As the black Continental drifts by, the driver studies me. Young or old-I can’t tell. His hair shoots straight up from his head, then is planed into a flat-top as black as the extra-long handle of the machete on his belt. Thick neck and a big sharp nose, like a Central American Indian. The red-and-tan shirt is buttoned up all the way, like a school-boy’s. I don’t know why I notice things like this, other than it reminds me of my sons. My scalp crawls.

Hood is back in his unit by now.

I start up the ’Vette and guide it back onto the street. The Sheriff ’s cruiser stays put for a beat, then U-turns toward Miracle Auto Body. C. Hood is going to see what I saw. I go easy westbound, come to the signal at Eastern.

The black Lincoln is pulled over to the right and the guy stares at me as I drive by. Big down-turned lips, head shaved on the sides and tapering up to the flat-top. A Mayan warrior, no doubt.

He tries to fall in behind me, but I goose the seven liters and lose him in a roar of beautiful white tire smoke and rich gray exhaust.

I hit Interstate 10 east. Things are too hot for me and Allison Murrieta in L.A. right now so I’m going home for a few days.

Not to a hotel, to my real home.

I stop in San Berdoo, park on a side street, take off the ’Vette plates and slide them into my satchel. I remove both plates from a very sweet black Ford F-150 and drop them down a storm drain. I replace them with a set of cold truck plates then quietly load my stuff from the Corvette-toolbox, suitcase, police radio, backpack with diamonds, etc.-into the bed of the truck.

I can pull a lock and hotwire a stock car in just over a minute. Most don’t have alarms, but the few that do will stop when the engine starts up. That can be a long thirty seconds while the horn wails with you inside, and that’s where your nerves get tested. You beat LoJack by staging a hot car and waiting for the cops to show. If they don’t show in two days, it’s your car now, baby. People think the Club is insurmountable, but I just cut slots in the steering wheel with my carbide saw and pull the damned Club off. You have to replace the steering wheel at some point, but they’re relatively cheap.