Involve her in what? All you would be doing would be taking her out to dinner in the Poconos. It would certainly be ill-advised to inform her you were checking out a dirty cop, so she wouldn’t know what was going on, beyond being taken out to dinner, by the loyal family friend. And all you would be doing would be checking out the Oaks and Pines. Unless everything fell in place, you might not even inquire about gambling. Just take a look around and give them a face to remember—the guy with the Porsche who was in here a couple of days with the blonde—if you should go and ask about making a few small wagers.
And if you were in the Poconos with Penny, the odds are that by, say, midnight, Evelyn would finally become discouraged and stop calling and/or circling Rittenhouse Square.
Why not? What is there to lose?
Martin’s Ford and Modern Chevrolet, both of Glassboro, N.J., shared the pleasure of the Sheriff’s Department’s business. By an amazing coincidence, going back at least fifteen years, when the sheriff announced for competitive bid his need for six suitably equipped for police service automobiles—which he did every year, replacing his eighteen vehicles on a three-year basis—Martin’s Ford would submit the lowest bid one year, and Modern Chevrolet the next.
Maintenance of all county light automotive vehicles, including as-needed wrecker service, was similarly awarded, on a competitive bid basis, annually. And by another amazing coincidence, Modern Chevrolet seemed to submit the lowest bid one year, and Martin’s Ford the next.
On a purely unofficial basis, both dealerships seemed to feel that it was a manifestation of efficiency in business to “subcontract” repairs to the brand agency. In other words, if, as was the case when Deputy Springs wrecked his Ford patrol car, Modern Chevrolet had that year’s county maintenance contract, Modern would “subcontract ” the Ford’s repairs to Martin’s. The next year, if a county-owned Chevrolet needed repair, and Martin’s had the contract, Martin’s would “subcontract” the repairs to Modern.
And so it came to pass when Modern Chevrolet’s wrecker went out in the Pine Barrens to haul Deputy Springs’s wrecked Ford off, it never entered the driver’s mind to bring the car to Modern Chevrolet; he hauled it directly into the maintenance bay at Martin ’s Ford and lowered it onto the grease-stained concrete.
Greg Tomer, Martin’s Ford’s chief mechanic and service adviser, walked up and shook the hand of Tommy Fallon, the Modern Chevrolet’s chief mechanic and wrecker driver. On the first Tuesday of each month, at seven-thirty P.M., they were respectively the senior vice commander and adjutant quartermaster of Casey Daniel Post 2139, Veterans of Foreign Wars.
“What the hell did he hit, Tommy?”
“He blew a tire. Going through the Barrens. Went right off the road. Hit a tree square in the middle. It broke. Had a hell of a time getting the sonofabitch off the tree. Fucked up the pan, I’m sure.”
“Springs all right?”
“Yeah. I guess he was wearing his seat belt.”
Greg Tomer dropped to his knees and peered under the car.
“Just missed the drive shaft,” he said. “But, yeah, he fucked up the pan. I don’t think it can be straightened.”
“Radiator’s gone too. And the fan.”
“Maybe the insurance adjuster will says it’s totaled. I sure don’t want to try to fix it.” He got off his knees and leaned in the driver’s window. “Sixty-seven thousand on the clock. And no telling whether that’s the second time around or the third.”
“Well, he was lucky he wasn’t hurt, is all I can say.”
“Yeah.”
“I gotta go, Greg.”
“We appreciate your business, Mr. Fallon. Come in again soon.”
Tommy Fallon touched Greg Tomer’s arm, and then got in the cab on the wrecker, got it into low with a clash of gears, and drove out the back door of the maintenance bay.
“Shit,” Greg Tomer said aloud, “I should have asked him to dump it out in back.”
He had two options. He could fire up the Martin’s Ford wrecker, pick the car up, and haul it out in back himself, or he could change the wheel with the blown tire on it, and push it into a corner of the maintenance bay.
He opened the trunk. There was a spare.
“Harry,” he called to the closest of Martin’s Ford’s three mechanics, “get a jack and change the wheel here, and then we’ll push it in the corner.”
Harry rolled a hydraulic jack over to the Ford, maneuvered it into place, and raised the car in the bay. As he went to