W Is for Wasted Read Free Page A

next to me until he spoke.
    “That your Mustang?”
    “Yep,” I said and looked over at him. I placed him in his early forties, dark hair, good jawline, slender frame. Not so good-looking as to annoy or intimidate. He wore boots, faded jeans, and a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His smile revealed a row of white teeth with one crooked bicuspid.
    “Are you a fan?” I asked.
    “Oh, god yes. My older brother had a 429 when he was in high school. Man, you floored that thing and it tore the blacktop off the road. Is that a 1969?”
    “Close, a 1970. The intake ports are the size of sewer pipes.”
    “They’d have to be. What’s the airflow rate?”
    “Eight,” I said, like I knew what I was talking about. I walked the length of the station’s window, keeping pace with my car as it inched down the line. “Is that your hatchback?”
    “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I liked the car when I bought it, but it’s one thing after another. I’ve taken it back to the dealer three times and they claim there’s nothing they can do.”
    Both cars disappeared from view, and as we moved toward the exit, he stepped ahead of me and pushed open the glass door, holding it for me as I passed in front of him. One car jockey slid into the front seat of the Mustang while another took the wheel of his car, which I could see now was a Nissan. Both cars were driven out onto the tarmac, where two sets of workers swarmed forward with terry-cloth towels, wiping away stray traces of water and squirting shiner on the sides of the tires. A minute later, one of the workers raised a towel, looking over at us.
    As I headed for my car, the Nissan owner said, “You ever decide to sell, post a notice on the board in there.”
    I turned and walked backward for a few steps. “I’ve actually been thinking about dumping it.”
    He laughed, glancing over as a second worker nodded to indicate that his car was ready.
    I said, “I’m serious. It’s the wrong car for me.”
    “How so?”
    “I bought it on a whim and I’ve regretted it ever since. I have all the service records and the tires are brand new. And no, it’s not stolen. I own it outright.”
    “How much?”
    “I paid five grand and I’d be willing to let it go for that.”
    By then he’d caught up with me and we’d stopped to finish the conversation. “You mean it?”
    “Let’s just say I’m open to the idea.” I reached into one of the outer flaps of my shoulder bag and took out a business card. I scribbled my home phone number on the back and offered it to him.
    He glanced at the information. “Well, okay. This is good. I don’t have the money now, but I might one day soon.”
    “I’d have to line up a replacement. I need wheels or I’m out of business.”
    “Why don’t you think about it and I will, too. A friend of mine owes me money and he swears he’ll pay.”
    “You have a name?”
    “Drew Unser. Actually, it’s Andrew, but Drew’s easier.”
    “I’m Kinsey.”
    “I know.” He held the card up. “It says so right here.”
    “Have a good one,” I said. I continued to my car and then waved as I got in. The last I saw of him, he was heading left out of the lot while I took a right.
    I returned to the office and spent a satisfying half hour at my Smith-Corona typing a report. The job I’d just wrapped up was a work-related disability claim through California Fidelity Insurance, where I’d been accorded office space for many years. Since CFI and I had parted on bad terms, I appreciated the opportunity to ingratiate myself, a reversal made possible because the executive who fired me had himself been fired. This was a gloat-worthy turn of events and the news had lifted my spirits for days. The recent job had been gratifying for more reasons than the hefty paycheck. The responsibility of an employer for the health and safety of employees is governed by state law, and the follow-up to a workplace accident usually falls to the insurance company.