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the silver Lincoln Town Car rental. Man had his pink hanky plastered on top of his balding pink head to soak up the sweat pouring off of him. His clothes were plastered to the skin, like he’d just come in out of the rain. It wasn’t a good look. It was eighty-eight degrees, according to the radio. Which was warm for early December in most places and just a tad hot for the Miami-Dade metropolitan area.
    Even the salesman’s little ponytail was limp.
    Stokely Jones Jr., who had just recently packed up and moved lock, stock, and barrel to South Florida, didn’t mind the heat one iota. In fact, he enjoyed it. It was part of the reason he’d moved down here from New York City in the first place. Heat, humidity, and lots of sunshine. Big blue ocean to play in. Palm trees, swaying in the breezes, lift all the girls’ dresses above their kneeses. Paradise, man, no doubt about it. He absolutely loved it.
    Stoke was keeping John Greevy, the Auto Toy Store salesperson out in the sun as part of his negotiation technique. Make him sweat. Somewhere on this vast lot full of heavy metal was an automobile he’d give his eyeteeth for. Not one of the fancy Italian F-cars or Lambos John was pushing, they were way out of his league. No, much better. And he was damned if he’d let this slippery pink rascal get the best of him.
    South Florida car lots were notoriously dangerous places to begin with. The tricky thing now was, how to handle this negotiation. Stoke wasn’t sure all the wiring in the guy’s attic had been properly soldered on the day of installation. He had a bad habit of talking down to the customers. And, he wanted to take Stoke’s rental in trade on a new car.
    “Let me take you through this one more time, John,” Stoke said, smiling at the little guy in the purple linen shirt. Johnny took pains to dress native, creamy slacks with no socks, and tiny little tasseled loafers, but the accent, the mannerisms, were unmistakable. Pure Brooklyn. Park Slope, maybe, but Brooklyn for sure.
    “Can we do that, little buddy?”
    “Please, Mr. Jones,” John Greevy said. “Be my guest.”
    “This Lincoln right here? It’s not mine, okay? What I’m trying to tell you. It’s a rental. It belongs to Mr. Hertz. You can’t trade in a rental car to buy another car.”
    “There are ways,” the guy said, bending over to check the Town Car’s left front tire tread. “Believe me, Mr. Jones, there are ways upon ways upon ways.”
    “I do believe you. But I’m telling you one more time I’m not going to trade it in. Okay? Man, I haven’t even seen the eight-second Pontiac yet. So what are we even talking about here, Johnny? Where the hell is that Pontiac?”
    The Auto Toy store guy had moved so he was standing in Stoke’s shadow again. Stoke was about six-eight and built like a very large armoire. He tended to create a lot of shade wherever he went.
    Johnny mopped his brow. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’ll see the Pontiac, all right? Just as soon as my boy finishes the detail. Like I told you. Look. Tell you what. Let’s step into my office over there and talk about it. I got air in there. You can sit down. I can get your information. You got kids? I got a nine-year old. Johnny Jr. He’s a pisser. Lemme show you his picture.”
    Johnny whipped out his wallet and flashed some pictures in a cloudy accordion plastic holder. Stoke glanced at the kid and said, “Cute as a button all right.”
    “Yeah. Kid just can’t keep his mind on his schoolwork because he—”
    “Johnny. Stop. What’s that thing over there?”
    “Which? The black Ferrari 430 Spider? Gorgeous automobile.”
    “No.”
    “That turquoise convertible? You don’t want that. No resale. A color only Ray Charles could love.”
    “How do you know I don’t want it?”
    “It’s a replica.”
    “It looks real.”
    “That’s why it’s called a replica.”
    “Holy maca-moley.”
    “What?”
    “Is that it? Is that the car? Over there?”
    A gleaming