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later on that day. I was certain his friends—this Pik guy, DeeEss, and Cristal—would show up, and I needed to check them out, for Jamal's sake as well as for my own. But first I had to attend to the “car situation” as Jamal put it. After last night's experience, I had no intention of waiting for a bus. I showered, dressed, and splurged on a cab to Rayson's Used Cars.

CHAPTER FOUR
    T he day was clear but cold, and I didn't want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary strolling around a used-car lot. Drawn by my fond memories of the Demon, I immediately walked to the section marked pre-used Volkswagens to start my search. Buying a car is a bit like falling in love: You know it when it happens. The Demon's replacement had to be worthy of its predecessor; I knew what I was looking for.
    A thin, aggressive man descended on me the moment I walked into the lot. His name tag said “Frank,” and his suit, a bright blue number with an odd shine to it, was a size too big. His pug nose seemed a bit too small for his face, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick. With a patronizing grin and one of the worst cases of halitosis I'd ever experienced, he began running down the “virtues” of each of the ugliest cars in the lot. The losers he was pushing couldn't hold the Demon's hubcaps.
    “How about a Yugo?” he finally asked, after detailing the “winning points” of the last of the sorry group. “Considering your limited price range—” he stopped midsentence when he saw the expressionon my face. My “limited” price range was the very best I could do. The insurance on the Blue Demon hadn't amounted to squat, and I'd had to go into my home equity loan, which I'd taken out to help pay for Jamal's college tuition, to give me the extra edge.
    Poor as I was, though, I had my pride. As I tried to come up with a pithy response that would put him in his place, I spotted the car, tucked away in a far corner of the lot. It was parked midway between a ten-year-old Volvo and a two-year-old Chevy. It was a newer, sleeker, cherry-red version of the Blue Demon. I was in love.
    “How much is that one?” I said to Frank as I pointed toward it in a trance.
    More than you've got was written on his face, but he didn't respond to my question.
    “How much did you say it was?” I asked him again.
    When he told me, I took a deep breath and began calculating what I would need to cut out of my life. No more manicures, pedicures, or trips to the Biscuit; I'd have to depend upon the kindness of Wyvetta Green. No more ribs or apple pies from Costco. No more trips to Red Lobster or Chinese food from the restaurant down the street. McDonald's would be out of my range. Bath oil and foot massage lotion from the Body Shop would be luxuries of the past. Was I really willing to give it all up?
    Yet there was something about the way it gleamed in the late morning sun, the windshield sparkling without a chip or nick, the antenna arrow-straight and tall on the hood. The passenger and driver's side windows shining with nary a crack, the door handles unbroken and polished.
    “So how about those Yugos?” Frank took his cue from my silence.Beaten down by reality, I headed with a sigh toward the Yugo section. But then a hand—a strong, sure masculine one—planted itself firmly on my shoulder.
    “So what stroke of luck has brought you back into my life?” he said, repeating nearly the same words he'd said to me years before.
    And here was my past, slapping me square across my face once again.
    Larry Walton wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Jake Richards. He didn't possess that make-your-panties-wet sensuality that marks Basil Dupre, who can quickly make you forget the good sense grandma and her mama taught you. But he had a carefree kindness accentuated with an impish dimple in his chin that hinted there was more to him than you saw at first glance. He made you smile even if you felt like crap, which was how I felt the last time I saw