Damaged Goods by Austin Camacho

but his hands were clean and his shake was firm. Hannibal’s research told him that this man was a mechanic, an artist and a salesman. He figured he could probably get away with a direct approach with the man, if he sprinkled it with a bit of flattery.
    Nash took Hannibal in with one broad glance, and there seemed to be a great deal of activity going on behind his face. “I’m Nash, but folks here about generally call me Van. And I’m thinking maybe you ain’t here about no car. Hardly anybody comes here in a suit, and you ain’t no Marylander anyhow. You ain’t with the IRS, is you?”
    â€œNo kind of law, although I do have some experience in that area,” Hannibal said. “I’m private now, just trying to help a client find an old friend. I don’t have too many leads, but I think this guy was a customer of yours.”
    Nash stared idly out the window toward the sound of a power sander being used in one of the garages out back. “Well, son, I’ve had a lot of customers in the last couple of years, and I don’t keep real good records here.”
    Hannibal leaned an elbow on the counter while he slid his hand into his pocket. “I understand sir. This is rather an odd request. But you must keep some sort of records and I have been authorized to pay you for your time checking them. Of course if my information is right, you’ll remember this fellow. I’m told you’re the only man alive who could have built his car. Corvette in front, Cadillac in back. Sound familiar?”
    While he talked, Hannibal watched Nash’s face move from suspicion to irritation to offense and finally to what looked like disgust. For a moment he feared he had miscalculated the best way to approach this man.
    â€œOh, that asshole,” Nash said, his eyes rolling skyward. “Well, if your client really is a friend of his, you ought to get a better class of client. But I’m betting the real reason you’re trying to find him is because he welshed on a bet or screwed your client’s old lady. Right?”
    â€œWell, something like that,” Hannibal said. “He stole something from a lady and I’m trying to recover it.”
    â€œYeah, that figures,” Nash said, turning to rummage through a stack of thick binders. “Always talked about women like they was trash. I’ll never forget that guy. One of them pretty-boy weightlifters with squinty little eyes and hands like a gorilla’s paws. And the job, Jesus what a job.”
    â€œYou mean the car?”
    Nash returned to the counter and slammed a big binder down on it to accent his words. “Damn straight. You know how the sixty-eight ‘Vette had that crease on the side of the front quarter panel and the doors?”
    â€œI have to admit I don’t know much about old cars.”
    â€œWell, they had a crease along them, horizontally, see?” Nash talked while he flipped through blue, perforated pages. “Ran down the side. So when I cut the body in half…”
    â€œYou cut the car in half?”
    â€œSuch a beauty too,” Nash said, shaking his head. “But, yeah, he only wanted the front part, before the doors. Just back to the windshield. Then I had to reform the fiberglass on the sides, to make it match up when I mounted it on the El Dorado. That meant cutting the front off that beautiful nineteen fifty-nine Caddy. It’s what he wanted, and he paid big money for it too, but believe me, driving that thing must be a bitch.”
    â€œMy client said he called it a Corvorado,” Hannibal said. “Why would a guy want to do that?”
    â€œWhy?” Nash looked up, surprised. “Boy, you’re talking about driving the biggest, flashiest thing on the road. The ‘Vette’s all nose, and that El Dorado was all ass, so you end up with this long, racy, high powered bitch that can haul ass while it’s hauling you and a half dozen