The Second Life of Nick Mason by Steve Hamilton Page A

running silent and fast. The cop driving the car looked the Mustang up and down. Mason knew his face couldn’t be seen through the tinted glass, butthe car itself was unmistakable. Mason poised his right foot on the accelerator, ready to see what this thing could do from a standing start. But the police car kept going.
    Mason let out his breath. The light turned green. He pulled out slowly and drove down the street, looking in his rearview mirror. There was nobody behind him.
    He pulled out his cell phone and called Quintero.
    “There was a security camera,” he said as soon as Quintero answered. “I’m fucked.”
    “Relax,” Quintero said. “Get a grip on yourself.”
    “I got spotted by a patrolman, too. If the guy knows cars, I’ll stick in his head. When he finds out what happened at the motel, he’ll remember he saw a 1968 Mustang one block away.”
    “I’m going to give you an address.”
    “That was a cop in the motel, by the way.”
    “The place will look abandoned, but we’ll open up the door when you get there.”
    “Did you hear me?” Mason said. “That guy was a cop.”
    “You need to shut the fuck up and go to this address.”
    Quintero gave him an address on Spaulding, just over the river. Mason stayed off the highway, making his way down the dark, quiet streets. He crossed the river and spent a few minutes looking for the exact street and address. There was a huge storage warehouse and an asphalt yard locked up for the night. A half-dozen houses all boarded up, then at last another brick building with a large garage door being rolled up, a sudden bright rectangle spilling out onto the street. Mason turned into the opening. He saw Quintero standing there, his arms folded. The door was already rattling shut when Mason stopped the car and got out.
    There were two other men in the garage. Dark-haired Latinoslike Quintero, except these men both wore gray coveralls. Banks of fluorescent lighting hung from the high ceiling, the area above them seeming to disappear into the darkness. There were workbenches and a lift and heavy welding equipment. Mason knew what this place was. He’d seen his share of chop shops.
    “Tell me why I just killed a cop,” Mason said.
    Quintero didn’t move. He kept his arms folded in front of his chest and said something to the other two men in Spanish. The men laughed.
    “Tell me why,” Mason said, “before I kick the shit out of you right here.”
    Whatever trace of a smile had been on Quintero’s face disappeared in an instant. “Shut the fuck up, Mason. We got business to take care of. Take off your clothes.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “We gotta get rid of them. You smell like a slaughterhouse.”
    Mason looked down at himself. It was his first good look in bright light. Even though his jacket and pants were black, he could see that they were soaked with blood. He took the towel from the motel bathroom out of his jacket. Then he took the gloves out of one pocket. Finally, he took the gun out of the other.
    “Chingada Madre!”
Quintero said. “The fuck is the matter with you? That gun is clean!”
    “So what?”
    “So you don’t bring it with you, you stupid
pendejo
. You leave it in the room.”
    “Excuse the fuck out of me,” Mason said. “I never shot anybody before.”
    Quintero took the gun from Mason as he said something else inSpanish to the other two men. They already had both car doors open and were working on the seats.
    “What are they doing to the car?” Mason said.
    “What do you think they’re doing?” Quintero said, taking the gloves and the towel. “Now take off your clothes. Unless you have any other surprises for me.”
    Mason took off his clothes. Quintero took them from him and put them in a garbage bag. Then he led Mason to a shower in the corner of the warehouse. He handed him a bar of soap and a large scrub brush.
    “Every inch,” he said. “No DNA, no fibers. We take no chances.”
    Mason got to work scrubbing himself down.