Irrevocable (Evan Arden 5)

“It came in that way.” A voice from behind me provides the answer.

I turn around and eye a short, tubby dude with greasy overalls and a baseball cap pulled down too low over his eyes.

“Whoever did it needs to be shot.” I’m actually seeing red. Putting any kind of bumper sticker on a car like this is grounds for dismemberment.

“It’ll come off with a little work,” Tubby says with a shrug. “If not, you can always get ‘er a new bumper—have it sanded and repainted to match.”

His nonchalance is pissing me off. He’s a car guy, obviously—doesn’t he even care that someone did this to a classic? How long has it been sitting here with that thing on it?

“I’m taking it.” I fold my arms across my chest and stare at the guy.

“I haven’t put it up for sale yet.”

“Well, get your fucking paperwork in order,” I tell him, “because I’m taking it home today.”

I refuse to even leave the lot to obtain the amount of cash the guy wants for the car. Jonathan pisses and moans about it but eventually agrees to go get the cash for me while the car dude mocks up some paperwork. I’ll pay Jonathan back later. By midafternoon, I’m driving my new baby off the lot.

I have the feeling I’m going to enjoy my spontaneous purchase.

Chapter 3—Family Ties

I’m in love.

With the Camaro.

I’m really not much of a car guy. I have always seen cars as a means of getting from one place to the other and not much more. I do admit to having been fascinated with old muscle cars in my youth, and apparently I never quite lost that attraction.

There’s really only one cliché way to describe my new baby—the engine roars when I step on the gas. It fucking roars like a lion that has just noticed his cage is open, and there is a pack of lionesses in heat just outside the door. I’ve scared the shit out of a couple of pedestrians, and I really don’t care.

I open it up, driving north on I-94, heading for the suburb of Wilmette. Rinaldo’s house is on the far north side of the area and is the epitome of extravagance. The place backs up to a golf course, part of an exclusive club that if I cared to try, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to join because I can’t come up with my lineage.

I slow down and park in the circular drive and head to the front door. The doorbell chimes around the porch in an elaborate melody.

“Evan! I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Hello, Lele,” I say with a smile. She takes me into her ample arms and gives me a big hug.

Lele was once a dancer in one of Rinaldo’s clubs, and she turned more than a few heads while she was there. As soon as Rinaldo spotted her, he knew exactly what he wanted. She’s from “the old country,” as they say, speaks fluent Italian, and cooks like she was weaned on marinara sauce.

I can smell it as soon as I walk into the house.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she says as she leads me into the kitchen.

“If I had just finished a nine-course meal,” I tell her, “I would still be hungry for whatever you’re making.”

“Flatterer!” she says with a chuckle.

“Just telling the truth, ma’am.”

Lele doesn’t have the dancer’s body she once did, but she’s still a looker. Long, black hair and bright blue eyes give the impression she can see right through you. I would never be caught at it, but I’d be a liar if I were to say I have never checked out her ass.

“Don’t you ma’am me.” She wags her finger in my direction as she heads over to the stove to stir the sauce. “I’m not that old!”

That is certainly true. Rinaldo has about fifteen years on Lele.

“Is Naldo coming home as well?” Lele asks.

“He’s pretty tied up,” I tell her. “I honestly don’t know if he’ll make it or not.”