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a 1969 Chevy Camaro, or what used to be a 1969 Chevy Camaro, swinging into the turnaround. It was impossibly loud and Abby wasn’t sure it boded well that the owner hadn’t mentioned that it needed muffler work, too. She hoped the car would be the right fit.
     
    It stopped in front of them and the door opened. A young kid, about 18 maybe 19, wearing cowboys boots and a pair of ripped jeans got out. He grinned when he saw Abby. Abby smiled back.
     
    “Well, I guess you’re Abby, then,” the kid drawled.
     
    “You must be Dave.”
     
    “I sure am.” Then he scowled at Shooter. “Bring your boyfriend?”
     
    “Nah,” Abby assured him. “He owns the place. Why don’t you pop the hood and let’s take a look?”
     
    The kid hesitated then headed back to the car and released the hood latch. Abby lifted it up and rested it on the metal arm.
     
    Yikes. It was a mess. Carburetor appeared to be jury rigged and the distributor cap had a small crack in it. It was a wonder the kid managed to put 111,000 miles on it because it looked like it had never had a tune up.
     
    The kid came up beside her. “I’m asking 5,000,” he said.
     
    Abby hid her smirk. “Uh huh. Except I’m only offering 2,500,” she replied, opening up negotiations. Everyone heard the crunch of gravel and looked over as Tex strode up, stopping beside his boss.
     
    “Hi!” Abby said to him, and couldn’t help but smile.
     
    “Vegas,” Tex said, eyeing the car.
     
    The kid looked at Shooter and then back at Abby. “This here’s a classic car,” he told her.
     
    Abby stood up and looked at him. “This here is a classic car that needs, for starters, a new clutch assembly, a new air intake system, a new muffler, which you didn’t mention over the phone, and I know you think I didn’t hear that grinding when you hit the brakes, but I sure as shit did and that means it needs new discs, too. And that’s just what I’ve been able to suss out in the 30 seconds you’ve been here. So, I’m offering 2,500.”
     
    The kid stared at Abby and scratched his head. She leaned forward. “This is the part where you make me a counter offer,” she stage-whispered.
     
    His eyebrows knitted together. “4,000.”
     
    Abby tried very hard not to roll her eyes. “3,000.”
     
    “3,800,” the kid snapped.
     
    Shooter groaned, but Abby didn’t look at him. “3200. Cash. Right now,” she said.
     
    At that the kid perked up considerably. “Yeah, okay, deal!” Abby took out the cash that she had bundled into stacks of a thousand each and handed him three of them. He pulled the title and the keys out of his pocket and handed them over.
     
    Then he grinned at Abby. “I could use a ride home,” he said to her.
     
    Tex answered from behind her. “Then take your 3,200 dollars in cash and get yourself a cab.”
     
    The kid startled for a moment and nodded, tucking the stacks into his pants and pulling his shirt down over it. He took off for the sidewalk out front.
     
    “A fool and his money are soon parted,” Tex said in a gravel tone.
     
    Abby saw him looking right at her. “This is a classic car!” she insisted.
     
    Shooter frowned. “Vegas, this is a classic piece of shit. And you overpaid by at least three hundred dollars.”
     
    She laughed. “Some women waste their money on manicures. I really want this car. You lack vision, Sir. And I’m sorry for you.”
     
    Shooter and Tex exchanged a look as Abby dug a list out of her purse and handed it to Shooter. “Do you think you could order me the parts on that list? That’ll get me started,” she asked, then took out the remaining thousand dollar stack and the leftover three hundred. “This should cover it.”
     
    Shooter examined the list and the money in his hand. “Yeah, sure, Vegas. Whatever you need.”
     
    “Thanks!” she said looking down at the keys. Attached was a skull with red paint that looked like blood on it. “Ugh.” She took it off the chain and handed