Motor Mouth

into this whole brutality mind-set?”
    “Just wondering. Maybe that approach would be too aggressive for a guy with a gray Taurus parked in his driveway. Maybe that’s the approach we’d use if we were talking to a guy in a double-wide.”
    “I used to live in a double-wide.”
    “And?”
    “Just throwing that into the mix,” Hooker said.
    “Did you get sucker-punched a lot?”
    “No. I used to answer the door with my gun in my hand.”
    I looked over at the house. “That could slow down our interview progress. Might be hard to beat the crap out of a man who answers the door with his gun in his hand.”
    We’d been idling in the middle of the road, not in front of Miller’s house but one house down. Hooker slowly rolled past Miller’s house and continued down the block to the corner. He hung a U-turn at the corner and came back down the street. He pulled to the curb and parked. We were now on the opposite side of the street from Miller. And again, we were one house down.
    “You don’t seem too anxious to do this,” I said to Hooker.
    “Scoping out the scene,” Hooker said.
    “I thought maybe it was cold feet.”
    “I don’t get cold feet. Creepy-crawly scrotum and tight sphincter, a lot. Diarrhea, sometimes. Never cold feet.”
    Beans got up, turned around twice, and flopped back down with a big dog sigh.
    “Are we waiting for your sphincter to relax?” I asked Hooker.
    “I don’t feel comfortable with this. I don’t like the car sitting out in the driveway. I know lots of people never use their garage, but this feels off somehow. And I can’t see Bernie driving a gray Taurus.”
    Miller’s garage door slid open, and we both scrunched down in our seats. A car engine cranked over in Bernie’s garage. Horse jogged out of the garage and got into the Taurus. The Taurus engine caught, and the car backed out of the driveway and idled in front of Miller’s house. A blue Lexus sedan backed out of the garage, the garage door slid closed, and the Lexus pulled into the street and rolled past the Taurus. Bernie wasn’t driving the Lexus. Baldy was driving the Lexus.
    “This isn’t doing anything for my sphincter,” Hooker said. “In fact, my nuts just went north.”
    We followed the Taurus and the Lexus out of the subdivision, south on Odell School Road. After a couple miles the two cars pulled off Odell, onto a rutted dirt road that disappeared into a patch of woods. It was the sort of road used by kids for drinking beer, and smoking weed, and getting unexpectedly pregnant. Hooker cruised past the road and parked in a driveway that belonged to a small yellow-and-white ranch-style house. There was a bike and a plastic wading pool in the front yard. It was November and the pool was empty. We were maybe an eighth of a mile beyond the dirt road.
    “Now what?” I asked.
    Hooker swiveled in his seat and looked back at Odell. “We sit and wait. I don’t think that dirt road goes anywhere.”
    Ten minutes later the two cars reappeared, turned back onto Odell, and continued south, driving past us without so much as a sideways glance. Hooker put the SUV in gear, and followed them.
    The air was still cool, but the sky was no longer blue. Clouds had pushed in overhead and threatened rain. The Lexus took Derita Road, and the Taurus followed. We drove past the entrance to the airport. The NASCAR corporate building was to our right. The two cars continued on and finally turned onto Concord Mills Boulevard and minutes later drove into the mall parking lot.
    Concord Mills is a monstrous mall. Over two hundred stores, a twenty-four-screen theater, race-car simulators, an indoor and outdoor go-cart track. It was a Saturday, early afternoon, and the lot was packed. The Lexus driver didn’t mess with trying to find a good spot. He went straight to the end of a line of cars where there was room to park. The Taurus parked next to him, both men got out, and they took off for the mall.
    We were a row over.
    “This is strange,” Hooker said. “Huevo’s henchmen driving two cars, one of which I’m guessing belongs to Bernie, and they go shopping.”
    “Maybe it’s not Bernie’s car. Maybe these guys are staying with Bernie, and they’re driving their own cars. Maybe Bernie’s deeper in this mess than we originally thought.”
    A drizzling rain had started misting onto the windshield. Hooker had his phone in one hand and the Dunkin’ Donuts napkin with Miller’s address and phone number on it in the