"Usually do."

Once in he cocked his seat back and nearly managed to stretch out his legs. When she turned the key, the engine coughed, objected, then caught. The radio and air conditioner sprang to life. Music jangled out, but she didn't bother to turn it down. Scattered across the dashboard were a family of decorative magnets- a banana, an ostrich, a map of Arizona, a grinning cat and a lady's hand with pink fingernails. Scribbled notes were Held in place by them. As far as Cody could make out, she had to pick up milk and bread and check on fifty tons of concrete. And call Mongo? He narrowed his eyes and tried again. Her mother. She was supposed to call her mother.

"Nice car," he commented when it shuddered and bucked to a stop at a light.

"Needs a tune-up." She shifted into neutral to let the engine idle. "I haven't gotten around to it."

He studied her hand as she jammed the car into first and accelerated. It was long and lean and suited her build. She wore her nails short and, unlike the plastic depiction of a lady's hand, unpainted. No jewelry. He could imagine those hands serving delicate cups of tea-just as he could imagine them changing spark plugs.

"So how would you handle Tim?"

"What?" He'd been lost in a quiet little fantasy about how those narrow, competent hands would feel stroking along his skin.

"Tim," she repeated. She gave the car more gas as they headed south out of Phoenix. "How would you handle him?"

At the moment he was more interested in how he was going to handle her. "I take it you two don't always see things the same way."

"You're the observant type, Johnson."

"Sarcasm, Red." He didn't ask permission to smoke, just rolled the window down an inch and began to search through his pockets for matches. "Personally, I don't mind it a bit, but when you're dealing with Thornway you'll find oil does better than vinegar."