Janet Evanovich - Full Speed

* * * * *

"This is it," the cabdriver announced a half hour later as he pulled into the parking lot of Bud's Used Cars. Jamie paid him and climbed from the battered cab.

She made her way toward a small construction trailer where a sign read: Bad Credit? No Problem. She opened the trailer door and was hit with a blast of cold air blowing from a sputtering window unit. Jamie found a man sitting at his desk, holding a cigar in one hand and sipping coffee from a chipped mug with the words Do Me in his other.

He stood so fast he almost spilled his coffee. "Good morning, miss," he said. "I'm Bud Herzog. What can I do for you this fine day?"

"I need a car. Something cheap but reliable."

"Well then, you've come to the right place. Matter of fact, I got several good, clean cars coming in day after tomorrow."

"I need something today. Now."

"Oh, well." Bud chewed his cigar. "I'm a little low on inventory, but you're welcome to look. You interested in a Cadillac? It's twelve years old, but it's solid. Low mileage."

Jamie thought about it. "I'm not really the Cadillac type."

"You're absolutely right. You need something sporty. Come with me, I've got just the car." He led her outside to a shiny red vehicle. "Now, this here is a Camaro RS. Fully loaded, got all the extras. It's a 1997 model, has a few miles on it, but it runs like a charm. Used to be owned by an old schoolteacher."

Jamie shot him a sideways glance. "An old schoolteacher, huh?"

"Yep. Liberian, I believe she was," he added, mispronouncing the word. "She took real good care of it."

Jamie peered inside the window. "It's got one hundred and sixty thousand miles on it!"

"Yeah, she had to commute to work."

"How much?"

"This one goes for twenty-one hundred dollars, but I'm going to give you my rock-bottom price and sell it to you for fifteen. Is that a deal or what?"

Jamie gaped at him. "I can't afford to spend that kind of money. Don't you have something under five hundred dollars?"

Bud looked surprised. "Hon, you can't buy a good bicycle for under five hundred bucks. Not these days, anyhow." He suddenly looked hurt. "I'm cutting my profit to the bone here, darlin'."

Jamie checked out several other cars, but they were even more expensive. She spied an old pickup truck parked on the last row. "How much for that truck?"

Bud looked surprised. "I plumb forgot about that old thing. My cousin brought it in last night, and I haven't had a chance to clean it up. I don't think you'd be happy with it."

"How come?"

"It's old and beat-up. You can see it's got a lot of rust on it. There's a hole in the floorboard on the passenger's side, but my cousin nailed plywood to it so his kids wouldn't fall out. Mostly, he used it to carry hunting dogs. He's a big coon hunter."

Jamie walked toward the truck. "Just how old is it?"

"Early eighties. It's a Dodge, and they hold up pretty good, but I wouldn't feel right selling it to you."

Jamie opened the door and winced at the sight. On the driver's side, the leather seat was split and the stuffing had spilled out. Papers and fast-food bags littered the floor. "Mileage is high," she noted. "Does it run?"

Bud nodded. "Pretty good."

"How does it look under the hood?"

"Well, my cousin is a mechanic, so he's careful to change the oil and transmission fluid and keep everything in working order. He rebuilt the engine some five or six years ago, but it's still an old truck."

"Do you think it'll get me to Knoxville?"

"You know any shortcuts?" He laughed. When Jamie didn't join in, his look sobered. "Yeah, I reckon it'll get you where you're going."

"How much?"

Bud shrugged. "As is? I reckon I could let you have it for six hundred dollars."

Jamie blinked. "Excuse me, but are we talking about the same truck?"

"OK, OK, I'll sell it to you for four hundred dollars, but I can't give you a warranty at that price."

Jamie glanced at the bed in back. And found herself looking into the face of one of the ugliest bloodhounds she'd ever seen. He had a wrinkled forlorn face, mournful eyes, and long ears. Skin hung in loose, pendulous folds, as though he had never quite managed to fill his own hide.

"What's with the dog?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. He comes with the truck."

She blinked at Bud. "What do you mean, he comes with the truck?"

"He's kinda attached to it. My cousin asked me to take him to the animal shelter, but I didn't have the heart. He wouldn't last long there. He has, uh, problems."

Jamie looked more closely at the animal. "What kinds of problems?"

Bud toyed with his cigar, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Well, he's deaf in one ear, and his eyesight ain't what it used to be. He's also suffering shell shock."

"Shell shock?"

"Like I said, my cousin did a lot of coon hunting. This here dog wasn't much of a hunter; in fact, he runs at the sight of a raccoon and hunkers down in the nearest ditch if someone fires a gun."

"He's losing his hair."

Bud shrugged. "Way I heared it, he was attacked by a big old grandpappy coon. Hair never grew back. My cousin says he whimpers in his sleep. Says he thinks the dog has flashbacks. You ask me, I think he's suffering from that-there post-traumatic stress disorder."

Jamie rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, brother!"

"And he hates country-western music. I need to tell you that up front. He goes bananas when he hears it."

"I'll agree to buy the truck, but I'm not taking the dog."

The hound suddenly let out a pitiful howl as though he'd understood what Jamie had said.

"It's nothing personal," Jamie said before realizing she was talking to a dog. She shook her head sadly.

The animal covered his face with his paws.

"Uh-oh," Bud said. "I think you hurt his feelings."

"Oh, jeez." Jamie pulled Bud aside. "Look, I've never owned an animal, not even a goldfish. I can't keep a houseplant alive."

"Oh, Fleas ain't no trouble, honey. You just give him a little food and water and he's fine. Mostly all he does is sleep."

"His name is Fleas?"

"Yeah, that's what my cousin calls him. But I personally checked him out. There ain't nary a flea on this hound's body, I can promise you that."

Jamie looked thoughtful. Damn. Just what she didn't need, a dog with physical and emotional problems, not to mention one who freaked out at the sound of gunfire, which she seemed to draw like fruit did flies. "I can't do this," she said.

"OK, tell you what. You take the truck and the dog, and I'll knock off fifty bucks."

* * * * *

Jamie arrived in Sweet Pea, Tennessee, shortly after 5:00 p.m., just as a light mist began to fall. Oh, great, she thought. And her with a dog in the back of her truck. She stopped at a red light and glanced over her shoulder. Fleas had his nose pressed against the back window, fogging it with his breath.

"It's OK, boy," she said loudly, even though she suspected he couldn't hear her.

She had to admit he'd been a good traveler. She'd stopped twice to give him water and let him go to the bathroom, and she'd ordered him a cheeseburger at a fast-food restaurant when she'd stopped for lunch. Probably wasn't a proper diet for a dog; she needed to buy the poor animal real dog food. It was up to her to see that he ate right until she could find him a good home. Not that it would be easy finding somebody interested in adopting a dog with emotional problems and missing hair.

Jamie could just imagine what Vera would say about her becoming a dog owner. Sixty-year-old Vera Bankhead, her secretary, whom Jamie had recently promoted to assistant editor out of fear and intimidation, was the closest thing Jamie'd had to a mother and was not above telling her how to run her life. "Jamie," she'd say. "You have absolutely no business taking on a dog. Why, you can't even take care of yourself."