Repo Madness by W. Bruce Cameron Page A

there?”
    â€œIn November? No, it’s mostly summer places, but there could have been a few locals. She could have made her way to a house. Or,” I speculated with growing enthusiasm, “what if a car came along and picked her up?”
    â€œWhy would a car come if the ferry had shut down operations?”
    â€œDammit, Alan, this isn’t helping!
    â€œRuddy. You’re forgetting that she died. She was found in the water. Five days later.”
    â€œI am not forgetting that,” I snapped. “What I am saying is that if she was thrown from the car and made it to shore, someone would have helped her or they would have found her body right there. And whoever helped her…”
    â€œWhoever helped her changed their mind and dumped her back in the lake to drown,” Alan concluded.
    â€œShut up, Alan.”
    â€œRuddy…”
    â€œJust shut up!” I glanced over, and the waitress was standing behind the counter, regarding me with round eyes. My phone was on the table, nowhere near my ear. I smiled weakly, left a tip, and went outside, my hands in my pockets. Alan wisely didn’t say anything.
    Zoppi, when he emerged though the back door, looked more like a bellhop than a criminal warlord. He was thin and pale, with jet-black hair that was more perfectly combed than a toupee. “Looks like he forgot his machine gun,” I told Alan as I strolled over, acting nonchalant. Zoppi got into his car, reacting angrily when he turned the key and nothing happened.
    â€œSo now what?” Alan wanted to know.
    Zoppi opened his door, and I was right there. “Hey! Car won’t start?” I called cheerfully.
    He was surprised but not suspicious to see me. “Yeah.”
    â€œWhy don’t I take a look? Pop the hood,” I offered.
    Shrugging and not at all grateful, Zoppi slid back into the car and tugged on the lever. The hood bucked up an inch, and I raised it. “Try it now,” I called after pretending to do something to the engine.
    Zoppi swore. “Nothing!” he shouted. “Goddammit!”
    â€œHey, okay, let’s switch places,” I suggested.
    I slid in behind the wheel as Zoppi went around to the front. “Well, the goddamn battery’s disconnected!” he shouted at me.
    â€œReally?”
    Zoppi moved the cable, and the second it touched the battery terminal, the interior lights came on and bells started to ping. I turned the key, and the engine caught. “Great!” I enthused. “Shut the hood!”
    Zoppi reached up and slammed the hood down, and I had it in reverse and was backing away from him before he could even register what was happening. I kept going until I was twenty yards down the road, then pulled a snow-aided U-Turn and headed north to Traverse City.
    â€œWhat if the battery cable falls off and the car stops?” Alan asked worriedly.
    I was watching my rearview mirror but saw no signs of pursuit. Maybe Zoppi was trying to start the motorcycle. “It won’t stop. Once the engine is running, it keeps going, even if there’s no battery.”
    â€œI think you made a big mistake, Ruddy. Now Zoppi knows what you look like.”
    â€œGood. Maybe next time he sees me, it will remind him to make his car payments.” I grinned at myself in the mirror, my soul full of the happiness that only making off with a good repo can give somebody.
    â€œI wish just once that you would listen to me.”
    â€œThat’s funny, because I wish just once that you would stop talking.”
    Alan didn’t have a retort for that one.
    Half an hour later I pulled into the bank parking lot, went in, and asked to speak to Mr. William Blanchard.
    *   *   *
    William Blanchard was portly, with a neat, graying mustache and very short hair sparsely covering his head. He actually looked like a pretty friendly guy, and his handshake was warm and soft—hard to picture him hurting