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huh?”
    “Naw.” She squeezed his arm. “You just keep your chin up. Whatever it is, she’ll get over it.”
    Hack pushed through the door backward, out into the freshening storm. Over at the Texaco station across the highway, the huge canopy above the pumps was rippling like a bed sheet. Hack wouldn’t give two cents for its lasting out the hour. Bits of fir trees were scattered over Highway 101, and an occasional seagull sped overhead, blown sideways toward God only knew where. Hack fought his way into his truck and back to Vernon Ford, pulling into Bob’s empty bay so he wouldn’t have to go outside again. As he came through the showroom, he tapped on the wall of Rae’s cubicle to say he was back. He heard her jump but kept on going to his office. There were no phone messages. When he looked up after checking, she was in his doorway. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
    “You okay?” he said.
    She nodded, but her eyes teared up.
    Hack said gently, “Look, it’s a dog of a day. No one’s going to be buying anything until the weather clears. Why don’t you go home?”
    She looked away.
    “No?”
    “I hate this,” she said. Hack had no idea what it was she hated, but he couldn’t stand the thought of hearing any more misery right now. He nodded thoughtfully, as though he’d known exactly what she was talking about. “I know, but it’s going to get better. You’ll see.”
    “Do you think so?” She smiled bravely.
    “I know so, pretty lady.”
    Rae nodded and walked back across the showroom. A minute or two later he heard her close the desk drawer where she kept her purse and then fight her way out the front door without saying good-bye.
    Hack picked up the phone and speed-dialed his house. No one answered. He called Francine’s extension, and she answered on the first ring. When she said no customer had driven in or called in the last hour, he sent her home. She drove a little beater car, and he didn’t think she’d be safe on the road much longer. Then he taped a sign to the inside of the dealership’s door, saying the showroom and service department would open as usual the following morning. He tried Bunny again to tell her he was on his way home, but there was still no answer. That was okay; now he could pick up the dirt bike without her convincing herself that he was off screwing Rae Macy between leaving the dealership and arriving at home.
    He fought his way up and over Cape Mano, rejecting the idea of stopping at the overlook; the wind was too strong for him to see more than a few feet ahead through his windshield. Instead he drove straight to the kid’s house on Adams Street and left the truck idling. Dickie Leonard answered his knock. Hack could see four or five toddlers behind him in the living room, playing with bright plastic toys and making enough noise to raise the dead. Myrah Leonard, Dickie’s mom, must be doing day care again. She took in kids during the winter, when Pinky’s tips were too light down at the Anchor.
    Dickie ducked outside and opened the garage door. Inside, even from a distance, Hack could see the bike glowing in the dark like a jewel. When they went in to inspect it, he asked Dickie if he was still sure he wanted to sell it.
    “Yeah,” the kid said. “I got a speeding ticket that’s going to cost me a hundred and eighty-five bucks.”
    “Piece of shit,” Hack said sympathetically.
    “Yeah. Mom said my insurance is going to go up again.”
    “She’s probably right. That’s the way it usually works. Any accidents?”
    The kid shrugged. “Just a fender bender, you know.”
    “Your fault?”
    “Yeah, I guess.”
    “Did the driver file a claim?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “So, you’re fucked.”
    “Yeah,” the kid said gloomily.
    Hack ran his fingers over the finish on the dirt bike. It was a beauty. “You did a fine job with this, Dickie. You could be a detail man at Vernon Ford, if you’re ever looking for a job.”
    “No kidding?”
    “Sure.