for the test drive Cassie had read the story in Variety about the first-look deal. It said Michaels was a recent graduate of the USC film school and had made a fifteen-minute film that won some kind of studio-sponsored award. He looked maybe twenty-five years old tops. Cassie wondered where he would get his dialogue from. He didn't look as though he had ever met a cop in his life, let alone any outlaws. The dialogue would probably come from television or other movies, she decided.
"You want to drive now, John?"
"It's Joe."
Another bingo. She had called him the wrong name on purpose, just to see if he would correct her. That he did meant he was serious and ego-driven, a good combination when it came to selling and buying automobiles that were serious and ego-driven.
"Joe, then."
She pulled into the overlook above the Hollywood Bowl. She killed the engine, set the brake and got out. She didn't look back at Michaels as she walked to the edge and put a foot up on the guardrail. She leaned over and retied her black Doc Marten work shoe and then looked down at the empty bowl. She was wearing tight black jeans and a sleeveless white T-shirt beneath an unbuttoned blue Oxford dress shirt. She knew she looked good and her radar told her that he was looking at her instead of the car. She ran her fingers through her blond hair, newly cut short so she could wear the wig. She turned abruptly and caught him looking at her. He quickly looked past her, out to the view of downtown in the pastel pink smog.
"So what do you think?" she asked.
"I think I like it," Michaels said. "But you have to drive it to know for sure."
He smiled. She smiled. They were definitely moving on the same plane.
"Then let's do it," she said, careful to keep the double entendre working.
They got back in the Porsche and Cassie sat in the passenger seat a bit sideways, so she was facing Joe. She watched as he brought his right hand up to the steering column and it searched for the ignition and keys.
"Other side," she said.
He found the keys in the ignition on the dashboard left of the wheel.
"That's a Porsche tradition," she said. "From back when they made cars for racing. It was so you could start with your left hand and have your right already on the gear shift. It's a quick-start ignition."
Michaels nodded. Cassie knew that little story always scored with them. She didn't even know if it was true – she had gotten it from Ray – but she told it every time. She knew Michaels was imagining himself telling it to some sweet little thing outside any number of pickup joints on the Sunset Strip.
He started the engine and backed the car out and then drove back out onto Mulholland, over-revving all the way. But after a few shifts he picked up on the nuances of the gearbox and was taking the curves smoothly. Cassie watched as he tried not to smile when he hit a straightaway and the speedo hit seventy-five in just a few seconds. But the look came over his face. He couldn't hide it. She knew the look and what it felt like. Some people got it from speed and power, some got it in other ways. She thought about how long it had been since she had felt the hot wire coursing through her own blood.
Cassie looked into her little office to check for pink phone slips on the desk. There were none. She moved on through the showroom, running her finger along the spoiler of a classic whale tail, and past the finance office to the fleet manager's office. Ray Morales looked up from some paperwork as she came in and hooked the keys from the Carrera she had used on the test drive on the appropriate hook on the fleet board. She knew he was waiting to hear how it went. After all, he had invested more than a hundred dollars in Scotch whisky.
"He's going to think about it a couple days," she said without looking at Ray. "I'll call him Wednesday."
As Cassie turned to leave, Ray dropped his pen and pushed his seat back from his desk.
"Shit, Cassie, what is up with you? That guy was a hard-on. How'd you lose him?"
"I didn't say I lost him," Cassie said, too much protest in her voice. "I said he's going to think