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dark car had rolled out of the detail shed behind the guy’s back. Johnny craned his head around to look at it and wolf-whistled like he’d never laid eyes on it before this very minute.
    Stoke was wishing his jaw was wired shut so it wouldn’t be hanging down on his collarbone like this. Bad negotiating tactic, see a car your jaw drops involuntarily on you.
    Johnny let out another long wolf whistle.
    “Oh, yeah, there she is, my friend, in the flesh. The 1965 Pontiac G-T-O convertible. Piece of friggin’ work, I kid you not, Mr. Jones. You’re looking at one bad-assed muscle car. Pumping major steroids, I shit you not.”
    Stoke managed to get his own smile muscles under control before he let the guy see his face. He even managed a frown in reaction to the car’s absolutely gorgeous color.
    “Black?” Stoke said, holding a hand up to shade his eyes. “Is that black? The ad said black.”
    “Black? Hell, no it ain’t black. Black Raspberry, my man. Metallic. Totally custom job by my guys in Lauderdale. You like, amigo?”
    “Yeah. I like. How much?”
    Stoke, trying unsuccessfully to be cool about it, nonchalant as his friend and employer Alex Hawke might say, walked over to the car. Johnny followed close behind, trying to stay in his shadow.
    “How much you ask?” Johnny said. “Well, we gotta talk about that, don’t we? How the hell you put a number on a piece of automotive art like this?”
    “No. I mean how much horsepower has it got.” Stoke ran his hand over the almost liquid finish of the bulging hood.
    “Were you a Marine? You carry yourself like a Marine.”
    “Navy. SEAL. Three tours in the delta.”
    Johnny was busy, opening the driver’s door and popping the hood.
    “Cool. Semper fi, right? I got a lot of respect for you guys. So, what do we have under the hood? Okay. Very cool. Look at this thing, huh? Chrome headers. Everything you see here is street legal. For starters, we got an Alston chassis with Strange struts, spool and rear housing that holds a—”
    “Strange struts?”
    “Bear with me, sir, please. Strange is the manufacturer of the after-market struts. Okay? So, the transmission is a 1.96 low Powerglide with brake and TCI4500 converter. The engine powering this eight-second ride is an Indian Adventures special displacing 541 cubic inches and has a Moldex billet crank, Ross pistons, Oliver rods, Edelbrock wide port heads with T&D shaft rockers, a custom sheet-metal intake with two methanol toilets, MSD with crank trigger—”
    “Toilets?” Stoke asked, sliding behind the wheel and glancing over his shoulder at the rolled and pleated red leather rear seat.
    “It’s a racing terminology thing, Mr. Jones. Okay? Stop looking. There’s no toilet in the vehicle.”
    “She’ll do a quarter mile in eight seconds?”
    “She will. NHRA certified.”
    “And she’s street legal?”
    “Absofuckinlutely.”
    “Mercy.”
    “You want this car, Mr. Jones? I feel that you do.”
    “I do.”
    “Let’s do it.”
    “I need a number.”
    “Ballpark?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Step into my office.”

5
    A n hour later, Stokely Jones was cruising south on I-95. He rumbled over the bridge connecting downtown Miami to where he lived on Brickell Key. He was at the wheel of his brand-new 1965 GTO, top down, wearing a super-sized shit-eating grin on his face. He simply couldn’t believe the chick-magnetizing power of a black raspberry GTO convertible. He’d gotten so many admiring glances driving back to Coconut Grove, his left arm and jaw muscles were tired out just from all the waving and smiling back he’d done in acknowledgment.
    There’d been a high school car wash going on at the Dixie Crème and a mess of cheerleaders had swarmed over the car when he’d stopped for a light at the intersection. You girls behave, he’d said to them, blipping the throttle and watching them jump back at the throaty roar. Hey, it’s just an old GTO, what are all you ladies so excited about? And it