Damaged Goods by Austin Camacho Page A

of your best friends. And with the fiberglass nose making her tail heavy, I bet you she’s a hell of a street racer. And he could take care of her.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    Nash looked up again, surprised. “Meaning that he knew the machine. Think he must have been quite a shade tree mechanic, something you city boys wouldn’t know nothing about. Hell of a driver too. I rode with him on her shakedown drive. Ah, here he is. Rod Mantooth.”
    â€œYou sound a little like you admired him,” Hannibal said, staring down at the receipt in Nash’s book.
    â€œNo sir, he was a genuine son of a bitch,” Nash said, looking as if he was about to spit. “Had a hateful word for anybody you could name, and thought he was God’s gift to the world. Never seen a man swagger like that, except on TV on the wrestling shows. And the way he talked about the ladies. Damn.”
    Hannibal smiled a bit. It was getting easier and easier to hate this Mantooth guy. “Sounds like I want to watch my back when I find him. But I guess he made an impression on you. Can you give me a description?”
    Nash’s lower lip pushed forward, and his eyes went up and to his left as he searched his brain. “Five-ten, maybe, but he had to be pushing two hundred pounds and solid as an oldoak. Black hair, and black eyes that were, I don’t know, kind of cold, you know? Kind of dark skin, too. Not like you, I mean like spics or Italians get. Real hairy arms too. And kind of a craggy face, although I bet women go for him.”
    Hannibal assembled a picture in his mind, much as a police sketch artist might. He would consult it later if he thought he had the man in his sights. “I’m picturing loud, short sleeve shirts, jeans and cowboy boots.”
    Nash snapped back. “How’d you know that? Well, it’s just the kind of stuff he always had on. He’s sure not from around here. He might have been a wannabe surfer dude but from that accent I’d bet he’s an Alabama boy. You know, the kind that barely get through fifth grade and learn about loving from their sister.”
    Hannibal nodded that he got the idea, all the while marveling at the way some rednecks can put other rednecks down. At least he had Nash on his side. He pointed at the receipt again. “So, do you have a copy of his check? I might be able to trace him through his bank.”
    â€œDon’t really know much about this business, do you?” Nash asked, scratching himself in a way that made Hannibal uncomfortable. “Don’t see many checks in this business. But most of my customers don’t pay in crisp, brand new hundred dollar bills.”
    Hannibal’s face revealed nothing, but that news hit him like an unexpected punch. Lots of money probably meant that Mantooth had already sold whatever information he found at Anita’s home. But maybe, if Hannibal found him soon enough, he could at least recoup some of the money he had received for it.
    â€œOkay, you clearly didn’t trust this guy. I’m betting you made him give you an address.”
    Nash grinned, flashing tobacco-stained teeth. “Sure did. He was living good, too. Had him a room at the Hilton in Washington. He didn’t belong in no decent hotel but, I guess in one way them hotel boys is just like me. They take care of you as long as your money’s green. Maybe he’s even stillthere. I sure hope you catch up with that son of a bitch. And I hope when you do, you kick his ass.”

    The second he had the Volvo started, Hannibal cranked the air conditioning up to maximum. Pulling out of Nash’s yard his uppermost thought was how much dust he had stirred up and how much of it had settled onto The Tornado’s hood. He would have to run through a car wash before the day was out.
    By the time he reached Route 5 his mind had returned to his case. He turned the fan down to its lowest setting and pushed buttons on his