“Jalapeños are barely even hot going in,” Jupe noted. “Why do they hurt so much coming back out?”
“God moves in mysterious ways.”
“Hoof it,” I said, planting my hands on the kid’s shoulders and pushing him into motion.
Jupe loves cars. Jupe loves old things. So a couple of months ago Lon and I gave him a busted-up 1967 GTO for his fourteenth birthday. Lon thought it would be a good experience for his son to learn how to rebuild a car in the two years he had until the dreaded sweet-sixteen driver’s license—otherwise known in the Butler residence as the first day of the apocalypse. Neither of us expected Jupe to actually do all the work by himself. I personally thought he’d remove a few rusted bolts and call it a day. Surprise, surprise: Jupe had managed, with a little help, to strip out half of the parts under the hood. The kid was smart. And determined. Lon might’ve made a huge mistake giving him that thing.
“An old racing car from the seventies,” Andrew explained. “Prettiest shade of sky blue you’ve ever seen with a black stripe down the center of the hood. The kid sometimes drove it here—parked it outside by the curb. Had a dragon bumper sticker on the fender. The dragon on your jacket reminded me.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“And you don’t know his name?” Lon asked.
“Sorry.” Andrew said.
I looked at Lon. “Unusual car. Can’t be that many of them in the city.”
“I don’t know,” Lon said. “A lot of car collectors in Morella.”
“Especially the old muscle cars,” Andrew agreed. “They race them every month.”
“Where?”
“Speed Demon Rally. Down at the Morella Racetrack, on the highway going out toward La Sirena. I go sometimes. Next one’s tomorrow night.”
“Have you ever seen that boy there?” Lon asked.
“Saw the car there a few weeks ago, but not the boy.”
Couldn’t hurt to check it out. At the very least, one of the collectors might know the name of the kid’s father.
I thanked Andrew and told him I’d let him know if I found out anything. On my way out, I paused at the door. A dark sedan was parked across the street where we’d seen Davey through the window. The driver was staring at the corner store, but ducked when he saw me through the glass. Huh.
“Hold on,” Andrew called out from behind me.
I pulled my attention away from the car and watched him hurry down the candy aisle. He returned with a white plastic tub that fit inside my palm and rattled when he handed it to me. “For the Chinese girl,” he said.
I looked at the label. It was the cantaloupe gum from Hong Kong that Kar Yee loved.
“On the house,” he said. “Tell her Mr. Andrew says to get better. And if you find that boy and it was him who robbed us, you bring him here to me.” He lifted the hem of his pink panama shirt to reveal a giant jeweled belt buckle shaped like a cobra head. “My kids are too old to get a whipping, but he’s not.”
I grinned. “Sure, I’ll let you have him, but I want the telekinetic boy.”
Lon and I exited the corner shop. As we discussed tracking down the Road Runner at the racetrack, I glanced across the street. The dark sedan was gone.
“This place is bananas!” Jupe shouted over the rumble and roar of muscle car engines. His spiral-curled, bushy dark hair was limned in both the lime-green of his halo and the megawatt halide lamps lighting up the night sky inside the Morella Racetrack.
Jupe was tall for his age, only a few inches shorter than his dad, and though he was skinny as hell—all legs and arms and slender fingers—a masculine build was blooming beneath his lankiness. He had Lon’s green eyes and his African-American mother’s alluring mouth—well, as best as I could tell from photos; I hadn’t actually met the woman. Yvonne used to be a model when she was younger. And though she’d pretty much given up her visitation rights (it had been a couple of years since she’d bothered coming to see Jupe), her mother and sister remained close—they were the ones coming to spend Christmas with Jupe and Lon.
Jupe, Lon, and I made our way past half-empty grandstands and a massive warehouse-like building that housed a retail shop and a long aisle lined with food vendors. There, we stood for a moment, watching the track. Old, rusted muscle cars sat near the starting line.
“So they don’t race the restored cars?” Jupe asked.
“Too much money and time in the restorations to risk wrecking them. The race cars are beaters with souped-up engines,” Lon said. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not here to watch races. We’re here to find the ass who robbed Cady.”
Jupe zipped up a green army surplus field jacket covered with old horror movie patches. “I know, but what’s wrong with multitasking? Oh man, I think I smell nachos.”
Funny, because all I smelled was burnt engine oil and stale valrivia smoke. “Help me find a sky-blue Road Runner in that side lot over there,” I said, pointing to rows of restored cars that filled a curving strip of asphalt, hoods propped open to showcase gleaming engines. “And if you do, I’ll buy you nachos with extra cheese.”
“Throw in some jalapeños and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Jupe said, waggling his brows.
Lon snorted. “So I can listen to you moan and bitch when you’ve got a stomachache later? Forget it.”
“Jalapeños are barely even hot going in,” Jupe noted. “Why do they hurt so much coming back out?”
“God moves in mysterious ways.”
“Hoof it,” I said, planting my hands on the kid’s shoulders and pushing him into motion.
Jupe loves cars. Jupe loves old things. So a couple of months ago Lon and I gave him a busted-up 1967 GTO for his fourteenth birthday. Lon thought it would be a good experience for his son to learn how to rebuild a car in the two years he had until the dreaded sweet-sixteen driver’s license—otherwise known in the Butler residence as the first day of the apocalypse. Neither of us expected Jupe to actually do all the work by himself. I personally thought he’d remove a few rusted bolts and call it a day. Surprise, surprise: Jupe had managed, with a little help, to strip out half of the parts under the hood. The kid was smart. And determined. Lon might’ve made a huge mistake giving him that thing.
