Numbers Don't Lie Read Free Page A

like that at Frankie’s,” I said, when he got back into the car.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œYou’re supposed to bargain, Wu. People expect it. Even kids. What do you want with phony moon rocks anyway?”
    â€œSupporting free enterprise,” he said. “Plus, I worked on Apollo and I handled some real moon rocks once. They looked just like these.” He sniffed them. “Smelled just like these.” He tossed them out the window into the shallow water as we motored through a puddle.
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    As impressive as the Hole can be (first time), there is nothing more impressive than a junkyard of all Volvos. I couldn’t wait to see Wu’s face when he saw it. I wasn’t disappointed. I heard him gasp as we slipped through the gate. He looked around, then looked at me and grinned. “Astonishing,” he said. Even the inscrutable, skeptical Wu.
    â€œTold you,” I said. (I could hardly wait till he saw the 1800!)
    The old man was at the end of the driveway, working on a diesel this time. Another customer, this one white, looked on and kibitzed. The old man seemed to sell entertainment as much as expertise. They were trying to get water out of the injectors.
    â€œI understand you have an 1800,” Wu said. “They’re hard to find.”
    I winced. Wu was no businessman. The old man straightened up, and looked us over. There’s nothing like a six-foot Chinaman to get your attention, and Wu is six-two.
    â€œP1800,” the old man said. “Hard to find is hardly the word for it. I’d call it your rare luxury item. But I guess it won’t cost you too much to have a look.” He reached around the diesel’s windshield and honked the horn. Two shorts and a long.
    The oversized head with the oversized eyes appeared at the far end of the yard, by the fence.
    â€œTwo lawyers coming back,” the old man called out. Then he said to me: “It’s easier to head straight back along the garage till you get to where Frankie is working. Then head to your right, and you’ll find the P1800.”
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    Frankie was still working on the endless pile (not a stack) of tires by the fence. Each one went through the low door of the shed with a pop .
    I nodded, and Frankie nodded back. I turned right and edged between the cars toward the P1800, assuming Wu was right behind me. When I saw it, I was relieved—it had not been a dream after all! I expected an appreciative whistle (at the very least), but when I turned, I saw that I had lost Wu.
    He was still back by the garage, looking through a stack (not a pile) of wheels against the wall.
    â€œHey, Wu!” I said, standing on the bumper of the P1800. “You can get wheels anywhere. Check out the interior on this baby!” Then, afraid I had sounded too enthusiastic, I added: “It’s rough but it might almost do.”
    Wu didn’t even bother to answer me. He pulled two wheels from the stack. They weren’t exactly wheels, at least not the kind you mount tires on. They were more like wire mesh tires, with metal chevrons where the tread should have been.
    Wu set them upright, side by side. He slapped one and gray dust flew. He slapped the other. “Where’d you get these?” he asked.
    Frankie stopped working and lit a cigarette. “Off a dune buggy,” he said.
    By this time, I had joined them. “A Volvo dune buggy?”
    â€œNot a Volvo,” Frankie said. “An electric job. Can’t sell you the wheels separately. They’re a set.”
    â€œWhat about the dune buggy?” Wu asked. “Can I have a look at it?”
    Frankie’s eyes narrowed. “It’s on the property. Hey, are you some kind of environment man or something?”
    â€œThe very opposite,” said Wu. “I’m a lawyer. I just happen to dig dune buggies. Can I have a look at it? Good ones are hard to find.”
    I