Gus slipped into the shack, Shawn following him before the door could slam shut. As soon as the door closed, the temperature inside seemed to double.

“Now I know what one of those chickens feels like inside the rotisserie,” Shawn said. “I think I’ll wait outside.”

Gus didn’t answer, but the laser beams shooting out of his eyes welded the door shut. Or at least, that was the effect his glare had on Shawn.

“Or I’ll stay here and enjoy the steam,” Shawn said, looking around for a place to sit. Two drooping Formica chairs leaned against one corrugated wall, their molded plastic forms melting out of shape; a low table between them held a copy of Popular Mechanics jauntily promising that mankind would finally walk on the moon within no more than ten years. Across from this luxurious waiting area, its proprietor leaned on a sagging counter covered with dust-crusted plastic signs. At least Gus assumed this was the proprietor-it could have been a ton of potatoes sewn into a filthy jumpsuit.

As Gus and Shawn approached the counter, the potatoes stood up, leaving a man-sized grease mark on the scarred surface. Long hair drizzled from his scalp, tangling into a longer beard.

“Bathrooms are for employees only,” he growled, then settled his bulk down on the counter. “No exceptions.”

“I promise I won’t ask,” Gus said, trying desperately not to imagine what the employee restroom might look like. “I’m looking for car. It’s a blue Echo.”

“License plate?”

Gus pulled out his wallet and slid his vehicle registration across what little part of the counter wasn’t taken up by the attendant’s forearms. Heaving a sigh deep enough to rearrange most of the smaller spuds in his jumpsuit, the attendant leaned down and pulled a laptop computer out of a drawer, then typed Gus’ information on the keyboard.

“That will be six thousand dollars,” the attendant said.