Fittich turned the driver’s license over and over in his hand. “Is somebody going to ask me why I’d let you make a test drive alone even with a copy of your license?”
“The guy looked honest to me,” Joe said, feeding Fittich the lines he could use. “It was his picture on the license. And I just couldn’t leave, ’cause I expected a call from a hot prospect who came in earlier and might buy the best piece of iron I have on the lot. Didn’t want to risk missing that call.”
“You got it all figured out,” Fittich said.
His manner changed. The easy-going, smiley-faced salesman was a chrysalis from which another Gem Fittich was emerging, a version with more angles and harder edges.
He stepped to the Xerox and switched it on.
Nevertheless, Joe sensed that Fittich had not yet made up his mind. “The fact is, Mr. Fittich, even if they come in here and ask you some questions, there’s nothing they could do to you—and nothing they’d want to bother doing.”
“You in the drug trade?” Fittich asked bluntly.
“No.”
“Cause I hate people who sell drugs.”
“I do too.”
“Ruining our kids, ruining what’s left of our country.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Not that there is much left.” Fittich glanced through the window at the man at the bus stop. “They cops?”
“Not really.”
“Cause I support the cops. They got a hard job these days, trying to uphold the law when the biggest criminals are some of our own elected officials.”
Joe shook his head. “These aren’t any kind of cops you’ve ever heard of.”
Fittich thought for a while, and then he said, “That was an honest answer.”
“I’m being as truthful with you as I can be. But I’m in a hurry. They probably think I’m in here to call a mechanic or a tow truck or something. If I’m going to get that Suburu, I want it to be now, before they maybe tumble to what I’m really doing.”
After glancing at the window and the bus stop across the street, Fittich said, “They government?”
“For all intents and purposes—yeah.”
“You know why the drug problem just grows?” Fittich said. “It’s because half this current group of politicians, they’ve been paid off to let it happen and, hell, a bunch of the bastards are even users themselves, so they don’t care.”
Joe said nothing, for fear that he would say the wrong thing. He didn’t know the cause of Fittich’s anger with authority. He could easily misspeak and be viewed suddenly as not a like-thinker but as one of the enemy.
Frowning, Gem Fittich made a Xerox copy of the driver’s license. He returned the laminated card to Joe, who put it away in his wallet.
At the desk again, Fittich stared at the money. He seemed to be disturbed about cooperating—not because he was worried about getting in trouble but because the moral dimension, in fact, was of concern to him. Finally he sighed, opened a drawer, and slid the two thousand into it.
From another drawer, he withdrew a set of keys and handed them to Joe.
Taking them gratefully, Joe said, “Where is it?”
Fittich pointed at the car through the window. “Half an hour, I probably got to call the cops and report it stolen, just to cover myself.”
“I understand. With luck, I’ll be where I’m going by then.”
“Hell, don’t worry, they won’t even look for it anyway. You could use it a week and never get nailed.”
“I will call you, Mr. Fittich, and tell you exactly where I left it.”
“I expect you will.” As Joe reached the open door, Fittich said, “Mr. Carpenter, do you believe in the end of all things?”
Joe paused on the threshold. “Excuse me?”
The Gem Fittich who had emerged from the chrysalis of the cheerful salesman was not merely harder edged and edgier; he also had peculiar eyes—eyes different from what they had been, full of not anger but an unnerving pensiveness. “The end of time in our time, the end of this mess of a world we’ve made, all of it just suddenly rolled up and put away like an old moth-eaten rug.”