The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man by W. Bruce Cameron Page B

pulled a U-turn and sped off in the opposite direction.
    Half an hour later I cruised back down the road and there was his pickup, all by itself, emergency flashers blinking away. Einstein must have thumbed a ride to work. I eased up to his truck and hooked it with the hoist, drawing nothing but a curious glance from the few vehicles that drove by. Car breaks down, car gets towed, God bless America.
    You might think you’re a genius, Einstein, but you cannot outsmart the repo man.
    I called Milton from the junkyard we used as a storage lot in East Jordan, and he grunted in satisfaction. “The cosigner’s a real nice guy, too. Makes you wonder, since his kid is such a jerk.”
    â€œHis kid’s a walking jerk,” I corrected, somewhat gleefully. Repo humor never gets old for me.
    I hung up, feeling like the greasy phone had probably left a black mark on my cheek. Everything in the junkyard was coated with motor oil, even the people.
    â€œThis place is disgusting,” Alan muttered. One of the mechanics was standing at the other end of the counter, so I didn’t reply. I fished out the card I’d gotten from the woman at the bank in Traverse City, and dialed her number to see how things were progressing in the mystery of Jimmy’s checks, leaving a thumbprint on the paper in the process.
    â€œYes, Mr. McCann, I remember,” Maureen the banker told me when I introduced myself.
    â€œI’m wondering if you were able to—”
    â€œI’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you in this matter,” she interrupted.
    I blinked. This did not sound like the motherly person I remembered. “But I thought you said…” I started slowly.
    â€œI have no information for you.”
    â€œMaureen, are you saying you can’t help me, or won’t help me?” I persisted. “I’m confused.”
    There was a noise, as if her kind nature was being strangled, but she replied firmly. “I can’t help you, Mr. McCann. Please don’t call here anymore.”
    I listened to the click in disbelief. What could have happened to make her so uncooperative?
    The good feeling from reintroducing Einstein to the concept of nonvehicular travel had evaporated. I felt tired and old as I fired up the tow truck.
    â€œThere’s something strange going on,” Alan observed.
    â€œRight … this coming from a man who claims to be a ghost stuck in my brain.”
    â€œNo, I mean, the change in her demeanor was striking.”
    â€œYeah, all of a sudden she’s mean.”
    â€œNo, not mean. More like scared,” Alan observed after a moment.
    I cocked my head, considering. “You’re right. She was frightened.”
    Since I had nothing else to do and we were already in East Jordan, I agreed to drive Alan around to check out his past. He directed me with barely restrained excitement up North Street, past homes that would probably cost a million dollars if they weren’t located in what the locals awkwardly called “northern lower Michigan.” Here, a nice four-bedroom house could be had for what would be a down payment anywhere else. Made you wonder why the people living in Phoenix didn’t move here en masse. I flipped on my heater to dry up the puddle of melted snow at my feet.
    East Jordan sits at the south end of Lake Charlevoix, which is a beautiful, deep blue body of water that joins Lake Michigan via a river. Tourists mostly ignore East Jordan—to its benefit, I believe. In the winter a few small factories plus a big one, the East Jordan Iron Works, keep the economic blood flowing, and a small flock of summer people come in for July and August to hang out in little cottages mostly built in the twenties. It’s a poor cousin to Charlevoix, the town on the north end of the lake, where all the yachts bob up and down in the summer. I like the people in East Jordan the way I like the citizens of Kalkaska and the way I