"September 3, 1970-August 30, 1991," Dani read on the memorial card. "Would've been his birthday today."
Over Basil's objections, she wore a modest black dress.
Shelly sat four rows back, Kari beside her. Dani left her bandmates and slipped to the other side of her friend. Hope Daddy shows up. Or even Vic. Inferno wasn't big enough for their rhythm guitarist's overdose to make national headlines, but she figured everyone in Rio Flaco had to know.
A robed priest mumbled a few words about Bobby Van Zie. Dani wondered if the clergyman had ever met him. One of Bobby's family members read a passage of Scripture, a few people offered up memories, mostly from his childhood, and the priest offered hope that Bobby was in a better place.
Dani doubted it.
***
Teddy Bear whined, trotting to the door and chasing his tail. Vic shushed him and peered out the window. A black limousine drove by at no more than ten miles per hour.
"I hope she stops, too." Vic followed the dog as the car drove past and his whine gave way to a low growl. "Whoa, boy. I can't make her. Wish I could."
"What's the sergeant major fussing about?" Dad wheeled into the room. "Police still out there looking for me?"
Vic shrugged as the taillights disappeared around the corner.
***
Even after a month had passed, Dad still wouldn't let Vic off the hook for calling the police on him, but. Nevertheless, he had settled nicely into his new role as an employee in the company he'd started. His disabilities slowed him a little, but he hadn't lost his touch. And with the country riding a new wave of patriotism, news that a disabled war hero was on staff was starting to draw a trickle of new clientele. Not enough by a long shot, but the light bill was paid.
And since Kari had stopped pushing him to call Dani, Vic's life was becoming downright livable.
"Just wanted to thank you for sending your friends our way," Vic said when he heard Mr. Wilkins' voice on the line. "Saved out bacon, really."
"Suspected things might be tight."
"We can always use more business."
"Quality's back up."
Vic bristled but forced it to stay out of his voice. "Dad's back. Helps."
"Girl hasn't quit on the music thing yet?"
Vic clenched and unclenched his fist. "You sending more business our way soon? Just trying to schedule things."
A long silence hung over the line.
"I'm done sending cars to you," Wilkins said, his voice steady, business-like. "And referrals."
"You can't be serious?" Vic's brain flooded with calculations.
"Been wanting to be in the business myself for years. Got my eye on a restoration shop I think I can own for the right price."
This will sink us. Not only did Mr. Wilkins and his friends represent a significant chunk of their business, but his connections among classic car collectors would undoubtedly draw customers away.
"Or I could buy Fidelis. I'll write you a check for $5 million today. You and the sarge will never have to work another day in your lives."
"That's generous."
"Includes rolling stock, of course. Especially the TA."
"You know I can't sell the Trans Am. There's only three more like it on the planet."
"Nonnegotiable."
"Not mine to sell. And you might as easily ask Dad to sell Dani."
Vic could hear Mr. Wilkins sucking his teeth. He watched the clock tick off two whole minutes before the businessman spoke again.
"Without the TA, I'll give you three and a quarter."
Now it was Vic's turn to be silent.
"I have other prospects if you're having trouble making up your mind."
The phone clicked. Vic listened to the dial tone a full thirty seconds before hanging up.
Vic spent the rest of the week mulling over the offer. He doubted Wilkins would act right away, but he had no doubt he'd be competing with him soon if he didn't sell.
He looked at the number he'd written on a legal pad for the thousandth time. Enough to make sure Dad retired in style. Not just the typical military retirement. And I could spend the rest of my life on the missions field. I wouldn't even need to itinerate or worry about money. I'd never be able to work through half that much. I could probably give half of it away to other missionaries and still be all right.
He pictured Kari strumming her guitar and leading singing in some exotic language in the rain forest of who-knows-where, their three American children—all girls—mixing it up with the native boys and girls at her feet. In a year, maybe two, they could be there. Except their American kids, of course. That would take a few years.
The phone rang. A vendor wanting to make sure they'd received their invoice. Vic assured him they had, explaining it was going to take at least a month before they could pay it. "Business has taken a bit of a bad turn."
He did his best to remain professional when the man called his character into question.
"C'mon, that's only a couple weeks later than we've always paid you."
The man threatened litigation if the payment wasn't made on time.
Vic leafed through his old Missionary Society brochures after hanging up. One call and a few days of letting Wilkins' paper shufflers hammer out the details with whatever hack lawyer he could afford, and this would be all over. He leaned back in his swivel chair, practically feeling the tropical breeze on his smiling face.
Out in the bay, Dad whistled the Marine Corps hymn while wrenching on the Studebaker Big Six Wilkins' friend had brought in.
Vic slumped. Be able to get him the best care available. Live-in care, probably. But Dad had just started showing signs of life again. The thought of strangers caring for him ate at Vic's insides. Sliding the brochures back into the desk drawer, he dialed Mr. Wilkins.
"Come to your senses?"
"Yes, sir." Vic sat ramrod straight. "Fidelis Restoration is not for sale. At any price."