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realms of genuine recovery with an emphasis on making positive changes to Savannah, money talked and bullshit walked. Roberta and Riley disembarked from the pickup and made their way to the door. Roberta left her shotgun on the back seat of the vehicle, as was usual. There was no threat here, save for the prospect of some poor junkie trying to mug them for a fix, and that would only end up badly for the junkie.
    The door opened before they arrived. A clean cut man, well dressed by local community standards to the point of gaudiness in comparison to his neighbors, stood smiling in the doorway. He was forty, give or take five years, a smooth pale complexion with no obvious signs of drug or alcohol abuse, steady hands and clear blue eyes that shone with the bright warmth of intelligence. He looked like he would be more at home making a mortgage deal or lecturing students on economics than living in this dilapidated hovel.
    “Mr. Cavanaugh?” Riley said, producing her identification for the man.
    “I am he; what can I do for you lovely ladies on an afternoon like this? Would you like a glass of lemonade, perhaps? I just made some; a whole fresh pitcher.”
    “I’m afraid not, Mr. Cavanaugh.” Riley’s tone was entirely professional. A natural actor, thought Roberta. “I’m afraid we’re here on business matters. We’re here to take possession of your car; the payments haven’t been made for three months, you see.”
    The man’s brow furrowed and his smile dropped, but not completely. He was confused, not angry as most victims of repossession were. Something felt very wrong to Roberta, but she couldn’t place it. Tingles of unformed ideas and warnings jangled like spiders up her spine.
    “Oh, I’m afraid there must me some mistake,” said Mr. Cavanaugh. “My car is currently in the shop, something to do with the transmission, they say. I really have no idea about cars. That’s why I bought a Volkswagen, you know, they said it would be super reliable, but…” He trailed off.
    His voice was not local. It sounded to Roberta that it was an affected Bostonian accent. Perhaps he had once been a resident of Savannah, but there was little evidence of that in his deportment or speaking voice. Realization hit her at the same time as Riley spoke the words that were forming in her mind.
    “Excuse me, you don’t own a blue four door Ford?” she said.
    “Oh, I see the confusion,” Cavanaugh said serenely. “You are looking for my father, I am afraid. He’s not here at the moment; could I take some details and ask him to call you when he gets back?”
    “Where has he gone?” Roberta said, “I’m afraid we don’t arrange appointments. Kinda goes against the whole idea of repossession if the person who is getting their property repossessed knows when we’re coming. You understand, I’m sure. Tell us where he is, and we’ll give him a ride back here when we’re done.”
    Cavanaugh looked a little taken aback, looking Roberta up and down with a strange, unreadable expression, but he relented and told them that his father had gone courting. This was a cause for great merriment for Riley, as she was young enough to still consider the idea of an elderly man who must be in his sixties at least chasing skirt to be hilarious. Roberta thanked Mr. Cavanaugh Junior and led Riley back to her vehicle, with the address of where Mr. Cavanaugh Senior had gone; cherche l'amour.
    On arrival at the address, which was across town in a much more affluent area, they found a scene that was bittersweet in its pathos. An elderly gentleman was on one knee on the porch of a grand town house that had seen better days. In the doorway, an even more elderly looking woman was gesticulating wildly at him. It appeared that Mr. Cavanaugh Senior was no Casanova, and from his downcast expression it was evident that he knew he was beaten. His handsome face wore the features which his son would obviously inherit one day, right down to the slightly